old wag.
From Arran he'd tramp to Dunrobin without the least chance of a bag!
"Peaceful hills," that's his patter, my pippin; no gillies, no
luncheons, no game!
Wy, he ought to be tossed in a blanket; it fills a true Briton
with shame.

No Moors for yours truly, wus luck! It won't run to it, CHARLIE,
this round;
But give me my gun, and a chance, and I'll be in the swim, I'll
be bound.
I did 'ave a turn some years back, though I only went out with
'em once,
And I shot a bit wild, as was likely, fust off, though yer _may_n't
be a dunce.

My rig out was a picter they told me--deer-stalker and knickers
O.K.--
"BRIGGS, Junior," a lobsculler called me; I wasn't quite fly to
his lay;
But BRIGGS or no BRIGGS I shaped spiffin, in mustard-and-mud-colour
checks.
Ah! them Moors is the spots for cold Irish, and gives yer the
primest of pecks.

Talk of sandwiges, CHARLIE, oh scissors, I'd soon ha' cleaned out
Charing Cross,
With St. Pancrust and Ludgit chucked in; fairly hopened the eye of
the boss;
Him as rented the shootings, yer know, big dry-salter in Thames