And hilts of swords may serve for spiders’ looms;
Sharp pikes may make
Teeth for a rake;
And the keen blade, th’arch enemy of life,
Shall be degraded to a pruning knife.
The rustic spade
Which first was made
For honest agriculture, shall retake
Its primitive employment, and forsake
The rampires steep
And trenches deep.
Tame conies in our brazen guns shall breed,
Or gentle doves their young ones there shall feed.
In musket barrels
Mice shall raise quarrels
For their quarters. The ventriloquious drum,
Like lawyers in vacations, shall be dumb.
Now all recruits,
But those of fruits,
Shall be forgot; and th’unarmed soldier
Shall only boast of what he did whilere,
In chimney’s ends
Among his friends.
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2016/1/20 - 11:08
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