For, to give him short and long,
Harry had a head so strong,
In the right or in the wrong,
It was hard to bridle.

On his gunning madly bent,
Often in his clothes a rent
Told the reckless way he went,
Over hedge and brambles.
Homeward then would Harry slouch,
With his gun and empty pouch,
Looking like a scaramouch
Coming from his rambles.

Sometimes when he scaled a wall,
Headlong there to pitch and fall,
Ratling stones, and gun and all.
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,