See FREEDOM smiling thro’ the realms of frost, And glow on Labradore’s inclement coast, Tho’ darkness sheds deep night thro’ half the year, And snow invests the clime,—that clime is dear, For there fair LIBERTY resides, and there At large the native breasts the searching air, Where blows the arctic tempests icy gale, And famine seizes on the spermy whale,

She held an inferior rank in the hierarchy.

You, Polydote, have proved best woodman and Are master of the feast: Cadwal and I Will play the cook and servant; ’tis our match: The sweat of industry would dry and die, But for the end it works to.

Hark, countrymen! either renew the fight, / Or tear the lions out of England's coat.