Wy, they're down upon Sport, now, a pelter. Perposterous, ain't it,
old man?

Bin a reading FRED 'ARRISON'S kibosh along o' "The Feast of
St. Grouse,"
On the "Glorious Twelfth," as he calls it; wen swells is fair shut
of the 'Ouse,
Its Obstruction, and similar 'orrors, in course they hikes off to
the Moors.
Small blame to 'em, CHARLIE, small blame to 'em, spite of the prigs
and the boors!

Yet this 'ARRISON he sets _his_ back up. Dry smug as can't 'andle
a gun,
I'll bet Marlboro' 'Ouse to a broomstick, and ain't got no notion
of Fun.
"Loves the Moors much too well for to carry one;" that's wot _he_
says, sour old sap
Bet my boots as he can't 'it a 'aystack at twenty yards rise--eh,
old chap?

_Him_ sweet on the heather, my pippin, or partial to feather
and fur,
So long as yer never _kills_ nothink? Sech tommy-rot gives me
the spur.
Yah! Scenery's all very proper, but where is the genuine pot
Who'd pad the 'oof over the Moors, if it weren't for the things
to be shot?

"This swagger about killing birds is mere cant," sez this wobbling