nd I'll be in the swim, I'll
be bound.
I did 'ave a turn some years back, though I only went out with
'em once,
And I shot a bit wild, as was likely, fust off, though yer _may_n't
be a dunce.

My rig out was a picter they told me--deer-stalker and knickers
O.K.--
"BRIGGS, Junior," a lobsculler called me; I wasn't quite fly to
his lay;
But BRIGGS or no BRIGGS I shaped spiffin, in mustard-and-mud-colour
checks.
Ah! them Moors is the spots for cold Irish, and gives yer the
primest of pecks.

Talk of sandwiges, CHARLIE, oh scissors, I'd soon ha' cleaned out
Charing Cross,
With St. Pancrust and Ludgit chucked in; fairly hopened the eye of
the boss;
Him as rented the shootings, yer know, big dry-salter in Thames
Street, bit warm
In his langwige occasional, CHARLIE, but 'arty and reglar good form.

Swells will pal in most anywhere now on the chance of a gratis
Big Shoot,
And there _wos_ some Swells with hus, I tell yer, I felt on the
good gay galoot,
But I fancy I got jest a morsel screwdnoodleous late in the day,
For I peppered a bloke in the breeks; he swore bad, but 'twas
only his play.

Bagged a brace and a arf, I did, CHARLIE; not bad for a novice
like me.
Jest a bit blown about the fust two; wanted gathering up like,
yer see.
A bird do look best with his 'ed on, dear boy, as a matter of taste;
And the gillies got jest a mite scoffy along of my natural 'aste.

Never arsked me no more, for some reason. But wot I would say is
this here,
'ARRY's bin in this boat in his time, as in every prime lark pooty
near,
And when 'ARRISON talks blooming bunkum, with hadjectives spicy and
strong,
About Sport being stupid, and noisy, and vulgar; wy, 'ARRISON'S wrong!

_He_ would rather shoot broken-down cab-horses,--so the mug tells
us--than birds.
Well, they're more in his line very likely; that means, in his own
chosen words,
He's more fit for a hammytoor knacker than for that great boast of
our land,
A true British Sportsman! Great Scott! It's a taste as I _carnt_