THE LEGEND.

PART I.

ONCE on a time three Pilgrims true,
Being Father and Mother and Son,
pure devotion to the Saint,
This pilgrimage begun.

For

Their names, little friends, I am sorry to say,
In none of my books can I find;

But the son, if you please, we'll call Pierre,
What the parents were call'd, never mind.

From France they came, in which fair land
They were people of good renown;

And they took up their lodging one night on the way
In La Calzada town.

Now, if poor Pilgrims they had been,

And had lodged in the Hospice instead of the Inn,
My good little women and men,

Why then you never would have heard,
This tale of the Cock and the Hen.

For the Innkeepers they had a daughter, Sad to say, who was just such another, As Potiphar's daughter, I think, would have been If she follow'd the ways of her mother.

This wicked woman to our Pierre
Behaved like Potiphar's wife;

And, because she fail'd to win his love,
She resolved to take his life.

So she pack'd up a silver cup
In his wallet privily;

And then, as soon as they were gone,
She raised a hue and cry.

The Pilgrims were overtaken,

The people gather'd round,

Their wallets were search'd, and in Pierre's
The silver cup was found.

They dragg'd him before the Alcayde;
A hasty Judge was he,

"The theft," he said, "was plain and proved, And hang'd the thief must be."

So to the gallows our poor Pierre
Was hurried instantly.

If I should now relate

The piteous lamentation,

Which for their son these parents made,

My little friends, I am afraid
You'd weep at the relation.

But Pierre in Santiago still
His constant faith profess'd;
When to the gallows he was led,

"'T was a short way to Heaven,” he said, Though not the pleasantest."

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And from their pilgrimage he charged His parents not to cease,

Saying that unless they promised this, He could not be hang'd in peace.

They promised it with heavy hearts; Pierre then, therewith content, Was hang'd: and they upon their way To Compostella went.

THE LEGEND.

PART II.

FOUR weeks they travell'd painfully,
They paid their vows, and then
To La Calzada's fatal town
Did they come back again.

The Mother would not be withheld,
But go she must to see

Where her poor Pierre was left to hang
Upon the gallows tree.

Oh tale most marvellous to hear,
Most marvellous to tell!

Eight weeks had he been hanging there,
And yet was alive and well!

"Mother," said he, "I am glad you 're return'd, It is time I should now be released: Though I cannot 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 chill'd me by night; And the winds have but help'd 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 Cock and his faithful Hen.

In came the Mother wild with joy;
"A miracle!" she cried;

But that most hasty Judge unjust