The helmet now an hive for bees becomes

The helmet now an hive for bees becomes,

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.