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This was for Edward the last straw,
And so he took a gun;
For Horace he would brave the law,
Whate'er betide. So when he saw
A hare start up and run,
He took fair aim with steady wrist
And fired— but luckily he missed.
A policeman heard the loud report
And hurried to the scene.
He hailed the poachers off to court,
And there their shrift was very short
—The judge's wit was keen:
He sentenced them to prison-shop
And hoped that long in there they'd stop.
Now prison-shop, of course, is where
All dolls, when made, must go
Until some maiden, kind and fair,
Buys them and saves them from despair.
And this is why, you know,
They have such eager, anxious eyes,
As each to catch your notice tries.