_Him_ sweet on the heather, my pippin, or partial to feather and fur, So long as yer never _kills_ nothink? Sech tommy-rot gives me the spur. Yah! Scenery's all very proper, but where is the genuine pot Who'd pad the 'oof over the Moors, if it weren't for the things to be shot? "This swagger about killing birds is mere cant," sez this wobbling old wag. From Arran he'd tramp to Dunrobin without the least chance of a bag! "Peaceful hills," that's his patter, my pippin; no gillies, no luncheons, no game! Wy, he ought to be tossed in a blanket; it fills a true Briton with shame. No Moors for yours truly, wus luck! It won't run to it, CHARLIE, this round; But give me my gun, and a chance, and I'll be in the swim, I'll be bound. I did 'ave a turn some years back, though I only went out with 'em once, And I shot a bit wild, as was likely, fust off, though yer _may_n't be a dunce. My rig out was a picter they told me--deer-stalker and knickers O.K.-- "BRIGGS, Junior," a lobsculler called me; I wasn't quite fly to his lay; But BRIGGS or no BRIGGS I shaped spiffin, in mustard-and-mud-colour checks. Ah! them Moors is the spots for cold Irish, and gives yer the primest of pecks. Talk of sandwiges, CHARLIE, oh scissors, I'd soon ha' cleaned out Charing Cross, With St. Pancrust and Ludgit chucked in; fairly hopened the eye of the boss; Him as rented the shootings, yer know, big dry-salter in Thames Street, bit warm In his langwige occasional, CHARLIE, but 'arty and reglar good form. Swells will pal in most anywhere now on the chance of a gratis Big Shoot, And there _wos_ some Swells with hus, I tell yer, I felt on the good gay galoot, But I fancy I got jest a morsel screwdnoodleous late in the day, For I peppered a bloke in the breeks; he swore bad, but 'twas only his play. Bagged a brace and a arf, I did, CHARLIE; not bad for a novice like me. Jest a bit blown about the fust two; wanted gathering up like, yer see. A bird do look best with his 'ed on, dear boy, as a matter of taste; And the gillies got jest a mite scoffy along of my natural 'aste. Never arsked me no more, for some reason. But wot I would say is this here, 'ARRY's bin in this boat in his time, as in every prime lark pooty near, And when 'ARRISON talks blooming bunkum, with hadjectives spicy and strong, About Sport being stupid, and noisy, and vulgar; wy, 'ARRISON'S wrong!