No laggards for us:-- We fish, we fish, we merrily swim, We care not for friend nor for foe: Our fins are stout, Our tails are out, As through the seas we go.
Fish, Fish, we are fish with red gills; Naught disturbs us, our blood is at zero: We are buoyant because of our bags, Being many, each fish is a hero.
We care not what is it, this life That we follow, this phantom unknown: To swim, it's exceedingly pleasant,-- So swim away, making a foam.
This strange looking thing by our side, Not for safety, around it we flee:-- Its shadow's so shady, that's all,-- We only swim under its lee.
And as for the eels there above, And as for the fowls in the air, We care not for them nor their ways, As we cheerily glide afar! We fish, we fish, we merrily swim, We care not for friend nor for foe: Our fins are stout, Our tails are out, As through the seas we go.
But how now, my fine fish! what alarms your long ranks, and tosses them all into a hubbub of scales and of foam?
Never mind that long knave with the spear there, astern.

Pipe away, merry fish, and give us a stave or two more, keeping time with your doggerel tails.

But no, no! their singing was over.

Grim death, in the shape of a Chevalier, was after them.
How they changed their boastful tune! How they hugged the vilified boat! How they wished they were in it, the braggarts! And how they all tingled with fear! For, now here, now there, is heard a terrific rushing sound under water, betokening the onslaught of the dread fish of prey, that with spear ever in rest, charges in upon the out-skirts of the shoal, transfixing the fish on his weapon.

Re-treating and shaking them off, the Chevalier devours them; then returns to the charge.
Hugging the boat to desperation, the poor fish fairly crowded themselves up to the surface, and floundered upon each other, as men are lifted off their feet in a mob.