On the ’ole of my propputty I don’t ’ear a sound.
There’s no eagles now in the mountain’s to scream,
And as for the gos’awk, ‘is whistle’s a dream.
There’s never no falcons a flyin’ about,
Shot down by the keepers to them I bought out.
Poor beggars, and therefore you’ll own they was free,
Theirselves, from romance, quite as much so as me,
In Town whilst attendin’ to bisnis, although
My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands wherever I go.
Punch, October 27, 1883.