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.”

JOHN DAY.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

    “A Day after the Fair.”—­Old Proverb.

John Day he was the biggest man
  Of all the coachman kind,
With back too broad to be conceived
  By any narrow mind.