The Old Rifleman Poem by Francis Orray Ticknor

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 barrels 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 as well!
There's something in the _sparks:_ 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 Yanke-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 black 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!

Where Lincoln lives. The man, you know,
Who kissed the Testament;
To keep the Constitution? No!
_To keep the Government!_

We'll hunt for Lincoln, Bess! old tool,
And take him half and half;
We'll aim to _hit_ him, if a fool,
And _miss_ him, if a calf!

We'll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks
By which a war is won;
Especially how Seventy-six
Took Tories on the run.