ODE ON A DISTANT PARTRIDGE.
(By an Absent-minded Sportsman.)
Well, I'm blest, I'm pretty nearly
Speechless, as I watch that bird,
Saving that I mutter merely
One concise, emphatic word—
What that is, may be inferred!
English prose is, to my sorrow,
Insufficient for the task.
Would that I could freely borrow
Expletives from Welsh or Basque—
One or two is all I ask!
Failing that, let so-called verses
Serve to mitigate my grief
Doggerel now and then disperses
Agonies that need relief.
(Missing birds of these is chief!)
Blankly tramping o'er the stubbles
Is a bore, to put it mild;
But, in short, to crown my troubles,
One mishap has made me riled,
Driv'n me, like the coveys, wild
For at last I flush a partridge.
Ten yards rise, an easy pot!
Click! Why, bless me, where's the cartridge?
Hang it! there, I clean forgot
Putting them in ere I shot!
Query.—Would an ideal barrister be a counsel of perfection?