The Poacher. - A Serious Ballad.

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.