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Now, if poor Pilgrims they had been,
And had lodged in the Hospice instead of the Inu,

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."

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 chilld me by night; And the winds have but help'd me to swing,

As if in 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

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 Cock 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 reeld 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:

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