And none would stare, unless we hit. 
But no—­to make the more combustion,
He goes in gaiters and in fustian,
Like Captain Ross, or Topping Sparks,
And deuce a miss but some one marks! 
For Keepers, shy of such encroachers,
Dog us about like common poachers! 
Many’s the covey I’ve gone by,
When underneath a sporting eye;
Many a puss I’ve twigg’d, and pass’d her—­
I miss ’em to prevent my master!”

“And so should I, in such a case! 
There’s nothing feels so like disgrace,
Or gives you such a scurvy look—­
A kick and pail of slush from Cook,
Clefsticks, or Kettle, all in one,
As standing to a missing gun! 
It’s whirr! and bang! and off you bound,
To catch your bird before the ground: 
But no—­a pump and ginger pop
As soon would get a bird to drop! 
So there you stand, quite struck a-heap,
Till all your tail is gone to sleep;
A sort of stiffness in your nape,
Holding your head well up to gape;
While off go birds across the ridges,
First small as flies, and then as midges,
Cocksure, as they are living chicks,
Death’s Door is not at Number Six!”

“Yes! yes! and then you look at master,
The cause of all the late disaster,
Who gives a stamp, and raps on oath
At gun, or birds, or maybe both;
P’rhaps curses you, and all your kin,
To raise the hair upon your skin! 
Then loads, rams down, and fits new caps,
To go and hunt for more miss-haps!”

“Yes! yes! but, sick and sad, you feel
But one long wish to go to heel;
You cannot scent for cutting mugs—­
Your nose is turning up, like Pug’s;
You can’t hold up, but plod and mope;
Your tail like sodden end of rope,
That o’er a wind-bound vessel’s side
Has soak’d in harbor, tide and tide. 
On thorns and scratches, till that moment
Unnoticed, you begin to comment;
You never felt such bitter brambles,
Such heavy soil, in all your rambles! 
You never felt your fleas so vicious! 
Till, sick of life so unpropitious,
You wish at last, to end the passage,
That you were dead, and in your sassage!”

“Yes! that’s a miss from end to end! 
But, zounds! you draw so well, my friend,
You’ve made me shiver, skin and gristle,
As if I heard my master’s whistle! 
Though how you came to learn the knack—­
I thought your Squire was quite a crack!”

“And so he is!—­He always hits—­
And sometimes hard, and all to bits. 
But ere with him our tongues we task,
I’ve still one little thing to ask;
Namely, with such a random master,
Of course you sometimes want a plaster? 
Such missing hands make game of more
Than ever pass’d for game before—­
A pounded pig—­a widow’s cat—­
A patent ventilating hat—­
For shot, like mud, when thrown so thick,
Will find a coat whereon to stick!”