The 'ound didn't seem much to mind it; immortal, I spose, like Miss D.;
Then we 'ad a slap arter the deer, and she'd very soon nailed two or three.
I wos out of it, couldn't pot one, and it needled me orful, dear boy,
To be licked by a gal, though a goddess, and armed with a archery toy!
Her togs wos a little bit quisby—for moors as ain't pitched in the Moon,
And there wasn't no pic-nic, dear boy! I got peckish and parched pooty soon.
She lapped from a brook, and her hoptics went wide as a cop on the watch,
When I hinted around rayther square, I should like a small drop of cold Scotch.
Well, well; I must cut this yarn short. We'd a turn at Moon Sports like all round,
Wish I'd time to describe our Big Boar Hunt—DIANNER's pet pastime I found,