Classic Poem

It can't be minced, I 'm quite convinced,
All girls are full of flam,
Their feelings fine and feminine
Are nothing else but sham.
On all their tricks I need not fix,
I 'll only mention one,
How many a Miss will tell you this,
“I cannot bear a gun!”

There 's cousin Bell can't 'bide the smell
Of powder—horrid stuff!
A single pop will make her drop,
She shudders at a puff.
My Manton near, with aspen fear
Will make her scream and run:
“It's always so, you brute, you know
I cannot bear a gun!”

About my flask I must not ask,
I must not wear a belt,
I must not take a punch to make
My pellets, card or felt;
And if I just allude to dust,
Or speak of number one,
“I beg you 'll not—don't talk of shot,
I cannot bear a gun!”

Percussion cap I dare not snap,
I may not mention Hall,
Or raise my voice for Mr. Joyce,
His wadding to recall;
At Hawker's book I must not look,
All shooting I must shun,
Or else—“It's hard, you 've no regard,
I cannot bear a gun!”

The very dress I wear, no less
Must suit her timid mind,
A blue or black must clothe my back,
With swallow-tails behind;
By fustian, jean, or velveteen,
Her nerves are overdone:
“O do not, John, put gaiters on,
I cannot bear a gun!”

Ev'n little James she snubs, and blames
His Lilliputian train,
Two inches each from mouth to breech,
And charged with half a grain—
His crackers stopped, his squibbing dropped,
He has no fiery fun,
And all thro' her “How dare you, Sir?
I cannot bear a gun!”

Yet Major Flint,—the Devil 's in 't!
May talk from morn to night,
Of springing mines, and twelves and nines,
And volleys left and right,
Of voltigeurs and tirailleurs,
And bullets by the ton:
She never dies of fright, or cries
“I cannot bear a gun!”

It stirs my bile to see her smile
At all his bang and whiz,
But if I talk of morning walk,
And shots as good as his,
I must not name the fallen game:
As soon as I've begun,
She 's in her pout, and crying out,
“I cannot bear a gun!”

Yet, underneath the rose, her teeth
Are false, to match her tongue:
Grouse, partridge, hares, she never spares,
Or pheasants, old or young—
On widgeon, teal, she makes a meal,
And yet objects to none:
“What have I got, it 's full of shot!
I cannot bear a gun!”

At pigeon-pie she is not shy,
Her taste it never shocks,
Though they should be from Battersea,
So famous for blue rocks;
Yet when I bring the very thing
My marksmanship has won,
She cries “Lock up that horrid cup,
I cannot bear a gun!”

Like fool and dunce I got her once
A box at Drury Lane,
And by her side I felt a pride
I ne'er shall feel again:
To read the bill it made her ill,
And this excuse she spun,
“Der Freyschütz, O, seven shots! you know,
I cannot bear a gun!”

Yet at a hint from Major Flint,
Her very hands she rubs,
And quickly drest in all her best,
Is off to Wormwood Scrubbs.
The whole review she sits it through,
With noise enough to stun,
And never winks, or even thinks,
“I cannot bear a gun!”

She thus may blind the Major's mind
In mock-heroic strife,
But let a bout at war break out,
And where 's the soldier's wife,
To take his kit and march a bit
Beneath a broiling sun?
Or will she cry, “My dear, good-by,
I cannot bear a gun!”

If thus she dotes on army coats,
And regimental cuffs,
The yeomanry might surely be
Secure from her rebuffs;
But when I don my trappings on,
To follow Captain Dunn,
My carbine's gleam provokes a scream
“I cannot bear a gun!”

It can't be minced, I 'm quite convinced,
All girls are full of flam,
Their feelings fine and feminine
Are nothing else but sham;
On all their tricks I need not fix,
I 'll only mention one,
How many a Miss will tell you this,
“I cannot bear a gun!”