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You have all of you heard of St. James for Spain
As one of the Champions Seven,
Their history once was in good repute,
And so it ought to be still;
And if not, why I hope you will.
Of this St. James that book proclaims
Great actions manifold,
How once a ship of marble made,
Came sailing o'er the sea,
Perfumed with sanctity.
And how, though then he had no head,
He afterwards had two;
That it was not possible to tell
And how he used to fight the Moors
Upon a milk-white charger :
Munchausen tells no larger.
But in their cause of latter years
He has not been so hearty; For that he never struck a stroke is plain, When our Duke, in many a hard campaign, Beat the French armies out of Spain,
And conquer'd Buonaparte.
* Whereby, my little friends, we see
A useful truth I trow,
But which picture-dealers know.
Young Connoisseurs who will be !
Remember I say this, . .
benefit hereafter,. .
The order of narration,
By way of annotation.
Yet still they worship him in Spain, And believe in him with might and main:
Santiago there they call him ; And if any one there should doubt these tales,
They've an Inquisition to maul him.
At Compostella in his Church
His body and one head
By Pilgrims visited.
Old scores might there be clean rubb’d off,
And tickets there were given
Some went for payment of a vow
In time of trouble made;
Was a pleasant sort of trade.
And some, I trow, because it was
Believed, as well as said,
Did not perform this pilgrimage,
Some upon penance for their sins,
In person, or by attorney ; And some who were, or had been sick; And some who thought to cheat Old Nick;
And some who liked the journey :
Which well they might when ways were safe;
And therefore rich and poor
As folks now make a tour.
poor with scrip, the rich with purse, They took their chance for better for worse,
From many a foreign land,
And a Pilgrim's staff in hand.
Something there is, the which to leave
Untold would not be well,
And to the scallop-shell.
For the scallop shows in a coat of arms,
That of the bearer's line
To Santiago's shrine.
And the staff was bored and drilled for those
Who on a flute could play,
His music on the way.
Once on a time three Pilgrims true,
This pilgrimage begun.
Their names, little friends, I am sorry to say, In none of
books can I find;
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.