“Pull him, and haul him! take care of his head!
Oh, how my arms ache—he’s as heavy as lead!
That’ll do, love—I’m sure I can move him alone,
Though I’m certain the brute weighs a good forty stone.
Yo! heave ho! roll him along
(It’s exceedingly lucky the net’s pretty strong);
Once more—that’s it—there, now, I think
He’s done to a turn, he rests on the brink;
At it again, and over he goes
To furnish a feast for the hooded crows;