First of September; or, Cockney's Disaster.

THE first of September, at five in the morn,
The weather quite cloudy, the prospect forlorn,
I rose from my bed, and without the least strife,
Resign'd to the arms of another—my wife;
Determin'd to Somnus her snorings to yield,
And join with brown Bess in the sports of the field.
My Volunteer musket I'd clean'd over night,
And Sol in his glory look'd scarcely so bright;
My pockets with powder and shot I did cram,
And sportsmanlike too, added chicken and ham.
Straight I hied to the closet, and why should I not,
Since by way of a cooler, I like something hot?
Nay I ne'er yet could manage my longings to bilk,
So in wedlock's rum bands I soon join'd rum and milk.
Then my dogs round me whistled, I think these were all,
Viz. Nimble and Bounce, little Gypsey and Ball;
With such four famous dogs, but for what I can't tell,
I expected no less than to bear off the bell;
I expected each jolly good sportsman to beat,
And to furnish my friends with a delicate treat.
But poor borrow'd Bounce was as blind as a bat,
And knew not a hare from a tortoiseshell cat;
And Gypsey, the terrier, her mistress's boast,
Stood staunch as a pointer, at nothing but toast.
There was Nimble, the greyhound, not given to roam,
Dislik'd staying out, so then nimbly ran home.
As Ball, I was certain, would make the birds rise,
I kept my piece pointed direct to the skies;
Soon up rose a bird, though I cannot tell what,
For I shut both my eyes to make sure of the shot;
But my musket mis'd fire, a shocking disaster,
As the barking of Ball made the bird fly the faster.
I reprim'd my piece, and I added a charge,
Determin'd the havoc next time should be large;
Again I took aim, oh, unfortunate man !
Again I had nought but a flash in the pan.
A third time I prim'd, and I loaded a third,
When close in a hedge a loud rustling I heard;

I listen'd, and listen'd, then heard a soft strain,
Methought 'twas a blackbird, 'twould warble again;
The dogs they all snuff'd—sure there's something behind,
Some scent that attracts, and now plays on the wind;
Straight I levell'd my piece, for a random-like shot,
Resolv'd what that might be, it should go to pot.
The trigger I pull'd, and of course shut my eyes;
But when open again, how great my surprise !
'Tis true, 'twas a black-bird, according to Kemble—
'Twas the Bird of a Jew, then all of a tremble,
'Twas Moses, the pedlar, who, in greatest distress,
Had crept into the hedge; for what I can't guess.
Now a little collected, the pedlar up sprung,
And assail'd my two ears with his voluble tongue.
I tender'd him sixpence, which he took in a huff,
As sixpence a singe was not money enough;
He thought for his fright and his beard I'd be willing,
To give him another, so make it a shilling.
But suppose, Master Moses, no more's to be had,
I've but one tester left, and that is rank bad ;
"Ish it bad ?" he replied, with his neck on the crane,
"Eesh, tish bad, my good Sir, but 'twill colour again."
Having settled with Moses, and wip'd off the score,
Such rare luck with three charges, I thought I'd try four;
'Twas a maxim, I thought, I might safely advance,
The more powder and shot, the more likely the chance.
Then with four charges quick I reloaded my gun,
Prim'd and ramm'd it down tight, which I scarce could get
done

Before up got a covey, so delightful to view,
That I reckoned at least on one brace or two;
For I took such an aim—still an unlucky elf—
That I kill'd my three dogs, and I wounded myself.
Now I think, my good Sirs, in two hours, or less,
I've seen plenty of service with pretty brown Bess.
Both my wife and my neighbours weep sore for my hounds,
And as sorely I weep through the smart of my wounds.