ODE ON A DISTANT PARTRIDGE.

Well, I'm blest, I'm pretty nearly Speechless, as I watch that bird, Saving that I mutter merely One concise, emphatic word— What that is, may be inferred! English prose is, to my sorrow, Insufficient for the task. Would that I could freely borrow Expletives from Welsh or Basque— One or two is all I ask! Failing that, let so-called verses Serve to mitigate my grief Doggerel now and then disperses Agonies that need relief. (Missing birds of these is chief!) Blankly tramping o'er the stubbles Is a bore, to put it mild; But, in short, to crown my troubles, One mishap has made me riled, Driv'n me, like the coveys, wild For at last I flush a partridge. Ten yards rise, an easy pot! Click! Why, bless me, where's the cartridge? Hang it! there, I clean forgot Putting them in ere I shot!