BATTUE SHOOTING.
Gather round, my noble comrades; hardy sportsmen, gather where,
Placed in yonder shaded corner, stands for each an easy chair;
Close behind are well-packed hampers, and attendants duly wait
To reload your deadly weapons while you sit and shoot in state.
Amply fed and reared, my pheasants—tame they'll answer to your call,
But, like whirling leaves in winter, soon you'll see them thickly fall.
Hark, the beaters drive them forward. Now, prepare—the time is nigh,
We shall soon reduce their numbers. Peste! they're far too fat to fly!
See the startled hares and rabbits vainly shelter safe have sought,
Headlong rushing, mad with terror—surely this is noble sport!
Eh! what say you? Let go at them, now's the time to try your skill;
Crawling wounded, lame and fluttering, down they go the bag to fill.
Warmish work, and quite fatiguing—let's refresh ere we renew.
Vulgar hinds may sneer and welcome. Vive, say I, the good battue!
* * * * *
Surely those who so love slaughter might, when close time comes for grouse,
Find congenial occupation if they donned the butcher's blouse.
D. EVANS.
The Weekly Dispatch, August 31, 1884.