Crime, like an asp, I'd gladly crush
Upon the threshold of my dwelling,
But shall not join a purblind rush
Of panic-stricken fools to play
The oppressor's game, for the spy's pay!
But you, foul, furtive desperadoes,
Who, frightened now by those you'd fright,
Would fain slink off among the shadows,
To plot out further deeds of night,
Our isle's immunity you boast!—