Snorting with furious joy.
Hidden by rushes he yet drew near,
Behind the Canoeist, until on his ear
Those snortings fell, both full and clear.
Floating about the backwater shy,
Stronger and stronger the shindy stole,
Filling the startled Canoeist with fear;
And the jubilant jobating voice,
With menaces meaning and manifold,
Flowed forth on a "snorter" clear and bold
(As when a party-procession rejoice
With drums, and trumpets, and with banners of gold),
Until the Canoeist's blood ran cold,
And over his paddle he crouched and rolled;
And he wished himself from that nook afar
(If it were but reading the evening star):
And the Swan he ruffled his plumes and hissed,
And with sounding buffets, which seldom missed,
He walloped into that paddler gay
(Bent on enjoying his holiday).
He smote him here, and he spanked him there,
Upset his "balance," rumpled his hair.
"I'll teach you," he cried, with pounding pinions,
"To come intruding in _my_ dominions!"
And the frightened flags, and the startled reeds,
And the willow-branches hoar and dank,
And the shaking rushes and wobbling weeds,
And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank,
And the Grand Old Swan's admiring throng
(Who yelled at seeing him going so strong)