t;
What can be miss'd, he's sure to do it.
Last Monday he came home to Tooting,
Dog-tir'd, as if he'd been a-shooting,
And kicks at me to vent his rage--
'Get out!' says he--'I've miss'd the stage!'
Of course, thought I--what chance of hitting?
You'd miss the Norwich wagon, sitting!"

"Why, he must be the country's scoff!
He ought to leave, and not let, off!
As fate denies his shooting wishes,
Why don't he take to catching fishes?
Or any other sporting game,
That don't require a bit of aim?"

"Not he!--Some dogs of human kind
Will hunt by sight, because they're blind.
My master angle!--no such luck!
There he might strike, who never struck!
My master shoots because he can't,
And has an eye that aims aslant;
Nay, just by way of making trouble,
He's changed his single gun for double;
And now, as girls a-walking do,
His _misses_ go by two and two!
I wish he had the mange, or reason
As good, to miss the shooting season!"

"Why yes, it must be main upleasant
To point to covey, or to pheasant,
For snobs, who, when the point is mooting,
Think _letting fly_ as good as shooting!"

"Snobs!--if he'd wear his ruffled shirts,
Or coats with water-wagtail skirts,
Or trowsers in the place of smalls,
Or those tight fits he wears at balls,
Or pumps, and boots with tops, mayhap,
Why we might pass for Snip and Snap,
And shoot like blazes! fly or sit,
And none would stare, unless we hit.
But no--to make the more combustion,
He goes in gaiters and in fustian,
Like Captain Ross, or Topping Sparks,
And deuce a miss but some one marks!
For Keepers, shy of such encroachers,
Dog us about like common poachers!
Many's the covey I've gone by,
When underneath a sporting eye;
Many a puss I've twigg'd, and pass'd her--
I miss 'em to prevent my master!"

"And so should I, in such a case!
There's nothing feels so like disgrace,
Or gives you such a scurvy look--
A kick and pail of slush from Cook,
Clefsticks, or Kettle, all in one,
As standing to a missing gun!
It's whirr! and bang! and off you bound,
To catch your bird before the ground:
But no--a pump and ginger pop
As soon would get a bird to drop!
So there you stand, quite struck a-heap,
Till all your tail is gone to sleep;
A sort of stiffness in your nape,
Holding your head well up to gape;
While off go birds across the ridges,
First small as flies, and then as midges,
Cocksure, as they are living chicks,
Death's Door is not at Number Six!"

"Yes! yes! and then you l