Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DELIGHTS OF POSSUM HUNTING, by F. O'B.


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DELIGHTS OF POSSUM HUNTING, by                    
First Line: A lovely night, and the mon brightly shining
Last Line: "it was an old ants' nest, built round a dead stick!"
Subject(s): Boys; Fools; Hunting; Opossums; Idiots; Hunters; Possums


A LOVELY night, and the moon brightly shining,
Off we go possuming—guns, dogs, and boys,
Into the bush, where thick creepers are twining,
Waking the echoes around with our noise.

On through the trees we go, watchful and ready,
Guns on our shoulders, and dogs scouring round,
Thick grows the bush—"Hush! hush! boys, be steady,
For we surely are now on good possuming ground."

Bow, wow! goes Rory; off the dogs hurry,
Barking and yelling they scamper away;
After we follow—helter-skelter and scurry,
Breathless and eager to join in the fray.

Splashing through puddles, and through bushes breaking,
Headlong we rush with much tearing of clothes;
Ned loses his hat, but no heed is he taking,
And smack 'gainst a gum-tree goes poor Harry's nose.

Onward! still onward! the dogs bay before us—
"Forward! and de'il take the hindmost!" we cry;
Hark! there goes Willy, head first in the water,
Can't stay a minute to shake himself dry.

Then there's the pack, all barking and yelling—
Around a big gum-tree the dogs all are met—
Eager we look to find it no "selling";
But where is the possum? we can't see him yet.

Ah, is he there, to a bough closely clinging?
Up goes a shower of loose stones and sticks.
"Pooh! you can't hit him; he's too high for flinging;
Take up your guns, boys, and fire like bricks."

Tom takes the first shot to show us his powers—
"Missed him! Now, Harry, mind you bring him down.
Missed, too, you booby! we can't stay here hours;
Give me the gun, and I'll soon crack his crown."

"Missed! Botheration! How, Ned, you are laughing,
Pray try your luck, boy. Ha! miss 'tis again;
You're quite sure you hit him, and don't mind our chaffing;
Then, Will, take the gun—put him out of his pain."

"No!" We all fire at once, like a small peal of thunder,
Down come sticks and bark; sure he must descend.
No, by the powers! We stand speechless with wonder;
"Give up the shooting—let's climb to our friend."

"Tom, you're a climber; think you, you can do it?"
" 'Tis a difficult tree." "Yes, we knew that right well,
But pray, don't give up, boys, or else—bad luck to it—
The wretch will laugh at us—a regular sell."

"Give a leg up?" "Here, step on my shoulder;
Reach to that knob, Tom, and raise yourself up."
Hurrah!—Confound it, that knob was no holder;
And down he came tumbling, near killing Will's pup.

"You'll try it again, Tom?" "No, I've sorely repented
That ever I tried it; I knew 'twas no use.
I wish possum hunting had ne'er been invented;
I'll try it no more—let it go to the deuce."

Next Harry essays it, but vain is his trying,
He but skins his fingers, his knees, and his nose;
Then down he comes flop, and sits grumbling and sighing,
Counting the holes he has torn in his clothes.

"Well, light a big fire, and at any rate plainly
We'll see the old varmint and shoot at him straight;
Don't let us waste precious moments so vainly—
Let's smoke him a bit, boys, and singe his grey pate."

"Who's got a match, here? Come, don't be delaying,
There's no time to waste, for it's nearly one now.
Ned, Tom, or Harry? Where's Willy now straying?
A smoker like he carries matches I trow."

Yes, Will has some matches, and hails the words gladly,
Pulls out a wet mass—oh, dear, he forgot;
The matches are spoiled, Willy shakes his head sadly;
When he fell in the water he ruined the lot.

No matches were there, so he next tried the firing
Of powder and paper in piles of dead leaves;
But the only result was of patience the tiring,
The fuel was damp, and no blaze he achieves.

Again and again, we shoot him—'twas shocking—
But still he clings fast just beneath a big bough,
With his ugly great tail sticking out as if mocking;
We felt he was chuckling in scorn at us now.

At last 'twas so late that we thought of returning—
All torn, bruised and bleeding, with divers mishaps;
We sneaked into bed, all sympathy spurning—
At breakfast next morning what chop-fallen chaps.

Hal's nose was just like a huge beetroot, Will groaning
About a sore throat, not a morsel could eat;
Ned's face was all scratches, and Tom kept on moaning,
He'd got a big thorn in one of his feet.

Ned and Harry went out after breakfast in trying
To find out the scene of our last night's defeat,
Declaring to see that old cuss dead or dying,
Stretched out on the ground, would be such a treat.

At dinner when seated, home came Ned and Harry,
They'd wandered for hours before finding the tree;
And when at last found they'd a long time to tarry,
To laugh at the sight that they there came to see.

We cried, "Where's the possum?" "We guess he is hanging
Stone-dead by his tail" (we've heard of that trick).
"It seems you've not got him then?" Ned answered, slowly,
"It was an old ants' nest, built round a dead stick!"





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