To make up two.

He fired, and beheld it fall
With inward glee,
And for a minute 'neath a wall
Stood gazing he.

When from behind, fierce, heavy blows
Fell on his hat,
And knock'd his beaver o'er his nose,
And laid him flat.

"What for," cried Jenkins, "am I mill'd,
Sir, like this ere?"
"You villain, you, why you have kill'd
My pouter rare."

The sturdy knave who struck him down
With frown replied:--
"For which I'll make you pay a crown
Nor be denied."

Poor Jenkins saw it was in vain
To bandy words;
So paid the cash and vow'd, again
He'd not shoot birds--

At least of that same feather, lest
For Pouter shot
Some Dragon fierce should him molest--