Down together tumbled.
Tray would bark to tell the news
Of his master with a bruise,
Hatless, and with grated shoes,
Lying flat and humbled!
Where he saw the bushes stirred,
Harry, sure of hare or bird,
Drew,--and at a flash was heard
Noise like little thunder.
When he ran his game to find,
Disappointment 'mazed his mind;--
Finding he'd but shot the wind,
Dumb he stood with wonder!
Over muddy pool or bog,
Not so nimble as his dog,
When he walked the plank or log,
There his balance losing,
Splash! he went--a rueful plight!
If his face before was white,
'Twas like morning turned to night,
Much against his choosing.
Now, like many a hasty one,
Whether quadruped or gun,
Or a mother's wayward son
Given to disaster,
Harry's gun was rather quick;
And it had a naughty trick,--
It would snap itself, and kick
Fiercely at its master.
So, this snappish habit grew
With a power for him to rue;
Just as all bad habits do
Grow, as age increases.
When, one day, with noise and smoke,
Over-charged, the barrel broke,
Harry's hand the mischief spoke--
It was blown to pieces!
Tray came crouching round, and growled,--
Saw the gore, and whined, and howled,
While his owner groaned and scowled,
And the blood was running.
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