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The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood

Shooting Pains.
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“the charge is prepar’d.”—macheath.

if i shoot any more i’ll be shot,

for ill-luck seems determined to star me,

i have march’d the whole day

with a gun — for no pay —

zounds, i’d better have been in the army!

what matters sir christopher’s leave;

to his manor i’m sorry i came yet!

with confidence fraught

my two pointers i brought,

but we are not a point towards game yet!

and that gamekeeper too, with advice!

of my course he has been a nice chalker,

not far, were his words,

i could go without birds:

if my legs could cry out, they’d cry “walker!”

not hawker could find out a flaw —

my appointments are modern and mantony;

and i’ve brought my own man,

to mark down all he can,

but i can’t find a mark for my anthony!

the partridges — where can they lie?

i have promis’d a leash to miss jervas,

as the least i could do;

but without even two

to brace me — i’m getting quite nervous!

to the pheasants — how well they’re preserv’d! —

my sport’s not a jot more beholden,

as the birds are so shy,

for my friends i must buy,

and so send “silver pheasants and golden.”

i have tried ev’ry form for a hare,

every patch, every furze that could shroud her,

with toil unrelax’d,

till my patience is tax’d,

but i cannot be tax’d for hare-powder.

i’ve been roaming for hours in three flats,

in the hope of a snipe for a snap at;

but still vainly i court

the percussioning sport,

i find nothing for “setting my cap at!”

a woodcock — this month is the time —

right and left i’ve made ready my lock for,

with well-loaded double,

but ‘spite of my trouble,

neither barrel can i find a cock for!

a rabbit i should not despise,

but they lurk in their burrows so lowly;

this day’s the eleventh,

it is not the seventh,

but they seem to be keeping it hole-y.

for a mallard i’ve waded the marsh,

and haunted each pool, and each lake — oh!

mine is not the luck,

to obtain thee, o duck,

or to doom thee, o drake, like a draco!

for a field-fare i’ve fared far a-field,

large or small i am never to sack bird,

not a thrush is so kind

as to fly, and i find

i may whistle myself for a black-bird!

i am angry, i’m hungry, i’m dry,

disappointed, and sullen, and goaded,

and so weary an elf,

i am sick of myself,

and with number one seem overloaded.

as well one might beat round st. paul’s,

and look out for a cock or a hen there;

i have search’d round and round,

all the baronet’s ground,

but sir christopher hasn’t a wren there!

joyce may talk of his excellent caps,

but for nightcaps they set me desiring,

and it’s really too bad,

not a shot i have had

with hall’s powder renown’d for “quick firing.”

if this is what people call sport,

oh! of sporting i can’t have a high sense;

and there still remains one

more mischance on my gun —

“fined for shooting without any licence.”

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