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Three sportsmen came to Cromwell town
three sportsmen and a dog
they came to shoot some ruddy quail
or get lost in the fog
I told them well before they left
and mark you, I'm no liar
to stop at home at Camperdown
and stoke the bloody fire
But my advice was a waste of time
my talk to no avail
they'd show the natives up that way
just how to shoot those quail.
They had haversacks and shooting bags
they had ammo by the case
no native from up Cromwell way
would even be in the race
They had enough artillery
to start another war
sure such a fine array of guns
I'd never seen before.
The day broke cold and foggy
but they said it's all the same
a little bit of ruddy fog
it's just all in the game.
They reached their chosen shooting ground
but let's not waste our words
lets scramble down this gully
and bash up some blinkin birds.
Our guide had mentioned earlier
he said "look here you chaps,
when these little whirring baskets flush
get shootin before he craps".
The birds flew right, birds flew left
they crapped in sheer disdain
but not a ruddy shot we fired
would cause them any pain.
This barrel's far too ruddy short
the ammo's as poor as p..s
last time I used my other gun
and never had a miss.
They had shot away all their ammo
and their guns were smoking hot
they'd got a score of birds or so
and the guide had shot the lot
He handed them a dozen birds
and sent them on their way
he said "until you learn to shoot
at home you'd better stay".
"This shooting game is far too tough
for greenhorns such as you
you're the worst of all the mugs I've met
and hell I've met a few"
"Try and hit them with a golf club
try a fishing rod instead
give that other mug a hammer
and let him hit them on the head".
So they sneaked back home to Kelso
with their tails between their legs
they had hoped to drain the victory cup
but all they got was dregs.
Now the golfer sticks to golfing
and the angler wields his cane
but friend Camperdown the melon
swears he'd have it on again.
J.C.M.
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P.S. Alex Pearson the then prop of the middle hotel in Cromwell was the guide, and one of the best shots in Central.
The shooting took place on a station known locally as "Nine Mile" off Wanaka Road.
One of the guns in the "array" was Jim Bowman's Remington 7 shot trombone repeating riot gun cylinder bore.
Alan H. Boyd the golfer and his dog, James C. McIntoch the angler and poet; Wm A. Thomson the mug with the hammer.
On their way home the quiet was broken when Mac was asked "What are you thinking of, are you making some poetry?" "Could be" was the brief reply.
We got home at 8.30 pm on Sunday. At 7.30 pm at shooting on the Monday Mac produced what I think was a great record of the trip and among his better poems.
Bill Thomson
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