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Sketches by Seymour - Volume 02

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"Shoot away, Bill! never mind the old woman—she can't get over the wall to us."


One day two urchins gotA pistol, powder, horn, and shot,And proudly forth they wentOn sport intent."Oh, Tom! if we should shoot a hare,"Cried one,The elder son,"How father, sure, would stare!""Look there! what's that?""Why, as I live, a cat,"Cried Bill, "'tis mother Tibbs' tabby;Oh! what a larkShe loves it like a babby!And ain't a cat's eye, Tom, as good a markAs any bull's eyes?"And straight "Puss! puss!" he cries,When, lo! as Puss approaches,They hear a squall,And see a head and fist above the wall.'Tis tabby's mistressWho in great distressLoads both the urchins with her loud reproaches,"You little villains! will ye shoot my cat?Here, Tink! Tink! Tink!O! lor' a' mercy! I shall surely sink,Tink! Tink!"Tink hears her voice—and hearing that,Trots nearer with a pit-a-pat!"Now, Bill, present and fire,There's a bold 'un,And send the tabby to the old 'un."Bang! went the pistol, and in the mireRolled Tink without a mew—Flop! fell his mistress in a stew!While Bill and Tom both fled,Leaving the accomplish'd Tink quite finish'd,For Bill had actually diminish'dThe feline favorite by a head!Leaving his undone mistress to bewail,In deepest woe,And to her gossips to relateHer tabby's fate.This was her only consolation—for altho'She could not tell the head—she could the tail!



"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 stickAs close as a bailiff to meOh! I wish I was out o' this here,And at home with my mother at tea!

This is the fust, as I've gotPermission from uncle to shoot;He hadn't no peace till he giveThis 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!


"Mother says fishes comes from hard roes, so I chuck'd in the roe of a red-herring last week, but I doesn't catch any fish yet."


How beautiful is the simplicity of unsophisticated youth! Behold with what patience this innocent awaits a bite, trusting with perfect faith in the truth of his affectionate mother's ichthyological knowledge....