Now bring me out my buckskin suit,
My pouch and powder, too;
We'll see if seventy-six can shoot
As sixteen used to do!

Old Bess, we've kept our barrel bright,
Our trigger quick and true,
As far, if not as fine a sight,
As long ago we drew!

And pick me out a trusty flint!
A real white and blue!
Perhaps 'twill win the other tint
Before the hunt is through!

Give boys your brass percussion caps,
Old — shut-pan — suits us well,
There's something in the spark; perhaps
There's something in the smell!

We've seen the red-coat Briton bleed;
The red-skin Indian, too;
We've never thought to draw a bead
On Yankee-Doodle-Doo!

But Bessie! bless your dear old heart! —
Those days are mostly done,
And now we must revive the art
Of shooting on the run.

If Doodle must be meddling, why
There's only this to do —
Select the dark spot in his eye
And let the daylight through!

And if he doesn't like the way,
That Bess presents the view,
He'll maybe, change his mind, and stay
Where the good Doodles do!