Well, sir, th' ould Squire were out wi' his gun wan day, an' 'way to track thicky hare, roun' an' roun', for up ten mile; an' the more lead he fired, the better plaised her seemed.

'Darn et!' says the old Squire at las'.
''Tes witchcraf; I'll try a silver bullet.' So he pulls out a crown-piece an' hammers 'un into a slug to fit hes gun.

He'd no sooner loaded than out pops the hare agen, not twenty yards off, an' right 'cross the path.

Th' ould man blazed away, an' this time hit her sure 'nuff: hows'ever, her warn't too badly wounded to nip roun' the knap o' the hill an' out o' sight.

'I'll ha' 'ee!' cries the Squire; an' wi' that pulls hot foot roun' the hill.