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 What awful doom will cruel fate Inflict upon poor us? Say, shall we see great General B. Our Governor next year? Or greater curse, if any's worse? They've licensed cider and beer!"

His voice grew faint, he slunk away, His nose seemed lengthening out; His coat-tails flapped in disarray, Like shirt of Dicky Dout; But on the wind he cast behind His plaint in accents drear, Woe to the Hub! O Beelzebub! They've licensed cider and beer!