"Pack up your traps," I hear him cry, "for here
there's no remainin',"
And winks with his malicious eye, and progues
us out of Canaan.
BISHOP JOSS.
It ain't the Yankee that I fear, the neighbour
nor the stranger—
No, no, it's closer home, it's here, that I perceive
the danger.
The wheels of State has gather'd rust, the helm