Alabama, 19 13. - 37 



Our owner fears 



The taunting jeers 

 Of sporting friends from town. 



He hates — but sits, 



And still submits 

 To let them shoot us down. 



The snakes molest 



Full many a nest, 

 And hawks catch half our young, 



And bad boys still 



Attempt to kill 

 Whene'er "Bob-white" is sung. 



Prolific, we 



Would grow to be 

 As countless as the sands — 



If we were freed 



From cruel greed 

 Of heartless hunters' hands. 



Ah! thoughtless State — 



When it's too late 

 You'll long for what you've lost? 



But then, ah! then 



You can't again 

 Redeem at any cost. 



The turkey's gone, 



The deer has flown, 

 The wild bear is no more; 



And shortly we 



Extinct shall be, 

 Like those now gone before. 



— H. C. C. 



