But ’twas a sight that got me quite, and I’ll be old indeed
When I forget the comic look of that old Deacon Reed.
I’ve got a rousing pistol, mother, the loudest in the block;
And I have filed the little catch that holds the thing at cock,
And hardly do I get the charge of powder in the bore,
When off it goes just with a shake, and thunder! what a roar!
So sleep on if you can, dear mother, and have no thought of me,
For I’ll be up and charging round before there’s light to see;
And when you hear a bang that makes the ring dance in your ear,
Then you can bet your scissors, mother, that I am somewhere near.