"A LITTLE TOO PREVIOUS!"
["I desire to submit that this is a very great question, which will have to be determined, but upon a very different ground from that of the salaries of the officers of the House of Lords.... If there is to be a contest between the House of Lords and the House of Commons, let us take it upon higher ground than this."—Sir William Harcourt.]
There was a little urchin, and he had an old horse-pistol, Which he rammed with powder damp and shots of lead, lead, lead; And he cried "I know not fear! I'll go stalking of the deer!" For this little cove was slightly off his head, head, head.
This ambitious little lad was a Paddy and a Rad, And himself he rather fancied as a shot, shot, shot; And he held the rules of sport, and close season, and, in short, The "regulation rubbish" was all rot, rot, rot.
He held a "bird" a thing to be potted on the wing, Or perched upon a hedge, or up a tree, tree, tree; And, says he, "If a foine stag I can add to my small bag, A pistol or a Maxim will suit me, me, me!"
And so upon all fours he would crawl about the moors, To the detriment of elbows, knees, and slack, slack, slack; And he says, "What use a-talking? If I choose to call this 'stalking,' And I bag my game, who's going to hould me back, back, back?"
Says he, "I scoff at raisons, and stale talk of toimes and saisons; I'm game to shoot a fox, or spear a stag, stag, stag; Nay, I'd net, or club, a salmon; your old rules of sport are gammon, For wid me it's just a question of the bag, bag, bag!
"There are omadhauns, I know, who would let a foine buck go Just bekase 'twas out of toime, or they'd no gun, gun, gun; But if oi can hit, and hurt, wid a pistol—or a squirt— By jabers, it is all the betther fun, fun, fun!"
So he scurryfunged around with his stomach on the ground (For stalking seems of crawling a mere branch, branch, branch). And he spied "a stag of ten," and he cried, "Hurroo! Now then, I fancy I can hit him—in the haunch, haunch haunch!