A MINOR CANNON.
“JAMES’S POWDER.”
Or raise my voice for Mr. Joyce,
His wadding to recall;
At Hawker’s book I must not look,
All shooting I must shun,
Or else—“It’s hard, you’ve no regard,
I cannot bear a gun!”
The very dress I wear no less
Must suit her timid mind,
A blue or black must clothe my back,
With swallow-tails behind;
By fustian, jean, or velveteen,
Her nerves are overdone:
“Oh do not, John, put gaiters on,
I cannot bear a gun!”
E’en little James she snubs, and blames
His Liliputian train,
Two inches each from mouth to breach,
And charged with half a grain—
His crackers stopp’d, his squibbing dropp’d,
He has no fiery fun,
And all thro’ her “How dare you, Sir?
I cannot bear a gun!”