“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,
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