Classic Poem

To the Wars I must alass
Though I do not like the Game,
For I hold him to be an Ass,
That will lose his Life for Fame:
For these Guns are such pestilent things,
To pat a Pellet in ones Brow;
Four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay,
Ch'll kill a Man he knows not how.

When the Bow, Bill, Zword and Dagger,
Were us'd all in vighting;
Ch've heard my Father swear and swagger,
That it was but a Flea-biting:
But these Guns, &c.

Ise would vight with the best of our Parish,
And play at Whisters with Mary ;
Cou'd thump the Vootball, yerk the Morrie,
And box at Visticuffs with any:
But these Guns, &c.

Varewel Dick, Tom, Ralph and Hugh ,
My Maypoles make all heretofore;
Varewel Doll, Kate, Zis and Zue ,
For I shall never zee you more:
For these Guns are such pestilent things.
To pat a Pellet in ones Brow;
Four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay,
Ch'll kill a Man he knows not how.