When Father Goes To Shoot

                                                 

When father takes the old gun down

     From off the kitchen wall,

Where usually she hangs at ease

     From spring to middle fall,

He gets a lot of rags around,

     And oil cans, two or three,

And swabs the barrel up and down,

     As happy as can be.

He oils the lock and trigger, too,

     And polishes the stock,

Until the whole thing shines as bright

     As mother’s parlor clock.

He mends and fills his shot bags up,

     And fills his powder horn,

And talks about his hunting trip

     All day from early morn.

He has ma order flour in

     To make a squirrel pie;

And promises the neighbors round

     Of game a great supply.

And by and by he saunters forth,

     Into the forest deep,

And bids me follow in the rear,

     A goodly distance keep.

Pa tramps and tramps o’er weary miles,

     And maybe spies a crow;

He shoots at everything he sees

     But nothing is laid low.

He homeward turns at close of day

     Dejected sore and lame;

His jaw is set, his spirit broke,

     He’s far from feeling game.

The gun is hanging on the wall,

     And ma and I are mute;

‘Twill be another year, or more,

     E’er father goes to shoot.

Nov. 27, ‘05