Whereupon, the old croakers, each with a quinsy, sang thus in cracked strains:—
Quack! Quack! Quack!
With a toorooloo whack;
Hack away, merry men, hack away.
Who would not die brave,
His ear smote by a stave?
Thwack away, merry men, thwack away!
’Tis glory that calls,
To each hero that falls,
Hack away, merry men, hack away!
Quack! Quack! Quack!
Quack! Quack!
Quack!
Thus it tapered away.
“Ha, ha!” cried Piko, “how they prick their ears at that!”
“Hark ye, my invincibles!” cried Hello. “That pean is for the slain. So all ye who have lives left, spring to it! Die and be glorified! Now’s the time!—Strike up again, my ducklings!”
Thus incited, the survivors staggered to their feet; and hammering away at each others’ sconces, till they rung like a chime of bells going off with a triple-bob-major, they finally succeeded in immortalizing themselves by quenching their mortalities all round; the bards still singing.
“Never mind your music now,” cried Piko.
“It’s all over,” said Hello.
“What valiant fellows we have for subjects,” cried Piko.
“Ho! grave-diggers, clear the field,” cried Hello.