"Humph!" mutters JOHN. "A poorish lot!
Scarce tempting to the would-be diner;
This year, SOL,—or may I be shot!—
Your foreign birds appear the finer.
The Home moors have not yielded? Well, Sir,
Let's hope your stock, though scant, may sell, Sir!
"Eh? What? Do better later on?
Give a look in about November?
Well, for the time I must be gone,
Off to the Sea! But I'll remember.