_Frogs._ We’ve a right, We’ve a right, And we croak at ye for spite. We’ve a right, We’ve a right, Day and night, Day and night, Night and day, Still to creak and croak away. Phœbus and every Grace Admire and approve of the croaking race; And the egregious guttural notes That are gargled and warbled in their lyrical throats. In reproof Of your scorn, Mighty Pan Nods his horn; Beating time To the rime With his hoof, With his hoof. Persisting in our plan, We proceed as we began. Brekeke-kesh, brekeke-kesh, Koash, koash! _Bacchus._ Oh, the frogs, consume and rot ’em! I’ve a blister on my bottom! Hold your tongues, you noisy creatures! _Frogs._ Cease with your profane entreaties, All in vain forever striving; Silence is against our natures; With the vernal heat reviving, Our aquatic crew repair From their periodic sleep, In the dark and chilly deep, To the cheerful upper air. Then we frolic here and there All amid the meadows fair; Shady plants of asphodel Are the lodges where we dwell; Chanting in the leafy bowers All the livelong summer hours, Till the sudden gusty showers Send us headlong, helter-skelter, To the pool to seek for shelter. Meager, eager, leaping, lunging, From the sedgy wharfage plunging To the tranquil depth below, There we muster all a-row; Where, secure from toil and trouble, With a tuneful hubble-bubble, Our symphonious accents flow. Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash! _Bacchus._ I forbid you to proceed. _Frogs._ That would be severe, indeed, Arbitrary, bold, and rash-- Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash! _Bacchus._ I command you to desist-- Oh, my back, there! Oh, my wrist What a twist! What a sprain! _Frogs._ Once again We renew the tuneful strain-- Brekeke-kesh, koash, koash! _Bacchus._ I disdain--hang the pain!-- All your nonsense, noise, and trash. Oh, my blister! Oh, my sprain!