With thongs of a wild bull's hide.
They laid him down on a "bull-dog's" nest,
For the bull-dog ants to sting;
On his withered chest they pile the rest
Of the damnèd cursèd thing.
They gather round and they stir the ground
'Till the insects swarm again,
And the echoes wake by the gloomy lake
With his cry of rage and pain.
O'er his writhing form the insects swarm—