Loud laughs the bold skipper, and quick premit alto corde dolorem;
(If he does feel like running, he knows it won’t do to betray it before ’em).
“O socii”, inquit. “I’m sartin you’re not the fellers to funk, or
Shrink from the durem certamen, whose fathers fit bravely at Bunker
You, who have waged with the bears, and the buffalo, prœlia dura,
Down to the freshets, and licks of our own free enlightened Missourer;
You could whip your own weight, catulus sævis sine telo,
Get your eyes skinned in a twinkling, et ponite tela phæsello!”
Talia voce refert, curisque ingentibus æger,
Marshals his cute little band, now panting their foes to beleaguer