Volume 103 — TO A PHEASANT.

I Stand in the copses sighing As the cruel hours creep by, And I see you slowly flying Above the trees on high. Your wondrous wealth, of feather Has weaved a subtle spell, And I softly wonder whether You'd really taste as well. For my hand is fairly steady Though my heart is beating fast, Oh, tell me that you too are ready To make this hour your last. For repentance may come when we're sober, Let's seize on the chance while we may; Then why should we wait till October? Oh! Why not be shot to-day? Oh! tell me why, why should I remember With a thought of wild alarm, That all through the month of sweet September You should be free from harm. Why, why does your beauty enslave me, As it does, you're bound to allow Oh! say but the word that will save me, And tell me to shoot you now. For my heart is wildly beating (As it's often done before), And the moments madly fleeting Are going to come never more. For repentance may come when we're sober, Let's seize on the chance while we may, Then why should we wait till October? Oh! Why not be shot to-day?