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, oh, 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-bye, I cannot bear a gun?” If thus she doats 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!” TRIMMER’S EXERCISE, FOR THE USE OF CHILDREN. Here, come, Master Timothy Todd, Before we have done you’ll look grimmer, You’ve been spelling some time for the rod, And your jacket shall know I’m a Trimmer. You don’t know your A from your B, So backward you are in your Primer; Don’t kneel--you shall go on _my_ knee, For I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer. This morning you hinder’d the cook, By melting your dumps in the skimmer; Instead of attending your book,-- But I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer. To-day, too, you went to the pond, And bathed, though you are not a swimmer: And with parents so doting and fond-- But I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer. After dinner you went to the wine, And help’d yourself--yes, to a brimmer; You couldn’t walk straight in a line, But I’ll make you to know I’m a Trimmer.