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Title: The Poacher: A Serious Ballad
Author: Thomas Hood [
More Titles by Hood]
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 Leaden Hall.
He did not fear to take a deer
From forest, park, or lawn;
And without courting lord or duke,
Used frequently to _fawn_.
Folks who had hares discovered snares--
His course they could not stop:
No barber he, and yet he made
Their hares a perfect crop.
To pheasant he was such a foe,
He tried the keepers' nerves;
They swore he never seem'd to have
_Jam_ satis of _preserves_.
The Shooter went to beat, and found
No sporting worth a pin,
Unless he tried the _covers_ made
Of silver, plate, or tin.
In Kent the game was little worth,
In Surrey not a button;
The Speaker said he often tried
The _Manors_ about _Button_.
No county from his tricks was safe;
In each he tried his lucks,
And when the keepers were in _Beds_,
He often was at _Bucks_.
And when he went to _Bucks_, alas!
They always came to _Herts_;
And even _Oxon_ used to wish
That he had his deserts.
But going to his usual _Hants_,
Old _Cheshire_ laid his plots:
He got entrapp'd by legal _Berks_,
And lost his life in _Notts_.
[The end]
Thomas Hood's poem: Poacher: A Serious Ballad
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