An Oxford Shooting Expedition
In the shooting, oh, my comrade,
When the birds are flying low,
And the hares and wily bunnies
Swiftly come and swiftly go:
When the beaters cry, “Mark over!”
And a cock comes skimming low,
Will you blaze away, and pot me,
As you did once long ago?
In the shooting, oh, my comrade,