Fife try’d with ball, iron and stones,
Then curs’d his cantraips skin and bones;
He was some de’il as all did miss him,
Said he, I’ll find a way to bless him,
Having drunk some beer, bottles were by,
With glass, methinks, this devil I’ll try:
When broken small, he cram’d them in,
“I trust, with this, to pierce thy skin,”
Then play’d it off with all his art,
Which minch’d him quite above the heart,