A HAIL TO THE HUNTER
Oh, we’re getting under cover, for the “sport” is
on the way,
—Pockets bulge with ammunition, and he’s
coming down to slay;
All his cartridges are loaded and his trigger’s on
the “half,”
And he’ll bore the thing that rustles, from a
deer to Jersey calf.
He will shoot the foaming rapids, and he’ll shoot
the yearling bull.
And the farmer in the bushes—why, he’ll fairly
get pumped full.
For the gunner is in earnest, he is coming down
to kill,
—Shoot you first and then inquire if he hurt
you—yes, he will!
For the average city feller he has big game on
the brain,
And imagines in October there is nothing else in
Maine!
Therefore some absorbed old farmer cutting corn
or pulling beans
Gets most mightily astonished with a bullet in
his jeans.
So, O neighbor, scoot for cover or get out your
armor plate,
—Johnnie’s got his little rifle and is swooping
on the State.
Oh, we’re learning, yes, we’re learning, and I’ll
warn you now, my son,
If you really mean to bore us you must bring a
bigger gun.
For the farmers have decided they will take no
further chance,
And progressive country merchants carry armor-
plated pants;
—Carry shirts of chain-plate metal, lines of coats
all bullet-proof,
And the helmets they are selling beat a Knight
of Malta’s “roof.”
So I reckon that the farmers can proceed to get
their crops,
Yes, and chuckle while the bullet raps their
trouser seats and stops;
And the hissing double-B shot as they criss-cross
over Maine
Will excite no more attention than the patter of
the rain.
And the calf will fly a signal and the Jersey
bull a sign,
And the horse a painted banner, reading “Hoss-,
Don’t Shoot; He’s Mine!”
And every fowl who wanders from the safety of
the pen
Will be taught to cackle shrilly, u Please don’t
plug me; I’m a hen.”
Now with all these due precautions we are ready
for the gang,
We’ll endure the harmless tumult of the rifles’
crack and bang,
For we’re glad to have you with us—shoot the
landscape full of holes;
We will back our brand-new armor for to save
our precious souls.
O you feller in the city, those ’ere woods is full
of fun,
We’ve got on our iron trousers—so come up
and bring your gun!