To a Gentleman, Who Sitting Near a Young Lady, Presented a Pop-Gun at the Author
Mistaken Marskman! I defy
Your impotent artillery;
Your level'd tube I value not,
Nor tremble at the threaten'd shot;
When the fair Lady who sits by,
Shoots darts more fatal from her eye.
As well I might a hornet fear,
When the arm'd porcupine is near;
Or from a hissing squib retire,
When lightnings set the heavens on fire.
Mistaken Marksman! now you may
Such idle bullets throw away;
For what avails your Pop-gun skill,
Your shot may wound—but hers can kill.
Your impotent artillery;
Your level'd tube I value not,
Nor tremble at the threaten'd shot;
When the fair Lady who sits by,
Shoots darts more fatal from her eye.
As well I might a hornet fear,
When the arm'd porcupine is near;
Or from a hissing squib retire,
When lightnings set the heavens on fire.
Mistaken Marksman! now you may
Such idle bullets throw away;
For what avails your Pop-gun skill,
Your shot may wound—but hers can kill.
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