'the Twelfth' (Songs in Season)

Harry Graham

1907

If you're waking, call me early,
Call me early, Rob MacDougall,
When the skies are pale and pearly
And the air is keen and chill;
And we'll break our fast together,
In a fashion somewhat frugal,
And be off across the heather
To 'the hill.'

Soon will coveys come a-flitting,
Over purple slopes and ridges,
To the butts where we are sitting
With our loaders close behind.
Though the mist obscure our vision,
And our necks are stung by midges,
And we shoot without precision,
Never mind!

If the birds fly fast and freely
O'er the lair where we are lying
With the cartridges that Eley
So obligingly supplies,
When the drive is duly ended
We can count the dead and dying
We have rent (or is it 'rended'? )
From the skies!

As we stimulate the labours
Of retrievers bent on finding
Stricken birds our next-door neighbours
Will indubitably claim,
We declare to one another
(Though we scarcely need reminding)
That a grouse beats any other
Kind of game,
And that, given sport and weather,
There is nothing like the thrill
Of a day among the heather
On the hill!

End of title

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