_Charon._ Sit _there_, I tell you, You fatguts; that’s your place. _Bacchus_ (_changes his place_). Well, so I do. _Charon._ Now ply your hands and arms. _Bacchus_ (_makes a silly motion with his arms_). Well, so I do. _Charon._ You’d best leave off your fooling. Take to the oar, And pull away. _Bacchus._ But how shall I contrive? I’ve never served on board; I’m only a landsman; I’m quite unused to it. _Charon._ We can manage it. As soon as you begin you shall have some music; That will teach you to keep time. _Bacchus._ What music’s that? _Charon._ A chorus of frogs--uncommon musical frogs. _Bacchus._ Well, give me the word and the time. _Charon._ Whooh, up, up! Whooh, up, up! CHORUS OF FROGS Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash! Shall the choral quiristers of the marsh Be censured and rejected as hoarse and harsh, And their chromatic essays Deprived of praise? No; let us raise afresh Our obstreperous brekeke-kesh! The customary croak and cry Of the creatures At the theaters In their yearly revelry. Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash! _Bacchus_ (_rowing in great misery_). How I’m maul’d! How I’m gall’d! Worn and mangled to a mash-- There they go! Koash, koash! _Frogs._ Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash! _Bacchus._ Oh, beshrew, All your crew! You don’t consider how I smart. _Frogs._ Now for a sample of the art! Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash! _Bacchus._ I wish you hanged, with all my heart! Have you nothing else to say? Brekeke-kesh, koash, all day!