Chapter 2

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!

And vat's it all come to at last?-- There isn't no chance of a hit, I feel the rain's all down my back, In my mouth though I hav'n't a bit!

O! it's werry wezaatious indeed! For I shan't have another day soon; But I'm blow'd, if I don't have a pop-- My eye! I've shot Dash! vot a spoon!

O! here's a partic'lar mess, Vot vill mother say to me now? For he vas her lap-dog and pet, Oh! I've slaughtered her darling bow-wow!