“‘Bard of the fancy, seize your lyre,
In solemn warning strike it!’
‘I wish,’ growl’d Fogo, ‘you’d retire;
For blow me if I like it.
“‘To your last home vy can’t you keep,
I do not vant your varning—
I’d like to have a nap of sleep,
For now it’s nearly morning.
“‘Indeed, I vish you’d say farewell,
And hasten under hatches—