Old Neptune’s realm, ’tis our intent,
To make a Yankee-settlement,
And if Britannia interferes[31]
We’il twist her ugly lion’s ears.
An Iceland burning mountain’s gorge
We metamorphos’d to a forge,
And made therein as many as
Ten thousand tons of solid gas.
This we can let off at our leisure,
Like Shakspeare’s conjurer, wield at pleasure