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Poem by Isabel Pagan
The Putting Begins
Tune -- Bright Phoebus. Now the putting begins, if the weather holds clear, I hope C -- ng -- n will shortly come here, With dogs and attendants the muirfowl to try, I wish they catch many that they be not shy. Haste away, haste away, haste away, It is far more for pleasure than gain; May friendship and bravery, And freedom from slavery, Their Honours maintain. The brave Sir J -- n M -- ll, last year with him came, A man of great honour, that well loves the game; They took up their lodging here at Hunter’s hall, Their generous conduct is well known to all. Haste away, &c. Likewise Captain M -- ll was with them last year, But I fear he’ll be absent, there is now such a steer With both King and Country, at present, you know, Which makes many a brave Captain abroad for to go. Haste away, &c. The brave Sir J -- n M -- ll, a knight of great fame, Could get plenty of game on his estates at hame; But yet he delights to Muirkirk for to come, Himself to amuse with his dog and his gun. Haste away, &c. C -- ng -- n has lands where the covey more strong, On Duckken and Karnsmuir as you walk along; Much more he possesses on his large estate, Tho’ he is humble and kind, yet his honour is great. Haste away, &c. But to his lands in Muirkirk he delights for to come, To hunt the young muirfowl, and enjoy the fun; I know little of hunting, but this I am told, The game is but dull when the feathers are old. Haste away, &c. But I wish they may a’ get such birds as they want, For in Muirkirk I doubt they be but very scant, For there’s so many poachers, that how can they shun, But to spoil the whole game, and hurt gentlemen’s fun. Haste away, &c. But I hope Captain M -- ll he will come good speed, For he’s a fierce shooter, and shoots without dread, And loves aye to range where he thinks the game best; I’m sorry he catch’d some that was in the nest. Haste away, &c. I wish that my judgment could clearly express These gentlemen’s bravery, I can do no less; They’re humorous and humble in every degree, And every man’s honour is humility. Haste away, &c. My name is Pagan, I liv’d at Muir-mill, My learning’s so weak, how can I speak with skill? But yet I take pleasure these verses to sing, Success to the hunting, and God save the King. Haste away, &c.
Isabel Pagan's other poems:
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