166 



THE CABINET OF NATURAL HLSTORY 



" ¥a know I cannot do 'f, and Jarvis, tew, 



"And if I could, why hang me if I dew." 



W**d is content, (a good, kind-hearted soul,) 



Either to shoot, or help to drain a bowl. 



Whilst honest H'***s shouts, "Confound my eyes! 



Let's go to work! such humbugs I despise." 



At length a match is made, six on a side; 



And now to kill his birds is each man's pride. 



J. M**^*ll first advances to the scratch, 



A gunner, whom 'tis pretty hard to match. 



"I'm ready — pull!" away the pigeon flies. 



The gun 's discharged, and it as certain dies. 



Next quick-eyed B****s steps into his place, 



A man whose shooting can no one disgrace. 



He kills his bird, and laughs to see it fall. 



Because it flew as though not struck at all. 



There, with a single gun, goes A****w H*''*-''n; 



The bird is off — it falls as dead as mvtton. 



" Of that I was quite sure — I knew she 'd kill, 



"Just hold her strait, and she'll do what 3'ou will." 



Now comes V*******n, many call him S*m, 



A worthy fellow, with a deal of whim, 



" Is that bird fat?" he asks, " which way 's his head? 



"I want to have a chance to shoot him dead. 



"There, let him go — I'm ready!" out it tumbles. 



He kills it coming, then at the trapper grumbles, 



" Why don't you mind? I want the bird thrown higher, 



"Do so again, and damme if I fire." 



And now left-handed R***r toes the mark, 



A better creature ne'er saw Noah's ark. 



He shuffles at the score, uplifts his gun, 



Sharply cries "Pull!" and then the work is done. 



The bird has scarcely time to leave the spot 



Before he feels the effect of patent shot. 



The shooter then, with length of back opprest. 



Stooping, turns round, and brings his gun to rest. 



Then B***n W**d the scratch approaching slow. 



Says, "I can't shoot;" unwilling seems to go. 



At length he says, " I'm ready, pull the string!" 



The bird is loos'd, liis gun is heard to ring, 



The inoffensive pigeon thinks to fly, 



But, like too many more, is doomed to die. 



" 'Twas all an accident," the gunner says, 



But men will lie in these degenerate daj's. 



While pious F*****k cries, " if thus you serve us, 



" From all such accidents may God preserve us!" 



Next I. C**t**t, with broad good natur'd face. 



His eye upon his lock, assumes his place. 



Says calmly, " I am ready, let him go;" 



The pigeon says, I will, the gun says no! 



A fair and honest chance the bird receives. 

 But the fell shot too sure his body cleaves. 

 Thirty or forty yards he gets away. 

 Then takes a last farewell of the bright day. 

 And now the name of B*****y is bawl'd, 

 Or English whitehead, as by some he's call'd. 

 Up to the score he moves with little ease, 

 "I'm reedy, sir, now let go when ya please." 

 The obedient trapper, to his duty true, 

 Full'd on the string, away the pigeon flew; 

 His big-bored gun re-echoes o'er the field. 

 And the poor bird is forced his life to yield. 

 Now J***b S******d, quiet, easy soul. 

 Is call'd, as being next upon the roll; 

 He comes directly, asks where he shall stand. 

 Then firmly puts his foot upon the sand, 



"There, let un go! I'll kill xin sure as death." 

 His word 's his bond, the bird 's depriv'd of breath. 

 A truer aim at pigeons few men take. 

 And a real crack shot he no doubt will make. 

 Next in rotation see J. H****s come, 

 A real good fellow, any thing but grum; 

 Lively and hearty, honest as the day. 

 Which, for a Yorkshireman, is much to say; 

 Half through his nose he bids the trapper " pull !" 

 High the bird flies, with shot he fills him full; 

 Laughing, he leaves the scratch, despite the slaughter. 

 Goes to the bar, and calls for gin and water. 

 Then R. B. F*****k, with his roguish look, 



Stepp'd from the crowd, and strait his station took; 



The trap is open'd, up the jjigcon mounts. 



And soon the blood flows from its vital founts. 



Last comes the cook, by some call'd blund'ring D***s, 



By all who know him thought a vara avis. 



Dearly he loves the poet and his song, 



Always means right, though mostly doing wrong. 



He tells the trapper to let go his bird — 



'Tis done — and yet no gun's report is heard: 



For he a borrow'd instrument had got, 



Whose trigger went too hard — he lost his shot. 



The outscouts now are heard, bang! bang! pop! pop! 



But the freed pigeon is not seen to drop; 



Over the fields and woods he flies along, 



They stare and swear that one poor bird is gone. 

 Thus they go on, and shoot at ten birds each; 



Some they knock dovvn, while some fly out of reach. 



Now one gun snaps, another misses fire. 



Which make their owners grumble loud in ire; 



At length they 're through — the clerk is ask'd to say 



Which contending squad has won the day. 



