Percy is a partridge bold
Who in Autumn, so I'm told,
Dwells among the turnip roots
And assists at frequent shoots,
Really I have seldom heard
Of a more precocious bird;
Possibly his landlord's not
What you'd call a first-rate shot,
And his pals, though jolly chaps,
Are not quite so good perhaps;
Still, he thinks their aim so trashy
That, I fear, he's getting rash. He
Even perches on the end
Of the gun my poor old friend
Bill employs for killing game.
True he's very blind and lame,
And he's well beyond the span
Meted out to mortal man,
And his gout is getting worse
(Meaning Bill, of course, not Perce);
Still, if he won't mend his ways,
One of these fine Autumn days
I'm afraid there's bound to be
Quite an awful tragedy.
He'll be shot--I'm sure he will
(Meaning Percy now, not Bill).