That you’re not fond of broken sconces;
Don’t say to me, you’ve no delight in
The dreadful, awful, trade of fighting.
“For you might chase them many a mile, and
E’en bid them, scampering, quit our island,
And still your carcases be strangers
To troublous toils, and desperate dangers.
“Appear in field, the battle’s won;
Your phizzes show—L—d how they’ll run!
But you’re like sheep, a sort of cattle,