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84. the old Rifleman. by Frank Ticknor, M. D. Now bring me out my buckskin suit I 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 I 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 I A real white and blue; Perhaps 'twill win the other tint, Before the hunt is through! Give boys your brass percussion caps I! Old “shut-pan” suits as well I 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 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 black spot in his eye, And let the daylight through I And if he doesn't like the way That Bess presents the view, He'll m