The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 15

"Mother," said he, "I am glad you're return'd, It is time I should now be released: Though I can not complain that I'm tired, And my neck does not ache in the least.

"The Sun has not scorch'd me by day, The Moon has not chilled me by night; And the winds have but helped me to swing, As if in a dream of delight.

"Go you to the Alcayde, That hasty Judge unjust, Tell him Santiago has saved me, And take me down he must!"

Now, you must know the Alcayde, Not thinking himself a great sinner, Just then at table had sate down, About to begin his dinner.

His knife was raised to carve The dish before him then; Two roasted fowls were laid therein, That very morning they had been A c.o.c.k and his faithful Hen.

In came the Mother, wild with joy: "A miracle!" she cried; But that most hasty Judge unjust Repell'd her in his pride.

"Think not," quoth he, "to tales like this That I should give belief!

Santiago never would bestow His miracles, full well I know, On a Frenchman and a thief."

And pointing to the Fowls, o'er which He held his ready knife, "As easily might I believe These birds should come to life!"

The good Saint would not let him thus The Mother's true tale withstand; So up rose the Fowls in the dish, And down dropt the knife from his hand.

The c.o.c.k would have crow'd if he could: To cackle the Hen had a wish; And they both slipt about in the gravy Before they got out of the dish.

And when each would have open'd its eyes, For the purpose of looking about them, They saw they had no eyes to open, And that there was no seeing without them.

All this was to them a great wonder, They stagger'd and reel'd on the table; And either to guess where they were, Or what was their plight, or how they came there, Alas! they were wholly unable:

Because, you must know, that that morning, A thing which they thought very hard, The Cook had cut off their heads, And thrown them away in the yard.

The Hen would have pranked up her feathers, But plucking had sadly deform'd her; And for want of them she would have s.h.i.+ver'd with cold, If the roasting she had had not warm'd her.

And the c.o.c.k felt exceedingly queer; He thought it a very odd thing That his head and his voice were he did not know where, And his gizzard tuck'd under his wing.

The gizzard got into its place, But how Santiago knows best: And so, by the help of the Saint, Did the liver and all the rest.

The heads saw their way to the bodies, In they came from the yard without check, And each took its own proper station, To the very great joy of the neck.

And in flew the feathers, like snow in a shower, For they all became white on the way; And the c.o.c.k and the Hen in a trice were refledged, And then who so happy as they!

Cluck! cluck! cried the Hen right merrily then, The c.o.c.k his clarion blew, Full glad was he to hear again His own c.o.c.k-a-doo-del-doo!

PART III.

"A miracle! a miracle!"

The people shouted, as they might well, When the news went through the town And every child and woman and man Took up the cry, and away they ran To see Pierre taken down.

They made a famous procession My good little women and men, Such a sight was never seen before And I think will never again.

Santiago's Image, large as life, Went first with banners and drum and fife; And next, as was most meet, The twice-born c.o.c.k and Hen were borne Along the thronging street.

Perched on a cross-pole hoisted high, They were raised in sight of the crowd; And when the people set up a cry, The Hen she cluck'd in sympathy, And the c.o.c.k he crow'd aloud.

And because they very well knew for why They were carried in such solemnity, And saw the Saint and his banners before 'em They behaved with the greatest propriety, And most correct decorum.

The Knife, which had cut off their heads that morn, Still red with their innocent blood, was borne, The scullion boy he carried it; And the Skewers also made part of the show, With which they were truss'd for the spit.

The Cook in triumph bore that Spit As high as he was able; And the Dish was display'd wherein they were laid When they had been served at table.

With eager faith the crowd prest round; There was a scramble of women and men For who should dip a finger-tip In the blessed Gravy then.

Next went the Alcayde, beating his breast, Crying aloud like a man distrest, And amazed at the loss of his dinner, "Santiago, Santiago!

Have mercy on me a sinner!"

And lifting oftentimes his hands Toward the c.o.c.k and Hen, "Orate pro n.o.bis!" devoutly he cried, And as devoutly the people replied, Whenever he said it, "Amen!"

The Father and Mother were last in the train; Rejoicingly they came, And extoll'd, with tears of grat.i.tude, Santiago's glorious name.

So, with all honors that might be, They gently unhang'd Pierre; No hurt or harm had he sustain'd, But, to make the wonder clear, A deep biack halter-mark remain'd Just under his left ear.

PART IV.

And now, my little listening dears With open mouths and open ears, Like a rhymer whose only art is That of telling a plain unvarnish'd tale, To let you know I must not fail, What became of all the parties.

Pierre went on to Compostella To finish his pilgrimage, His parents went back with him joyfully, After which they returned to their own country, And there, I believe, that all the three Lived to a good old age.

For the gallows on which Pierre So happily had swung, It was resolved that never more On it should man be hung.

To the Church it was transplanted, As ancient books declare.

And the people in commotion, With an uproar of devotion, Set it up for a relic there.

What became of the halter I know not, Because the old books show not, But we may suppose and hope, That the city presented Pierre With that interesting rope.

For in his family, and this The Corporation knew, It rightly would be valued more Than any cordon bleu.

The Innkeeper's wicked daughter Confess'd what she had done, So they put her in a Convent, And she was made a Nun.

The Alcayde had been so frighten'd That he never ate fowls again; And he always pulled off his hat When he saw a c.o.c.k and Hen.

Wherever he sat at table Not an egg might there be placed; And he never even muster'd courage for a custard, Though garlic tempted him to taste Of an omelet now and then.

But always after such a transgression He hastened away to make confession; And not till he had confess'd, And the Priest had absolved him, did he feel His conscience and stomach at rest.

The twice-born Birds to the Pilgrim's Church As by miracle consecrated, Were given, and there unto the Saint They were publicly dedicated.

At their dedication the Corporation A fund for their keep supplied; And after following the Saint and his banners, This c.o.c.k and Hen were so changed in their manners, That the Priests were edified.

Gentle as any turtle-dove, Saint c.o.c.k became all meekness and love; Most dutiful of wives, Saint Hen she never peck'd again, So they led happy lives.