I’ve no more use for him; behind the plough
To trapse is ’gainst his stomach; as to music,
For that he’s over-restive; then the trumpet,
I tried some blowing-lessons—wasted all!
Fists, ay and fine ones too, are his equipment,
Fear he knows none, not e’en the fear of me.
And since the day you scoured the mountains clean
There’s never brigand gives himself to glimpse.
So he’s with us a lack-use, and perchance
Will be the first to get a kink in his ways