"Faix! I'll bag that foine Stag Royal, or at any rate oi'll troy all The devoices of a sportshman from the Oisle, Oisle, Oisle. One who's used to shoot asprawl from behoind a hedge or wall, At the risks of rock and heather well may smoile, smoile, smoile!"
But our sportsman bold, though silly, by a stalwart Highland gillie, Was right suddenly arrested ere he fired, fired, fired.— "Hoots! If you'll excuse the hint, that old thing, with lock of flint, As a weapon for this sport can't be admired, mired, mired!
"It will not bring down that quarry, your horse-pistol! Don't you worry! That Royal Stag we'll stalk, boy, in good time, time, time; But to pop at it just now, and kick up an awful row, Scare, and miss it were a folly, nay a crime, crime, crime!
"Be you sure 'Our Party' will this fine quarry track and kill; Our guns need not your poor toy blunderbuss, buss, buss. This is not the time or place for a-following up this chase; So just clear out and leave this game to us, us, us!"
"A LITTLE TOO PREVIOUS!"
H-rc-rt. "NO, NO, MY LAD! THAT WON'T HURT HIM! YOU MUST LEAVE HIM TO US!"