And all were shod with horrid skulls that clattered on their feet.
Rich banners waved behind ’em,
While on their backs, to mind ’em,
Postilion crickets chirruped them, all chirping loud and sweet.
“Ghost of the Cape I warn you of, for he is bottle-blue.
We split his Table Mountain. He gibbered and he flew.
The bulls straight showed disfeature
With gazing on the creature,
Stampeding in their harness when I gave the view-halloo.
