“A joke! an old tin kettle’s clatter
Would be as much a joking matter. 
To tell the truth, that dog-disaster
Is just the type of me and master,
When fagging over hill and dale,
With his vain rattle at my tail,
Bang, bang, and bang, the whole day’s run,
But leading nothing but his gun—­
The very shot I fancy hisses,
It’s sent upon such awful misses!”

“Of course it does!  But p’rhaps the fact is
Your master’s hand is out of practice!”

“Practice?—­No doctor, where you will,
Has finer—­but he cannot kill! 
These three years past, thro’ furze and furrow,
All covers I have hunted thorough;
Flush’d cocks and snipes about the moors;
And put up hares by scores and scores;
Coveys of birds, and lots of pheasants;—­
Yes, game enough to send in presents
To ev’ry friend he has in town,
Provided he had knock’d it down: 
But no—­the whole three years together,
He has not giv’n me flick or feather—­
For all that I have had to do
I wish I had been missing too!”

“Well,—­such a hand would drive me mad;
But is he truly quite so bad?”

“Bad!—­worse!—­you cannot underssore him;
If I could put up, just before him,
The great Balloon that paid the visit
Across the water, he would miss it! 
Bite him!  I do believe, indeed,
It’s in his very blood and breed! 
It marks his life, and, run all through it;
What can be miss’d, he’s sure to do it. 
Last Monday he came home to Tooting,
Dog-tir’d, as if he’d been a-shooting,
And kicks at me to vent his rage—­
‘Get out!’ says he—­’I’ve miss’d the stage!’
Of course, thought I—­what chance of hitting? 
You’d miss the Norwich wagon, sitting!”

“Why, he must be the country’s scoff! 
He ought to leave, and not let, off! 
As fate denies his shooting wishes,
Why don’t he take to catching fishes? 
Or any other sporting game,
That don’t require a bit of aim?”

“Not he!—­Some dogs of human kind
Will hunt by sight, because they’re blind. 
My master angle!—­no such luck! 
There he might strike, who never struck! 
My master shoots because he can’t,
And has an eye that aims aslant;
Nay, just by way of making trouble,
He’s changed his single gun for double;
And now, as girls a-walking do,
His misses go by two and two! 
I wish he had the mange, or reason
As good, to miss the shooting season!”

“Why yes, it must be main upleasant
To point to covey, or to pheasant,
For snobs, who, when the point is mooting,
Think letting fly as good as shooting!”

“Snobs!—­if he’d wear his ruffled shirts,
Or coats with water-wagtail skirts,
Or trowsers in the place of smalls,
Or those tight fits he wears at balls,
Or pumps, and boots with tops, mayhap,
Why we might pass for Snip and Snap,
And shoot like blazes! fly or sit,