Bill Blossom was a nice young man, And drove the Bury coach; But bad companions were his bane, And egg'd him on to poach.
They taught him how to net the birds, And how to noose the hare; And with a wiry terrier, He often set a snare.
Each “shiny night” the moon was bright, To park, preserve, and wood He went, and kept the game alive, By killing all he could.
Land-owners, who had rabbits, swore That he had this demerit — Give him an inch of warren, he Would take a yard of ferret.
At partridges he was not nice; And many, large and small, Without Hall's powder, without lead, Were sent to Leaden Hall.
He did not fear to take a deer From forest, park, or lawn; And without courting lord or duke, Used frequently to fawn.
Folks who had hares discovered snares — His course they could not stop: No barber he, and yet he made Their hares a perfect crop.
To pheasant he was such a foe, He tried the keepers’ nerves; They swore he never seem'd to have Jam satis of preserves.
The Shooter went to beat, and found No sporting worth a pin, Unless he tried the covers made Of silver, plate, or tin.
In Kent the game was little worth, In Surrey not a button; The Speaker said he often tried The Manors about Button.
No county from his tricks was safe; In each he tried his lucks, And when the keepers were in Beds, He often was at Bucks.
And when he went to Bucks, alas! They always came to Herts; And even Oxon used to wish That he had his deserts.
But going to his usual Hants, Old Cheshire laid his plots: He got entrapp'd by legal Berks, And lost his life in Notts.
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