Volume 152 — THE TRUCE—AND AFTER.
Reading edition
[Lines alleged to have been recently found on the back of a miniature target (of which only the bull's-eye was perforated), and believed to be the work of a private in the County of London Volunteer Regiment.]
This year at ease on Ben Macquhair Couches a certain stag; Fearless he sniffs his native air Because he knows I can't be there To scare him off his crag. 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!
O.S.