To tell the truth, that dog-disaster
Is just the type of me and master,
When fagging over hill and dale,
With his vain rattle at my tail,
Bang, bang, and bang, the whole day's run,
But leading nothing but his gun—
The very shot I fancy hisses,
It's sent upon such awful misses!"
"Of course it does! But p'rhaps the fact is
Your master's hand is out of practice!"