The partridge is a cunning bird,
He likes not those who bring him down:
From age to age he has preferred
The shots that blaze into the brown,
Whose stocks come never shoulder high,
Who never pause to pick and choose,
But on whose biceps you descry
The black, the blue, the tell-tale bruise.
Or should a stubborn cartridge swell,
And jam, as it may chance, your gun,