Shooting Pains.

"The charge is prepar'd." - Macheath.     If I shoot any more I'll be shot,     For ill-luck seems determined to star me,             I have march'd the whole day             With a gun, - for no pay -     Zounds, I'd better have been in the army!     What matters Sir Christopher's leave;     To his manor I'm sorry I came yet!             With confidence fraught             My two pointers I brought,     But we are not a point towards game yet!     And that gamekeeper too, with advice!     Of my course he has been a nice chalker,             Not far, were his words,             I could go without birds:     If my legs could cry out, they'd cry "Walker!"     Not Hawker could find out a flaw, -     My appointments are modern and Mantony;             And I've brought my own man,             To mark down all he can,     But I can't find a mark for my Anthony!     The partridges, - where can they lie?     I have promis'd a leash to Miss Jervas,             As the least I could do;             But without even two     To brace me, - I'm getting quite nervous!     To the pheasants - how well they're preserv'd! -     My sport's not a jot more beholden,             As the birds are so shy,             For my friends I must buy,     And so send "silver pheasants and golden."     I have tried ev'ry form for a hare,     Every patch, every furze that could shroud her,             With toil unrelax'd,             Till my patience is tax'd,     But I cannot be tax'd for hare-powder.     I've been roaming for hours in three flats,     In the hope of a snipe for a snap at;             But still vainly I court             The percussioning sport,     I find nothing for "setting my cap at!"     A woodcock, - this month is the time, -     Right and left I've made ready my lock for,             With well-loaded double,             But 'spite of my trouble,     Neither barrel can I find a cock for!     A rabbit I should not despise,     But they lurk in their burrows so lowly;             This day's the eleventh,             It is not the seventh,     But they seem to be keeping it hole-y.     For a mallard I've waded the marsh,     And haunted each pool, and each lake - oh!             Mine is not the luck,             To obtain thee, O Duck,     Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco!     For a field-fare I've fared far a-field,     Large or small I am never to sack bird,             Not a thrush is so kind             As to fly, and I find     I may whistle myself for a black-bird!     I am angry, I'm hungry, I'm dry,     Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded,             And so weary an elf,             I am sick of myself,     And with Number One seem overloaded.     As well one might beat round St. Paul's,     And look out for a cock or a hen there;             I have search'd round and round,             All the Baronet's ground,     But Sir Christopher hasn't a wren there!     Joyce may talk of his excellent caps,     But for nightcaps they set me desiring,             And it's really too bad,             Not a shot I have had     With Hall's Powder renown'd for "quick firing."     If this is what people call sport,     Oh! of sporting I can't have a high sense;             And there still remains one             More mischance on my gun -     "Fined for shooting without any licence."