THE GROUSE THAT JACK SHOT
Reading edition
(A Solemn Tragedy of the Shooting Season)
This is the Grouse that Jack shot.
This the friend who expected the Grouse that Jack shot.
This is the label addressed to the friend who expected the Grouse that Jack shot.
This is the Babel where lost was the label addressed to the friend, &c.
This is the porter who "found" the "birds" in the Babel where lost was the label, &c.
This is the dame with the crumpled hat, wife of the porter who "found" the "birds," &c.
This is the cooking-wench florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, &c.
This is the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-maid florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, &c.
This is the gourmand all forlorn, who dreamed of the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-wench florid and fat, &c.
This is the postman who knocked in the morn awaking the gourmand all forlorn from his dream of the table, &c.
And this is Jack (with a face of scorn), thinking in wrath of "directions" torn from the parcel by railway borne, announced by the postman who knocked in the morn, awaking the gourmand all forlorn, who dreamed of the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-wench florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, wife of the porter who "found" the "birds" in the Babel where lost was the label addressed to the friend who expected the Grouse that Jack shot!
Moral.
If in the Shooting Season you some brace of birds would send (As per letter duly posted) to a fond expectant friend, Pray remember that a railway is the genuine modern Babel, And be very very careful how you fasten on the label!
A Blank Day.—"Well, dear, did you get anything?"
"Not a thing! I only fired once, and that was more out of spite than anything else!"
"WEDDED TO THE MOOR"
The sportive M.P., when the Session is done, Is off like a shot, with his eye on a gun. He's like Mr. Toots in the Session's hard press, Finding rest "of no consequence." Could he take less? But when all the long windy shindy is o'er, He, like Oliver Twist, is found "asking for Moor!"
A HINT IN SEASON
Remember, remember, The month of September— Partridges, rabbits, and hares; Any hamper you send, My breech-loading friend, Put "Paid" on the label it bears.
Sportiana.—A young sportswoman in the Highlands is reported to have shot "six fine stags through the heart." Must have been "young bucks." Of course, she used Cupid's bullets on her murderous career amid the harts.
"A MOST PALPABLE!"
Beginner (excitedly, the first shot at the end of a blank morning). "How's that, John?"
John. "Well, ye seem to 'ave 'it 'im, sir!"