With air so bold and free,
Driving a spotted, warlike bull?--
That very man is he.

Left to himself, the deacon grave
Tarried not long within,
And, thinking of his sturdy beasts,
Forgot his medicine.

"I hope the meeting will be full,
And I shall not be missed,"
Softly he breathed, and, looking round,
He murmured, "All is whist!"

Thus on he drove that spotted bull,
And near the gateway placed him,
And when the other one came out,
It happened so, he faced him.

"When Greek meets Greek," the deacon said,
"Then comes the tug of war;"
But such another tug, I ween,
The deacon never saw.

Like sudden thunderbolts they met,
The spotted and the red.
Those bulls will never fight again--
The spotted one is dead.

All gored and prostrate in his blood,