A Fowler took his gun and went
Into the woods on shooting bent;
And on an oak limb up above
Among the leaves he spied a Dove.
He clapped his gun against his shoulder,
And set his foot upon a bowlder;
But as his finger was about
To pull the trigger and let out
The lethal shot, an Adder which
He trod upon began to twitch.
It darted back and forth its head
And through his calf its poison shed.
In vain the Fowler dropped his gun;
And good Saint Patrick called upon;
In vain he took a sudden swig
From out a bottle brown and big.
The moon arose, the winds were sighing, —
The Fowler lay a-mortifying.

MORAL

O roam the woodland and the wild,
But do not shoot the birds, my Child;
For Mr. Audubon and others
Have told us that they be our brothers.
(And yet I wonder if the Snake
Was stinging for the Ring-Dove's sake.)