THE END OF PHEASANT SHOOTING.
THE SONG OF THE GAME.
Unto the feathered tribe how pleasant
No more to be in dread of cartridge;
Free is the gay and happy pheasant,
And free as air the simple partridge.
No more the sportsman's gun we hear,
The laws' protection we may claim;
Defying all who venture near,
'Tis now our turn for making game.
We laugh at Lords and Commons too,
For now not one of them is able,
Whate'er with others they may do,
To lay _our_ bills upon the table.
Now occupied in making laws,
They show their legislative powers
In mutilating many a clause;
But they can touch no claws of ours.
The Cockneys now, with sportsman's pride,
In shooting gaiters case their legs;
Their Mantons they may lay aside,
While we aside will lay our Eggs.