"Ay, there's the rub, indeed,'" said Don,
Putting his gravest visage on;
"In vain we beat our beaten way,
And bring our organs into play,
Unless the proper killing kind
Of barrel tunes are play'd behind:
But when we shoot,—that's me and Squire—
We hit as often as we fire."
"More luck for you!" cried little Woolly,
Who felt the cruel contrast fully;