THE SPORTING SPIRIT

It once was my habit to miss ev'ry rabbit

At which I might happen to fire;

I wasted each cartridge despatching some partridge

To die in a neighbouring shire.

By nature ungainly, I struggled, but vainly,

A duck or a woodcock to kill,

And cut a poor figure when pressing the trigger

With far greater vigour than skill,

Until, all at once, I discovered a tonic,

And now ( so to speak ) my adroitness is chronic!

A flask of old brandy I always keep handy,

And, after an opportune nip,

My wits are collected, my aim is corrected,

My weapon with firmness I grip.

I notice, untroubled, that all things are doubled;

Two outlines I hazily trace

Of ev'ry cock-pheasant, and shooting grows pleasant

When each single bird is a brace;

Each teal has a twin, ev'ry black-cock a brother,

And so I am bound to hit one or the other!

My methods may flurry those neighbours in Surrey

Whose eyes I persistently wipe,

And startle the Vicar whom once, when in liquor,

I shot, in mistake for a snipe;

At Bolton or Belvoir my faithful retriever

Retrieves more than any dog there;

No bag is so heavy as that which I levy

At Welbeck, so what do I care?

Sustained by old brandy, in covert or stubble,

My fame ( and my game ) I can daily redouble!