Alexander Hunter

By Mart Taylor

A. Hunter is my hero’s name,
And occupation too:
To hunt the country o’er for game
Is all he aims to do;
And yet A. Hunter comes to town
Quite often, through the year,
Upon no earthly business save
To meat the people here.
The epicures about the place
On rare-bits love to fare;
And with young rabbits Hunter can
Just suit them to a hare.
His venison, he says, is cheap—
It may be—but I fear
However much it tastes like sheep
We must admit ’tis deer.
When Hunter takes a deadly aim,
He’s never known to fail:
Though woodcocks are afraid of him,
He cannot make them “quail.”
When Hunter has his powder dry,
And rifle all in trim,
To charge upon a flock of geese,
They say is “ducks for him.”
Those well acquainted with the man
Upon their word declare
There’s mischief bruin when he gets
His eyes upon a bear;
And, strange although the fact may seem,
I’ve often heard it said
A. Hunter just from meat alone
Can make his daily bread.
At hunting, Hunter has success—
But wherein does it lie?
Well, I have heard some people guess
That it is “in his eye;”
Some lay it to his use of arms—
And others, as I’m born,
Urge that he “keeps his powder dry”—
While some say “in a horn.”
Now I have but a word to say—
Which is, that I have found
That all the game which Hunter kills
Receives a mortal wound.
Long may he live—and early win
A fortune and a fame;
And when his game of life is o’er,
May death find Hunter game.

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