THE END OF PHEASANT SHOOTING.
THE SONG OF THE GAME.
Unto the feathered tribe how pleasant
No more to be in dread of cartridge;
Free is the gay and happy pheasant,
And free as air the simple partridge.
No more the sportsman's gun we hear,
The laws' protection we may claim;
Defying all who venture near,
'Tis now our turn for making game.
We laugh at Lords and Commons too,