By hook or by crook, I tell ye. Red Stockings march o'er the land. Yassir, they must be driven from whence they come!
Ain't no kindness nor light aflow from yon harbor towne.
Have we e'er kept ye beguiled? An honest land, this, of honest folk. We canna brook the idle or intolerant, and we shan't cotton to the weak. O, New York! Thou art humble, aye, yet glory-built. Darkness ne'er descends upon thy visage.
From penumbra to aurora, from subterrene to firmament:
(the whistle in the yard blows twenty-seven notes, twenty-seven crows perch on the wire)