THE LAST COCK-PHEASANT

Splendour, whom lately on your glowing flight

Athwart the chill and cheerless winter-skies

I marked and welcomed with a futile right,

And then a futile left, and strained my eyes

To see you so magnificently large,

Sinking to rest beyond the fir-wood's marge —

Not mine, not mine the fault: despise me not

In that I missed you; for the sun was down,

And the dim light was all against the shot;

And I had booked a bet of half-a-crown.

My deadly fire is apt to be upset

By many causes — always by a bet.

Or had I overdone it with the sloes,

Snared by their home-picked brand of ardent gin

Designed to warm a shivering sportsman's toes

And light a fire his reckless head within?

Or did my silly loader put me off

With aimless chatter in regard to golf?

You too, I think, displayed a lack of nerve;

You did not quite-now did you? - play the game;

For when you saw me you were seen to swerve,

Doubtless in order to disturb my aim.

No, no, you must not ask me to forgive

A swerve because you basely planned to live.

At any rate I missed you, and you went,

The last day's absolutely final bird,

Scathless, and left me very ill content;

And someone ( was it I? ) pronounced a word,

A word which rather forcible than nice is,

A little word which does not rhyme with Isis.

Farewell! I may behold you once again

When next November's gales have stripped the leaf.

Then, while your upward flight you grandly strain,

May I be there to add you to my sheaf;

And may they praise your tallness, saying “This

Was such a bird as men are proud to miss!”