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Rh Retreat then! Pell-mell!
 * Back to your graves! 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—haste!

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.

Now call for the President's marshal again, bring out
 * the government cannon,

Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make another
 * procession, guard it with foot and dragoons.

This centre-piece for them: Look! all orderly citizens—look from the windows,
 * women!

The committee open the box, set up the regal ribs,
 * glue those that will not stay,