While streams shall flow or grass shall spring.
Now, Copperheads, in you I trace
These marks of that accursed race;
The name of liberty you scorn,
Because you natural slaves are born:
Your love for despots you preserve,
Because you’re made express to serve:
You worship pomp, and glare, and kings,
Because you are not men—but things;
And wish for things in turn to do