He
Even perches on the end
Of the gun my poor old friend
Bill employs for killing game.
True he's very blind and lame,
And he's well beyond the span
Meted out to mortal man,
And his gout is getting worse
(Meaning Bill, of course, not Perce);
Still, if he won't mend his ways,
One of these fine Autumn days
I'm afraid there's bound to be
Quite an awful tragedy.
He'll be shot--I'm sure he will
(Meaning Percy now, not Bill).
II.
Weep, ye lowering rain-swept skies!
In the dust our hero lies.
Weeping-willow, bow thy head!
Our precocious fowl is dead.
Sigh, thou bitter North Wind, for
Perce the Partridge is no more!
Now, as long as he was ready
Just to sit, sedate and steady,
On the barrel of the gun
Little mischief could be done;
But on that sad morn a whim
Suddenly seized hold of him;
'Twas the lunatic desire
To observe how shot-guns fire;
So he boldly took his stand
Where the barrel ended, and,
All agog to solve the puzzle,
Poked his napper up the muzzle.
Well, the weapon at the minute
Chanced to have a cartridge in it,
And it happened that my friend
Bill was at the other end,
Who with calm unflurried aim
Failed (at last) to miss the game.
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