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SKETCHES BY SEYMOUR
Part 2.
"Shoot away, Bill! never mind the old woman--she can't get over the wall to us."
One day two urchins got A pistol, powder, horn, and shot, And proudly forth they went On sport intent. "Oh, Tom! if we should shoot a hare," Cried one, The elder son, "How father, sure, would stare!" Look there! what's that?" "Why, as I live, a cat," Cried Bill, "'tis mother Tibbs' tabby; Oh! what a lark She loves it like a babby! And ain't a cat's eye, Tom, as good a mark As any bull's eyes?" And straight "Puss! puss!" he cries, When, lo! as Puss approaches, They hear a squall, And see a head and fist above the wall. 'Tis tabby's mistress Who in great distress Loads both the urchins with her loud reproaches, "You little villains! will ye shoot my cat? Here, Tink! Tink! Tink! O! lor' a' mercy! I shall surely sink, Tink! Tink!" Tink hears her voice--and hearing that, Trots nearer with a pit-a-pat! "Now, Bill, present and fire, There's a bold 'un, And send the tabby to the old 'un." Bang! went the pistol, and in the mire Rolled Tink without a mew-- Flop! fell his mistress in a stew! While Bill and Tom both fled, Leaving the accomplish'd Tink quite finish'd, For Bill had actually diminish'd The feline favorite by a head! Leaving his undone mistress to bewail, In deepest woe, And to her gossips to relate Her tabby's fate. This was her only consolation--for altho' She could not tell the head--she could the tail!
SEPTEMBER 1ST,--AN ONLY OPPORTUNITY.
"I begin to think I may as well go back."
MY vig! vat a pelter this is-- Enough all my hardour to tame; In veather like this there's no sport, It's too much in earnest for game!
A ladle, I might as well be, Chain'd fast to a hold parish pump, For, by goles! it comes tumbling down, Like vinking,--and all of a lump.
The birds to their nestes is gone, I can't see no woodcock, nor snipe; My dog he looks dogged and dull, My leggins is flabby as tripe!
The moors is all slipp'ry slush, I'm up to the neck in the mire; I don't see no chance of a shot, And I long-how I long for a fire!
For my clothes is all soak'd, and they stick As close as a bailiff to me Oh! I wish I was out o' this here, And at home with my mother at tea!
This is the fust, as I've got Permission from uncle to shoot; He hadn't no peace till he give This piece, and the powder to boot!
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