The Charge Is Prepar'D. - Macheath. If I Shoot Any More I'll Be Shot, For Ill-Luck Seems Determined To Star Me, I Have March'D The Whole Day With A Gun, - For No Pay - Zounds, I'd Better Have Been In The Army! What Matters Sir Christopher'S Leave; To His Manor I'm Sorry I Came Yet! With Confidence Fraught My Two Pointers I Brought, But We Are Not A Point Towards Game Yet! And That Gamekeeper Too, With Advice! Of My Course He Has Been A Nice Chalker, Not Far, Were His Words, I Could Go Without Birds: If My Legs Could Cry Out, They'd Cry "Walker!" Not Hawker Could Find Out A Flaw, - My Appointments Are Modern And Mantony; And I've Brought My Own Man, To Mark Down All He Can, But I Can't Find A Mark For My Anthony! The Partridges, - Where Can They Lie? I Have Promis'D A Leash To Miss Jervas, As The Least I Could Do; But Without Even Two To Brace Me, - I'm Getting Quite Nervous! To The Pheasants - How Well They're Preserv'D! - My Sport'S Not A Jot More Beholden, As The Birds Are So Shy, For My Friends I Must Buy, And So Send "Silver Pheasants And Golden." I Have Tried Ev'Ry Form For A Hare, Every Patch, Every Furze That Could Shroud Her, With Toil Unrelax'D, Till My Patience Is Tax'D, But I Cannot Be Tax'D For Hare-Powder. I've Been Roaming For Hours In Three Flats, In The Hope Of A Snipe For A Snap At; But Still Vainly I Court The Percussioning Sport, I Find Nothing For "Setting My Cap At!" A Woodcock, - This Month Is The Time, - Right And Left I've Made Ready My Lock For, With Well-Loaded Double, But 'Spite Of My Trouble, Neither Barrel Can I Find A Cock For! A Rabbit I Should Not Despise, But They Lurk In Their Burrows So Lowly; This Day'S The Eleventh, It Is Not The Seventh, But They Seem To Be Keeping It Hole-Y. For A Mallard I've Waded The Marsh, And Haunted Each Pool, And Each Lake - Oh! Mine Is Not The Luck, To Obtain Thee, O Duck, Or To Doom Thee, O Drake, Like A Draco! For A Field-Fare I've Fared Far A-Field, Large Or Small I Am Never To Sack Bird, Not A Thrush Is So Kind As To Fly, And I Find I May Whistle Myself For A Black-Bird! I Am Angry, I'm Hungry, I'm Dry, Disappointed, And Sullen, And Goaded, And So Weary An Elf, I Am Sick Of Myself, And With Number One Seem Overloaded. As Well One Might Beat Round St. Paul'S, And Look Out For A Cock Or A Hen There; I Have Search'D Round And Round, All The Baronet'S Ground, But Sir Christopher Hasn't A Wren There! Joyce May Talk Of His Excellent Caps, But For Nightcaps They Set Me Desiring, And It's Really Too Bad, Not A Shot I Have Had With Hall'S Powder Renown'D For "Quick Firing." If This Is What People Call Sport, Oh! Of Sporting I Can't Have A High Sense; And There Still Remains One More Mischance On My Gun - "Fined For Shooting Without Any Licence."