And when such facts do yoke,
There’s many a shot goes off, I wot,
Brings nothing to the “poke.”
The grains were sown, the fields were mown,
The crops proved rather thin;
Oft was the raking summons thrown,
But slow the heads came in.
At last while Gale, just in advance,
Was clambering o’er some logs,
He got a charge of shot by chance,