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 Cock 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 Cock and Hen were so changed in their manners,
That the Priests were edified.
Gentle as any turtle-dove,
Saint Cock became all meekness and love;
Most dutiful of wives,
Saint Hen she never peck'd again,
So they led happy lives.
The ways of ordinary fowls
You must know they had clean forsaken;
And if every Cock and Hen in Spain
Had their example taken,
Why then-the Spaniards would have had
No eggs to eat with bacon.
These blessed Fowls, at seven years end,
In the odor of sanctity died:
They were carefully pluck'd and then
They were buried, side by side.
And lest the fact should be forgotten (Which would have been a pity), 'Twas decreed, in honor of their worth, That a Cock and Hen should be borne thenceforth, In the arms of that ancient City.
Two eggs Saint Hen had laid--no more—
The chickens were her delight;
A Cock and Hen they proved,
And both, like their parents, were virtuous and white.
The last act of the Holy Hen
Was to rear this precious brood; and when
Saint Cock and she were dead,
This couple, as the lawful heirs,
Succeeded in their stead.
They also lived seven years,
And they laid eggs but two,
From which two milk-white chickens
To Cock and Henhood grew;
And always their posterity
The self-same course pursue.
Not one of these eggs ever addled,
(With wonder be it spoken!)
Not one of them ever was lost,
Not one of them ever was broken.
Sacred they are; neither magpie nor rat, Snake, weasel, nor marten approaching them: And woe to the irreverent wretch Who should even dream of poaching them!
Thus then is this great miracle
Continued to this day;
And to their Church all Pilgrims go,
When they are on the way;
And some of the feathers are given them;
For which they always pay.
No price is set upon them,
And this leaves all persons at ease;
The Poor give as much as they can,
The Rich as much as they please.
But that the more they give the better,
Is very well understood;
Seeing whatever is thus disposed of,
Is for their own souls' good;
For Santiago will always
Befriend his true believers;
And the money is for him, the Priests
Being only his receivers.
To make the miracle the more,
Of these feathers there is always store,
And all are genuine too;
All of the original Cock and Hen,
Which the Priests will swear is true.
Thousands a thousand times told have bought them,
And if myriads and tens of myriads sought them,
They would still find some to buy;
For however great were the demand,
So great would be the supply.
And if any of you, my small friends,
Should visit those parts, I dare say
You will bring away some of the feathers,
And think of old Robin Gray.
THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS;
OR, THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN.
Оn, for a glance of that gay Muse's eye,
That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing tale,
And twinkled with a luster shrewd and sly,
When Giam Batttista bade her vision hail!-
Yet fear not, ladies, the naive detail
Given by the natives of that land canorous;
Italian license loves to leap the pale,
We Britons have the fear of shame before us,
And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be decorous.
In the far eastern clime, no great while since,
Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince,
Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd their round,
Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground;
Whose ears received the same unvaried phrase,
"Sultaun! thy vassal hears, and he obeys!"
All have their tastes-this may the fancy strike
Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur like;
For me, I love the honest heart and warm
Of monarch who can amble round his farm,
Or when the toil of state no more annoys,
In chimney corner seek domestic joys--
I love a prince will bid the bottle pass,
Exchanging with his subjects glance and glass;
In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay,
Keep up the jest, and mingle in the lay-
Such Monarchs best our free-born humors suit,
But Despots must be stately, stern, and mute.
This Solimaun, Serendib had in sway—
And where's Serendib? may some critic say-
Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the chart,
Scare not my Pegasus before I start!
If Rennell has it not, you'll find, mayhap,
The isle laid down in Captain Sinbad's map-
Famed mariner! whose merciless narrations
Drove every friend and kinsman out of patience,
Till, fain to find a guest who thought them shorter,
He deign'd to tell them over to a porter-
The last edition see, by Long and Co.,
Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the Row.
Serendib found, deem not my tale a fiction-
This Sultaun, whether lacking contradiction-
(A sort of stimulant which hath its uses,
To raise the spirits and reform the juices,
-Sovereign specific for all sorts of cures
In my wife's practice, and perhaps in yours),
The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome bitter,
Of cordial sinooth for prince's palate fitter-
Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams
With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild themes
Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft,
I wot not-but the Sultaun never laugh'd,
Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy
That scorn'd all remedy profane or holy;
In his long list of melancholies, mad,
Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none so bad.
Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and tried,
As e'er scrawl'd jargon in a darken'd room; With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue they eyed, Peep'd in his bath, and God knows where beside, And then in solemn accent spoke their doom,
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