From bishops in Britain, who butchers are grown,
From slaves that would die for a smile from the throne,
From assemblies that vote against Congress’ proceedings,
(Who now see the fruit of their stupid misleadings).
From Tryon, the mighty, who flies from our city,
And swelled with importance, disdains the committee;
(But since he is pleased to proclaim us his foes,
What the devil care we where the devil he goes.)
From the caitiff, Lord North, who could bind us in chains,
From our noble King Log, with his toothful of brains,