No more for the lover or sweet honey-moon,
But for Twankay and war let your soft bosoms burn!
Shall a petitcoat savage—the horrible bore—
Infringe on our rights, and deny us our tea?
No, no! by the gown which my grandmother wore.
We'll smother the wretch in a chest of Bohea!
Come, launch, by brave maidens, each tea-chest canoe,
And spread out your large Canton crapes to the air;
The kettle sings muster-call—hark! the cats mew!
"Young Hyson"'s the word, the "delight of the fair!"