This abridged 1891 poem from Britain’s Punch, a satirical magazine, takes a swipe at oologists (egg collectors).
The “Brum” and the Oologist
Were walking hand in hand;
They grinned to see so many birds
On cliff, and rock, and sand.
“If we could only get their eggs,”
Said they, “It would be grand.”
“Oh, Sea-birds,” said the Midland man,
“Let’s take a pleasant walk!
Perhaps among you we may fine
The Great—or lesser—Auk;
And you might possibly enjoy
A scientific talk.”
The skuas and the cormorants,
And all the puffin clan,
The stormy petrels, gulls, and terns,
They hopped, and skipped, and ran
With very injudicious speed
To join that oily man.
“The time has come,” remarked the Brum,
“For ‘talking without tears’
Of birds unhappily extinct,
Yet known in former years;
And how much cash an egg will fetch
In Naturalistic spheres.”
“But not our eggs!” replied the birds,
Feeling a little hot.
“You surely would not rob our nests
After this pleasant trot?”
The Midland man said nothing but, —
“I guess he’s cleared the lot!”
“Well!” said that bland Oologist,
“We’ve had a lot of fun.
Next year, perhaps, these Shetland birds
We’ll visit—with a gun;
When—as we’ve taken all their eggs —
There’ll probably be none!”