Nay, I have no gun, so you need not run,
Nor cackle, nor spread out your tails;
No danger is near, you’ve nothing to fear,
The poacher is down in the dales.
The wind whistle’s woe, through the valley below,
To the birds that are down in the wood;
You may hear by report, that the gun is afloat,
To scatter their feathers and blood.
If you’ll be content, till the storm shall be spent,
And suffer no envy or strife;
No doubt but you may, on some future day,
Get fat, and escape with your life!
But if you encroach, or chance to approach,
The web-footed classes domain;
If wide you should stray, or fall out by the way,
A thousand to one but you’re slain!
LINES ON RETURNING A BORROWED STICK OF SLENDERISH SIZE,
Which had been lent with a strict charge to take particular care of it, and to return it as soon as done with.
To Mr. William Horner, of Ripon.
Dear Billy, with thanks, I return thee thy switch,
Which has many times kept me out of the ditch.
I have found oft when stumbling o’er hillock or stone,
A slender supporter is better than none!
When the stars were beclouded and darkness prevail’d,
And the rain was descending, its aid never fail’d;
For it grop’d out my way, and assisted my sight,—
When my foot would have slipp’d, it kept me upright.