Worse and worse⁠—can’t you stand it? are you retreating? Is this hour with the living too dead for you?

Retreat then⁠—pell-mell! To your graves⁠—back⁠—back to the hills old limpers! I do not think you belong here anyhow.

But there is one thing that belongs here⁠—shall I tell you what it is, gentlemen of Boston?

I will whisper it to the Mayor, he shall send a committee to England, They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the royal vault, Dig out King George’s coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave-clothes, box up his bones for a journey, Find a swift Yankee clipper⁠—here is freight for you, black-bellied clipper, Up with your anchor⁠—shake out your sails⁠—steer straight toward Boston bay.