This day's the eleventh,
It is not the seventh,
But they seem to be keeping it hole-y.
For a mallard I've waded the marsh,
And haunted each pool, and each lake—oh!
Mine is not the luck,
To obtain thee, O Duck,
Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco!
For a field-fare I've fared far a-field,
Large or small I am never to sack bird,