I'll strip this Fellow's painted greasy Skull.

Honnyman.

Honnyman.

A damn'd tough Hide, or my Knife's devilish dull—

Now let them sleep to-night without their Caps,

And pleasant Dreams attend their long Repose.

Orsbourn.

Orsbourn.

Their Guns and Hatchets now are lawful Prize,

For they'll not need them on their present Journey.

Honnyman.

Honnyman.

The Devil hates Arms, and dreads the Smell of Powder;

He'll not allow such Instruments about him,

They're free from training now, they're in his Clutches.

Orsbourn.

Orsbourn.

But, Honnyman, d'ye think this is not Murder?

I vow I'm shock'd a little to see them scalp'd,

And fear their Ghosts will haunt us in the Dark.

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