Classic Poem

The lover, in Edwardian times,
Whose heart had taken sev'ral tosses
Would rush to Equatorial climes
To shoot rhinoceroses;
His soul found solace in the cry
Of stricken hippopotami.

The swain whose lady proved unkind
Would fly from her capricious humours,
And creature comfort seek to find
In extirpating pumas;
His sense of misery he'd lose
When he had killed some kangaroos.

Alas! Our English youth to-day
Who never falls a slave to passion —
And, if he did, would not allay
His grief in such a fashion —
Unlike his am'rous forbears, lacks
The stimulus to slaughter yaks.

My Uncle Claud, in early life,
Adored Aunt Mabel blindly, madly.
Though, later, she became his wife,
She used him then so badly
That there was nothing he could do
But go and hunt for caribou.

Although she threatened to relent,
He brushed aside her lame excuses
And off to Canada he went,
In search of moose (or mooses),
To scour each prairie and plateau
For bison and for buffalo.

Now, in his house in Eaton Square,
Where he resides with dear Aunt Mabel,
The sporting trophies ev'rywhere,
On floor and wall and table,
Recall the days of long ago
When she persistently said: " No! "

A splendid stuffed orang-outang
Within the dining-room is standing,
While herds of guilty chamois hang
Their heads on ev'ry landing,
And floors are strewn with crocodiles
That greet your feet with frozen smiles.

But though his skill with rod and gun
Congests my uncle's house with trophies,
He has, alas! an only son
Who such a perfect oaf is,
He takes no interest in sport,
Except the purely English sort.

A first-class shot, he loves to stride
Through turnips with his old retriever;
Most gallantly to hounds he'll ride
When hunting with the Belvoir;
His language, too, is of a kind
That leaves the Master's far behind!

And yet he seems much more inclined
Idly with dog and gun to potter
Than to pursue the carted hind
Or spear the drowning otter;
He somehow doesn't care a scrap
For shooting pigeons from a trap.

When hounds have run a fox to earth,
And some one digs it out and brains it,
He feels no tendency to mirth,
Or, if he does, restrains it;
And when he sees a rabbit coursed
His laughter is distinctly forced.

Though he was crossed in love, last fall,
And jilted by Lord Oxhed's daughter,
He did not hear the Tropics call,
Or feel the lust of slaughter;
He did not hasten East to shoot
A wombat or a bandicoot.

Compelled to sacrifice all hope
Of winning back his faithless charmer,
He never stalked an antelope,
A mountain-goat or llama;
Unlike his father, Uncle Claud,
He never even went abroad!