There was "champions" thick as bluebottles, and plungers as plenty as peas,
With stoney-brokes, pale as a poultice, and "crocks," orful gone at the knees;
I see a whole howling mix-up of "mug" booky, dog-owner and rough,
A-watching of snaky-shaped hounds pelting 'ard 'after bits o' brown fluff,
I see—and the Sportsman within me began for to bubble and burn,
And I yelled, "O my hazure-horbed Mistress, can't you and me 'ave jest a turn?"
We did, and my "Purdey Extractor" made play, though it ain't me to brag,
But somehow her arrers went straighter, and 'ers wos the heaviest bag.
"Let me 'ave a try, Miss," sez I, "with that trifle from Lowther Arcade!"
I tried, and hit one of her dogs, as she didn't think sport I'm afraid.