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. [Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT--MRS. TRIMMER.] You kick little Tomkins about, Because he is slighter and slimmer; Are the weak to be thump’d by the stout? But I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer. Then you have a sly pilfering trick, Your school-fellows call you the nimmer,-- I will cut to the bone if you kick! For I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer. To-day you made game at my back: You think that my eyes are grown dimmer, But I watch’d you, I’ve got a sly knack! And I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer. Don’t think that my temper is hot, It’s never beyond a slow simmer; I’ll teach you to call me Dame Trot, But I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer. Miss Edgeworth, or Mrs. Chapone, Might melt to behold your tears glimmer; Mrs. Barbauld would let you alone, But I’ll have you to know I’m a Trimmer. [Illustration: LITTLE JACK AND HIS TRIMMER.] SOME ACCOUNT OF WILLIAM WHISTON. “That boy is the brother of Pam----.”--JOSEPH ANDREWS. “WILLIAM certainly _is_ fond of whist!”