From the regions of the north
Where the waters now are frozen,
Towards the south they issue forth
A flock of wild geese of four dozen.
But when they flew o’er the river Thames
They swooped down to take a dive,
But sport with shot gun at them aims
And one at least did not survive.
And he now says it tasted fine,
And that it was both fat and big,
A hungry man did on it dine,
Satisfied with just one leg.
He was sorry fowl to kill,
But they awoke him from his slumber,
The air with cackle they did fill,
And thus they lost one of their number.