As if the Jury had been packed—­of hounds. 
Reynard, however, at the utmost nick,
Is seldom quite devoid of shift and trick;
     Accordingly our cunning Fox,
Through certain influence, obscurely channel’d
A friendly Camel got into the box,
When ’gainst his life the Jury was impanel’d.

Now, in the Silly Isles such is the law,
   If Jurors should withdraw,
They are to have no eating and no drinking,
Till all are starved into one way of thinking. 
Thus Reynard’s Jurors, who could not agree,
Were lock’d up strictly, without bit or mummock,
Till every Beast that only had one stomach,
Bent to the Camel, who was blest with three. 
To do them justice, they debated
From four till ten, while dinner waited,
When thirst and hunger got the upper,
And each inclin’d to mercy, and hot supper: 
“Not Guilty” was the word, and Master Fox
Was freed to murder other hens and cocks.

MORAL.

What moral greets us by this tale’s assistance
   But that the Solon is a sorry Solon,
Who makes the full stop of a Man’s existence
   Depend upon a Colon?

THE POACHER.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

But a bold pheasantry, their country’s pride
When once destroyed can never be supplied. 
GOLDSMITH.

Bill Blossom was a nice young man,
  And drove the Bury coach;
But bad companions were his bane,
  And egg’d him on to poach.

They taught him how to net the birds,
  And how to noose the hare;
And with a wiry terrier,
  He often set a snare.

Each “shiny night” the moon was bright,
  To park, preserve, and wood
He went, and kept the game alive,
  By killing all he could.

Land-owners, who had rabbits, swore
  That he had this demerit—­
Give him an inch of warren, he
  Would take a yard of ferret.

At partridges he was not nice;
  And many, large and small,
Without Hall’s powder, without lead,
  Were sent to Leaden Hall.

He did not fear to take a deer
  From forest, park, or lawn;
And without courting lord or duke,
  Used frequently to fawn.

Folks who had hares discovered snares—­
  His course they could not stop: 
No barber he, and yet he made
  Their hares a perfect crop.

To pheasant he was such a foe,
  He tried the keepers’ nerves;
They swore he never seem’d to have
  Jam satis of preserves.

The Shooter went to beat, and found
  No sporting worth a pin,
Unless he tried the covers made
  Of silver, plate, or tin.

In Kent the game was little worth,
  In Surrey not a button;
The Speaker said he often tried
  The Manors about Button.