The more he got up, he fell down again.
Ri, tu, ri, tu, ri, tu."
The poet paused for a moment to gain breath, evidently overcome by the recollection of the awful scene. "Is not that bee-u-tiful?" he exclaimed. "What a fine effect you could give to that on the pee-a-ne, humouring the keys to imitate his squabbling about in the mud. Let me tell you, mister, it would beat Russell's 'Ship on Fire' all hollow."
Wiping the perspiration from his face, he recommenced--
"The passengers rushed unto the spot,
Together with the crew;
We got him safe out of the mud,
But he had lost his shoe.
Ri, tu, ri, tu, ri, tu."
I could not listen to another line of this sublime effusion, the passengers who had gathered around us drowning his nasal drawl in a complete roar of laughter. Seeing that I was as much infected as the rest, the poet turned to me, with an air of offended dignity,--