Wednesday, April 3, 2013
The Irishman's Epistle - 1775
The Epistle to the Troops in Boston
By my faith, but I think ye're all makers of bulls,
With your brains in your breeches, your --- in your skulls,
Get home with your muskets, and put up your swords,
And look in your books for the meaning of words.
You see now, my honies, how much your mistaken,
For Concord by discord can never be beaten.
How brave ye went out with your muskets all bright,
And thought to be-frighten the folks with the sight;
But when you got there how they powder'd your pums, And all the way home how they pepper'd your - ,
And is it not, honeys, a comical crack,
To be proud in the face, and be shot in the back.
How come ye to think, now, they did not know how,
To be after their firelocks as smartly as you?
Why, you see now, my honies, 'tis nothing at all,
But to pull at the trigger, and pop goes the ball.
And what have you got now with all your designing,
But a town without victuals to sit down and dine in;
And to look on the ground like a parcel of noodles,
And sing, how the Yankees have beaten the Doodles. I'm sure if you're wise you'll make peace for a dinner, For fighting and fasting will soon make ye thinner.
Posted by Chris at 9:47 AM