“Tumble up, all you lubbers!” he cries, “tumble up! for, careering before us,
Is the raal old Sea-Sarpent himself, cristis maculisque decorus.”
“Consarn it!” cried one of the sailors, “if e’er we provoke him, he’ll kill us;
He’ll sartainly chaw up hos morsu, et longis implexibus illos.”
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 air not the fellers to funk, or
Shrink from the durum certamen, whose fathers fought bravely to Bunker.
You! who have waged with the bars, and the buffeler, prœlia dura,
Down to the freshes, and licks of our own free enlighten’d Missourer!