A servant man in Glazedale glen,
Did lately shoot a fine pea-hen:
Taking her for a pheasant good,
Lately stray’d from the neighb’ring wood.
But had he studied well the season,
He might have found sufficient reason,
To have convinc’d him, there and then,
’Twas neither pheasant, cock nor hen!
For is it common thus to see,
Where there is neither bush nor tree,
A pheasant pick, in open day?—
Much more upon the King’s highway?
To view her well he did not fail,
Her rosy comb, and fine long tail,
And call’d her without more ado,
A pheasant,—and a fine one too!
But beast, or bird, it makes no matter,
He takes his gun and jingles at her;
And ere that bird his mercy begs,
She tumbles down, with broken legs!
He then did speedily run out,
And twin’d her slender neck about,
With pleasure sparkling in his eyes,
Thinking he’d got a famous prize!
But one whose senses were awake,
Did soon point out his sad mistake;
His countenance did alter, when
He found it was a fine pea-hen!
He thought his neighbours then would scoff,
And poets soon would take him off;
Too late he wish’d and strove in vain,
To bring his hen to life again!
Ye poachers all, both young and old,
If you don’t think my pen too bold;—
Or may I say, kind gentlemen,—
Take warning by this same pea-hen!
Mind well what creatures you abuse;
They all were given by God for use:—
Lest you should make your neighbours fun,
Look well before you point your gun!