Soon will coveys come a-flitting, Over purple slopes and ridges, To the butts where we are sitting With our loaders close behind. Though the mist obscure our vision, And our necks are stung by midges, And we shoot without precision, Never mind! If the birds fly fast and freely O'er the lair where we are lying With the cartridges that Eley So obligingly supplies, When the drive is duly ended We can count the dead and dying We have rent (or is it 'rended'?) From the skies! As we stimulate the labours Of retrievers bent on finding Stricken birds our next-door neighbours Will indubitably claim, We declare to one another (Though we scarcely need reminding) That a grouse beats any other Kind of game, And that, given sport and weather, There is nothing like the thrill Of a day among the heather On the hill! NOVEMBER Poets may proclaim the praises Of some fragrant April day, Search their lexicons for phrases To describe the dew-drenched daisies Of each merry May; Minor bards may work like niggers, Framing epic rhyme or rune, To extol the timely rigours Of an English June; Though its charms I well remember, I prefer November! Though the tourists sing together When July is warm and bright, While to sportsmen on the heather, Bent on bagging fur and feather, August brings delight; Though September's seldom stormy, And October, chill and dry, Carries joy to every Dormy- House from Wick to Rye; Yet (since I am not a member) I prefer November! In the street the slime may spatter Ev'ry wretched passer-by; Hail and sleet and snow may batter On my window-pane--what matter? What on earth care I? Other months may be less muddy, Or a fairer face present; In my cheerful firelit study I am quite content! Seated by the glowing ember, I prefer November! THE CYNIC'S CHRISTMAS Christmas is here! Let us deck ev'ry dwelling With evergreen branches and mistletoe boughs! With thoughts philanthropic our bosoms are swelling, No shadow should darken our brows! (But, alas! when we're fixing festoons to the ceiling, The ladders we stand on are apt to give way, When a desolate feeling comes over us stealing; 'Tis hard to be merry and gay! And it's difficult, too, to feel thoroughly jolly When painfully punctured by pieces of holly!)