The Young Sportsman
Harry had a dog and gun;
And he loved to set the one,
Barking, out upon the run,
While he held the other,
Often charged so heavily,
’Twas a dangerous thing to be
With so young a wight as he
Mindless of his mother.
Earnestly she warned her child
To forego a sport so wild;
While he, turning, frowned or smiled,
And away would sidle.
For, to give him short and long,
Harry had a head so strong,
In the right or in the wrong,
It was hard to bridle.
On his gunning madly bent,
Often in his clothes a rent
Told the reckless way he went,
Over hedge and brambles.
Homeward then would Harry slouch,
With his gun and empty pouch,
Looking like a scaramouch
Coming from his rambles.
Sometimes when he scaled a wall,
Headlong there to pitch and fall,
Ratling stones, and gun and all.
Down together tumbled.
Tray would bark to tell the news
Of his master with a bruise,
Hatless, and with grated shoes,
Lying flat and humbled!
Where he saw the bushes stirred,
Harry, sure of hare or bird,
Drew,—and at a flash was heard
Noise like little thunder.
When he ran his game to find,
Disappointment ‘mazed his mind;—
Finding he’d but shot the wind,
Dumb he stood with wonder!
Over muddy pool or bog,
Not so nimble as his dog,
When he walked the plank or log,
There his balance losing,
Splash! he went—a rueful plight!
If his face before was white,
’Twas like morning turned to night,
Much against his choosing.
Now, like many a hasty one,
Whether quadruped or gun,
Or a mother’s wayward son
Given to disaster,
Harry’s gun was rather quick;
And it had a naughty trick,—
It would snap itself, and kick
Fiercely at its master.
So, this snappish habit grew
With a power for him to rue;
Just as all bad habits do
Grow, as age increases.
When, one day, with noise and smoke,
Over-charged, the barrel broke,
Harry’s hand the mischief spoke—
It was blown to pieces!
Tray came crouching round, and growled,—
Saw the gore, and whined, and howled,
While his owner groaned and scowled,
And the blood was running.
With the horrors of his state,
And with anguish desperate,
Then poor Harry owned too late,
He was sick of gunning!
While his mother bent to mourn
As her froward son was borne,
With his hand all burnt and torn,
Faint and pale, before her,
Harry’s pain must be endured,—
And the wound—it might be cured;
But, for fingers uninsured,
There was no restorer!