This year his instinct (true, though dumb)
Tells him by subtle signs
No bullet loosed by me shall come
Shattering earth below his tum
Or whistling through his tines.

Yet little knows he why the hill
Misses my wonted feet,
Or how I've learned a lethal skill
At mimic butts that bodes him ill
When next I stalk his beat.

I trow that he would swoon for fright
Upon the purple ling
To know that in a decent light
I'd undertake the death, at sight,
Of any living thing.

O not for nothing do I grow
Efficient, eye and hand,
Schooling myself to strike a blow
In home defence against a foe
That never means to land.

Some fruit of toil there yet shall be
For this poor volunteer;
When War's abatement sets him free
From bloodless duties, I foresee
A deadly time for deer!