"This swagger about killing birds is mere cant," sez this wobbling old wag.
From Arran he'd tramp to Dunrobin without the least chance of a bag!
"Peaceful hills," that's his patter, my pippin; no gillies, no luncheons, no game!
Wy, he ought to be tossed in a blanket; it fills a true Briton with shame.
No Moors for yours truly, wus luck! It won't run to it, CHARLIE, this round;
But give me my gun, and a chance, and I'll be in the swim, I'll be bound.
I did 'ave a turn some years back, though I only went out with 'em once,
And I shot a bit wild, as was likely, fust off, though yer mayn't be a dunce.
My rig out was a picter they told me—deer-stalker and knickers O.K.—
"BRIGGS, Junior," a lobsculler called me; I wasn't quite fly to his lay;