With freckled face, lit up with roguish smiles,
And eyes that twinkled perfect gems of fun—
Armed with an ancient musket, that did speak
The voice of death on wars victorious fields,
Creeps down the garden wall and nears her seat,
Then, casting down his flopping hat of straw,
Rests fearless o’er his trembling playmate’s back,
Takes deadly aim, and shuts both eyes, and fires!
Loud ring the hills, and vales, and plains around,
The border grove is filled with sulphurous smoke,