Indian Corn

My neighbour, Gordon asked me if I would be interested in “beating” for a local shoot. Although initially a bit squeamish about the idea of “killing for sport”, I had read a little about game-keeping - and poaching. I tend to favour the idea of country pursuits for the countryside and town pursuits for the “townies”. So, I started “brushing”, as the locals call it, in October 2005 and thoroughly enjoyed the company and the time in the open air. The issue of “killing for sport” was clarified when I found that most, if not all, of the product finished up in the cooking pot. Well-meaning friends had told me stories of piles of dead birds rotting away. Whilst I cannot say that this does not happen in some areas, that is not what I have found as I “brush” my way through the landscape with my flag made from a piece of plastic feed-sack on a stick.

Chorus

Crack of the gun and a job well done

Game for the pot and a pound for my pocket

Come rain or sun, wind and the weather

Beaters brushing through the maize

What I called Indian Corn

Verse 1

Unlike days of old we are radio controlled

Speed and safety to the fore

Start the drive and on we go

Till we hear the whistle blow

Crack of the gun…

Verse 2

I’m no country boy as the others know

And they help me all the time

“Not so fast, don’t go so slow

Keep in the middle, stay in line!”

Crack of the gun…

Verse 3

I found superstition can play its part

Even in our world today

“Hey, for luck’s sake, stop flagging on the right”

I’m sure I heard someone say

Crack of the gun…

Verse 4

Each and every spot where a bird falls down

Is marked with an eagle eye

Off goes the dog, nose to the ground

With the master there guide

Crack of the gun…