Classic Poem

By my faith, but I think ye're all makers of bulls,
With your brains in your breeches, your — in your skulls,
Get home with your muskets, and put up your swords,
And look in your books for the meaning of words
You see now, my honies, how much you're mistaken
For Concord by discord can never be beaten

How brave ye went out with your muskets all bright,
And thought to be-frighten the folks with the sight;
But when you got there how they powder'd your pums,
And all the way home how they pepper'd your — ,
And it is not, honies, a comical crack,
To be proud in the face, and be shot in the back.

How come ye to think, now, they did not know how
To be after their firelocks as smartly as you?
Why, you see now, my honies, 'tis nothing at all,
But to pull the trigger, and pop goes the ball.

And what have you got now with all your designing,
But a town without victuals to sit down and dine in;
And to look on the ground like a parcel of noodles,
And sing, how Yankees have beaten the Doodles
I'm sure if you're wise you'll make peace for a dinner,
For fighting and fasting will soon make ye thinner.