And each might have sat, till he died in his fat,
Beneath his own cabbage-stalk;
But now you must fly from the soil of your sires,
Then put on your liveliest crawl;
And think of your poor little snails at home,
Now orphans or emigrants all.
Utensils domestic, and civil, and social,
I give you an evening to pack up:
But if the moon of this night does not rise on your flight,
To-morrow I’ll hang each man Jack up.