"A LITTLE TOO PREVIOUS!"
["I desire to submit that this is a very great question, which will have to be determined, but upon a very different ground from that of the salaries of the officers of the House of Lords.... If there is to be a contest between the House of Lords and the House of Commons, let us take it upon higher ground than this."—Sir William Harcourt.]
There was a little urchin, and he had an old horse-pistol, Which he rammed with powder damp and shots of lead, lead, lead; And he cried "I know not fear! I'll go stalking of the deer!" For this little cove was slightly off his head, head, head.
This ambitious little lad was a Paddy and a Rad, And himself he rather fancied as a shot, shot, shot; And he held the rules of sport, and close season, and, in short, The "regulation rubbish" was all rot, rot, rot.
He held a "bird" a thing to be potted on the wing, Or perched upon a hedge, or up a tree, tree, tree; And, says he, "If a foine stag I can add to my small bag, A pistol or a Maxim will suit me, me, me!"
And so upon all fours he would crawl about the moors, To the detriment of elbows, knees, and slack, slack, slack; And he says, "What use a-talking? If I choose to call this 'stalking,' And I bag my game, who's going to hould me back, back, back?"
Says he, "I scoff at raisons, and stale talk of toimes and saisons; I'm game to shoot a fox, or spear a stag, stag, stag; Nay, I'd net, or club, a salmon; your old rules of sport are gammon, For wid me it's just a question of the bag, bag, bag!
"There are omadhauns, I know, who would let a foine buck go Just bekase 'twas out of toime, or they'd no gun, gun, gun; But if oi can hit, and hurt, wid a pistol—or a squirt— By jabers, it is all the betther fun, fun, fun!"
So he scurryfunged around with his stomach on the ground (For stalking seems of crawling a mere branch, branch, branch). And he spied "a stag of ten," and he cried, "Hurroo! Now then, I fancy I can hit him—in the haunch, haunch haunch!
"Faix! I'll bag that foine Stag Royal, or at any rate oi'll troy all The devoices of a sportshman from the Oisle, Oisle, Oisle. One who's used to shoot asprawl from behoind a hedge or wall, At the risks of rock and heather well may smoile, smoile, smoile!"
But our sportsman bold, though silly, by a stalwart Highland gillie, Was right suddenly arrested ere he fired, fired, fired.— "Hoots! If you'll excuse the hint, that old thing, with lock of flint, As a weapon for this sport can't be admired, mired, mired!
"It will not bring down that quarry, your horse-pistol! Don't you worry! That Royal Stag we'll stalk, boy, in good time, time, time; But to pop at it just now, and kick up an awful row, Scare, and miss it were a folly, nay a crime, crime, crime!
"Be you sure 'Our Party' will this fine quarry track and kill; Our guns need not your poor toy blunderbuss, buss, buss. This is not the time or place for a-following up this chase; So just clear out and leave this game to us, us, us!"
"A LITTLE TOO PREVIOUS!"
H-rc-rt. "NO, NO, MY LAD! THAT WON'T HURT HIM! YOU MUST LEAVE HIM TO US!"