Swiftly they lower the boats, and swiftly each man at the oar is,
Excipe Britanni timidi duo, virque coloris.
(Blackskin, you know, never feels, how sweet, ’tis pro patria mori;
Ovid had him in view when he said, “Nimium ne crede colori.”)
Now swiftly they pull towards the monster, who seeing the cutter and gig nigh,
Glares at them with terrible eyes, suffectis sanguine et igni,
And, never conceiving their chief will so quickly deal him a floorer,
Opens wide to receive them at once, his linguis vibrantibis ora;
But just as he’s licking his lips, and gladly preparing to taste ’em,
Straight into his eyeball the skipper stridentem conjicit hastam.