This tree, this fine old tree!
Must needs be trimm'd this year,
Its fruits, deliciously,
Will then again appear,
And well repay the labour lent—
Besides the time we've on it spent.

This is the talk of some
About a certain tree,
Whose very fruit alone
Brings death and misery;
And yet they say it's fit for food,
And trim it for the nation's good.

Thus have we, many years,
This tree of slav'ry fed,
Until its root appears
Quite far from dead;
But rather grown so tall and great
As to have seal'd the nation's fate.