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<h4>THE POACHER.</h4>
<h5>
A SERIOUS BALLAD.
</h5>
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But a bold pheasantry, their country's pride
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When once destroyed can never be supplied.
<br/><p class="citation">
GOLDSMITH.</p>
<br/><br/>
Bill Blossom was a nice young man,
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And drove the Bury coach;
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But bad companions were his bane,
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And egg'd him on to poach.
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They taught him how to net the birds,
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And how to noose the hare;
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And with a wiry terrier,
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He often set a snare.
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Each "shiny night" the moon was bright,
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To park, preserve, and wood
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He went, and kept the game alive,
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By killing all he could.
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Land-owners, who had rabbits, swore
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That he had this demerit—
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Give him an inch of warren, he
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Would take a yard of ferret.
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At partridges he was not nice;
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And many, large and small,
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Without Hall's powder, without lead,
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Were sent to Leaden Hall.
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He did not fear to take a deer
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From forest, park, or lawn;
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And without courting lord or duke,
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Used frequently to <i>fawn</i>.
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Folks who had hares discovered snares—
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His course they could not stop:
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No barber he, and yet he made
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Their hares a perfect crop.
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To pheasant he was such a foe,
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He tried the keepers' nerves;
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They swore he never seem'd to have
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<i>Jam</i> satis of <i>preserves</i>.
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The Shooter went to beat, and found
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No sporting worth a pin,
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Unless he tried the <i>covers</i> made
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Of silver, plate, or tin.
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In Kent the game was little worth,
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In Surrey not a button;
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The Speaker said he often tried
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The <i>Manors</i> about <i>Button</i>.
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No county from his tricks was safe;
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In each he tried his lucks,
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And when the keepers were in <i>Beds</i>,
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He often was at <i>Bucks</i>.
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And when he went to <i>Bucks</i>, alas!
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They always came to <i>Herts</i>;
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And even <i>Oxon</i> used to wish
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That he had his deserts.
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But going to his usual <i>Hants</i>,
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Old <i>Cheshire</i> laid his plots:
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He got entrapp'd by legal <i>Berks</i>,
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And lost his life in <i>Notts</i>.
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