The Hunter

A full-fledged gun cannot endure
The trifling of an amateur;
Poor marksmanship its temper spoils
And this is why the gun recoils.

A self-respecting gun Im sure
Delights to jar the amateur
And thinks that it is no disgrace
To kick his shoulder out of place.

Moral

When you go out to hunt, my son
Prepare to circumvent your gun
And on your shoulder firmly bind
A pillow of the largest kind.

Ellis Parker Butler

Ellis Parker Butler was an American author, humorist, and poet, best known for his short story 'Pigs Is Pigs.' Born on December 5, 1869, in Muscatine, Iowa, Butler became a prolific writer, contributing to numerous magazines and books over his career. He is remembered for his wit and humor, which marked his work. Butler passed away on September 13, 1937.

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English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Shooting Pains.

"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,
   ...

Thomas Hood

The Poacher. - A Serious Ballad.

But a bold pheasantry, their country's pride
When once destroyed can never be supplied.
        GOLDSMITH.


Bill Blossom was a nice young man,
And drove the Bury coach;
But bad companions were his bane,
And egg'd him on to poach.

They taught him how to net the birds,
And how to noose the hare;
And with a wiry terrier,
He often set a snare.

Each "shiny night" the moon was bright,
To park, preserve, and wood
He went, and kept the game alive,
By killing all he could.

Land-owners, who had rabbits, swore
That he had this demerit -
Give him an inch of warren, he
Would take a yard of ferret.

At partridges he was not nice;
And many, large and small,
Without Hall's powder, without lead,
Were sent to Leade...

Thomas Hood

Danger Of Fire Arms.

        For to save life one great solver
        Would be to prohibit the revolver,
        Weapon of coward and of bully,
        Who slaughter friends in their folly.

        Let now no man or any boy,
        With loaded arms ever toy,
        Showing off their manly vigor,
        Pointing to friend and pulling trigger.

        And sending bullet through their brain,
        And then exclaim in mournful strain,
        When friends with grief they are goaded,
        I did not know that it was loaded.

        Fire arms oft' times do bring woes,
        And they kill more friends than foes,
        Hunting now o'er fertile fields,
        'Tis seldom that it profit yields.

James McIntyre

Hunter's Song

Not a stone from my black sling
Ever misses anything,
But the arrows of your eye
Surer shoot and faster fly.

Not one creature that I hit
Lingers on to know of it,
But the game that falls to love
Lives and lingers long enough.

From the Turkic.

Edward Powys Mathers

To The Man With A Gun

    My dear Sir, -
    I suppose you are having an excellent time just now.
    There are a large number of counties
    In England and Scotland,
    And I am not acquainted with one of them
    Wherein your bang-bang
    And puffs of smoke
    And red-faced men with dogs
    Are not to be encountered.
    You like it;
    It is very nice;
    And really, when you come to think of it,
    It is what the counties were made for.
    In the history books
    They were wont to say
    Of a certain Norman monarch,
    That he loved the red deer
    As if he were their brother.
    Of you it may safely be said
    That you love the red grouse
    And the brown partridge.
    As if you were a poulterer.
    You are a sportsman.
    ...

Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

The Huntsman And His Hound.

When hill and dale, long years ago,
Lay clad in nature's dress,
And flourish'd the primeval pomp
Of nature's wilderness,

A huntsman and his hound would roam,
Where fed the timid deer,
And where the partridge's drum, or whirr,
Brought music to his ear.

In sooth, he heard all forest sounds
With real sportsman's joy;
And here he always pleasure found,
With little of alloy.

The pigeon's coo, the squirrel's chirp,
The wild-bird's thrilling lay,
Brought freshen'd pleasure to his heart,
At ev'ry op'ning day.

But music sweeter far than aught
In wood or vale around,
Was the loud crackling of the deer,
Or baying of his hound.

Full many a deer his steady aim,
With faithful rifle slew,
But, faithful as his rifle ...

Thomas Frederick Young