Brutes always rub their broad backs and stiff bristles

Against—anything that comes handy. Oh lor!

How the brute shoulders, and snorts, grunts and whistles!

Off to the gutter, you big Irish boar!

Not he! He nears me! It is ARTHUR's pet.

Light ladder this; would capsize in a jiffy.

His bristles he'd scrape and his tusks he would whet

Against it, I wish he were drowned in the Liffey!

Whisht! Get away! He's so heavy and big.

There! round the ladder he's playing the fooler.