He likes not those who bring him down:
From age to age he has preferred
The shots who 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,
The sly old partridge knows it well,