[Somewhere above the head of Loch Fyne.]
King of the treeless forest, lo, I come!
This is to let you have the welcome news
That you will shortly hear my bullet's hum
Shatter Argyll amid her mountain dews;
Will hear, from hill to hill, its rumour fly
To startle (if the wind be not contrary)
The tripper gathering picture-postcards by
The pier at Inveraray.
This is your funeral, my friend, not mine,
So play the game, for slackness I abhor;
Give me a broadside target, large and fine,
A hundred paces off--don't make it more;
If in a sitting posture when we meet,
You mustn't think of moving; stay quite steady
Or (better) rise, and standing on your feet
Wait there till I am ready.
Lurk not in hollows where you can't be found,
Or let the local colour mock my search;
But take the sky-line; choose the sort of ground
That shows you up as obvious as a church;
Don't skulk among your hinds, or use for scouts
The nimble progeny of last year's harem
To bring reports upon my whereabouts
In case I chance to scare 'em.
If I should perforate you in a place
Not strictly vital, but from that rude shock
Death must ensue, don't run and hide your face,
But let me ease you with another knock;
And if, by inadvertence, I contrive
Initially to miss you altogether,
Stand till I empty out my clip of five,
Or make you bite the heather.
As for your points, I take a snobbish view:
I dearly love a stag of Royal stuff;
But, if a dozen's more than you can do,
Ten (of the best) will suit me well enough;
As for your weight, I want a bulky beast,
That I may win a certain patron's benison,
Loading his board, to last a week at least,
With whiffy slabs of venison.
Finally, be a sportsman; try to play
Your part in what should prove a big success;
Let me repeat--don't keep too far away;
My distance is a hundred yards (or less);
So, ere the eager gillies ope your maw,
I'll say, in tones to such occasions proper,
The while I drink your death in usquebagh,
"He is indeed a topper!"
Nor shall that sentence be your sole reward;
Our mutual prowess in the fatal Glen
Your headpiece, stuffed and mounted, shall record
And be the cynosure of envious men;
And when they see that segment of the bag,
And want the tale again and I must tell it,
I'll say how stoutly, like a well-bred stag,
You stopped the soft-nosed pellet.
SIR OWEN SEAMAN.
Sept. 14, 1910.