Yet this ’ARRISON he sets his back up.  Dry smug as can’t ’andle
a gun,
I’ll bet Marlboro’ ’Ouse to a broomstick, and ain’t got no notion
of Fun. 
“Loves the Moors much too well for to carry one;” that’s wot he
says, sour old sap
Bet my boots as he can’t ’it a ’aystack at twenty yards rise—­eh,
old chap?

Him sweet on the heather, my pippin, or partial to feather
and fur,
So long as yer never kills nothink?  Sech tommy-rot gives me
the spur. 
Yah!  Scenery’s all very proper, but where is the genuine pot
Who’d pad the ’oof over the Moors, if it weren’t for the things
to be shot?

“This swagger about killing birds is mere cant,” sez this wobbling
old wag. 
From Arran he’d tramp to Dunrobin without the least chance of a bag! 
“Peaceful hills,” that’s his patter, my pippin; no gillies, no
luncheons, no game! 
Wy, he ought to be tossed in a blanket; it fills a true Briton
with shame.

No Moors for yours truly, wus luck!  It won’t run to it, CHARLIE,
this round;
But give me my gun, and a chance, and I’ll be in the swim, I’ll
be bound. 
I did ’ave a turn some years back, though I only went out with
’em once,
And I shot a bit wild, as was likely, fust off, though yer mayn’t
be a dunce.

My rig out was a picter they told me—­deer-stalker and knickers
O.K.—­
“BRIGGS, Junior,” a lobsculler called me; I wasn’t quite fly to
his lay;
But BRIGGS or no BRIGGS I shaped spiffin, in mustard-and-mud-colour
checks. 
Ah! them Moors is the spots for cold Irish, and gives yer the
primest of pecks.

Talk of sandwiges, CHARLIE, oh scissors, I’d soon ha’ cleaned out
Charing Cross,
With St. Pancrust and Ludgit chucked in; fairly hopened the eye of
the boss;
Him as rented the shootings, yer know, big dry-salter in Thames
Street, bit warm
In his langwige occasional, CHARLIE, but ’arty and reglar good form.

Swells will pal in most anywhere now on the chance of a gratis
Big Shoot,
And there wos some Swells with hus, I tell yer, I felt on the
good gay galoot,
But I fancy I got jest a morsel screwdnoodleous late in the day,
For I peppered a bloke in the breeks; he swore bad, but ’twas
only his play.

Bagged a brace and a arf, I did, CHARLIE; not bad for a novice
like me. 
Jest a bit blown about the fust two; wanted gathering up like,
yer see. 
A bird do look best with his ’ed on, dear boy, as a matter of taste;
And the gillies got jest a mite scoffy along of my natural ’aste.

Never arsked me no more, for some reason.  But wot I would say is
this here,
’ARRY’s bin in this boat in his time, as in every prime lark pooty
near,
And when ’ARRISON talks blooming bunkum, with hadjectives spicy and
strong,
About Sport being stupid, and noisy, and vulgar; wy, ’ARRISON’S wrong!