The Woodcock Hunter  

A hunter stands at the Pearly Gates
      A puppy by his side
And a broken compass dangles
      Where his old bandana’s tied.
His cuff and sleeves were badly frayed,
      They were lined with darn and patch.
And some blood ran down a wrinkled ear
      From a recent briar scratch.

I’ve crawled through brush, and alder swamp
      Through heat, and mud and frost,
But I’ve never exceed the legal bag,
      And never a cripple lost.”
Then the hunter presented his setter’s name:
      “OLD PETE,” on a silver bell,
And from an inner pocket, then,
      A small, brown feather fell.

“Well, I don’t know,” St. Peter said,
      “You surely look a fright.”
“When most folks climb these Gold Stairs
      they make a neater sight.”
“What do you hunt,” the Saint then asked.
      “that brought you such travails?”
“You must have climbed a hundred hills,
      and walked a thousand trails.”

The hunter took off his blaze orange cap,
      And he made his final plea----
“I’ve been a long-time member, Sir
      of the Ruffed Grouse Society!”
By now the Saint was moved to tears,
      And he shook his snow white head,
“You looked so bad, I sadly fear,
      I might have thought you dead.”

“Woodcock, Sir!” the hunter said,
      “and now and then a grouse.”
“But I’ve always kept my barrel clean,
      and my dog inside the house.”
“I’ve been out on frosty mornings, Sir.
      With my fingers cold and numb,”
“Till I couldn’t push the safety off,
      with my stiff and frozen thumb.”

“How long you hunted the alder swamps?”
      He asked through brimming tears.
“Each season long,” the hunter said,
      “for over fifty years.”
“Great Havens, man!” the Saint exclaimed
      “That’s surely quite a spell,
“Come on inside, and bring you pup---
      You’ve been long enough in Hell!!!”

provided by AARGS Member Herb Loveless