PART II.

_Ingentes animos angusto in pectore._

IN Cornwall then there lived a youth, (Such may that land ne’er lack) His mother call’d him “Johnny dear,” His father call’d him Jack.

In sooth he was of gentle mien, And of a nature kind: And though his body it was small, It held a mighty mind.

For he had read of fairy tales, And deeds of high emprize; And envied knights who died in fights, Or lived in ladies’ eyes.

And not a wrestling match there was, But Jack would try his skill; And not a fair but Jack was there To wreak his merry will.

And while he sat upon some rock, And watch’d his sheep by day, His eyes were with his silly flock, His soul was far away.

Sometimes he went to beard intent A Giant in his den; Sometimes he thought he singly fought With twice two hundred men:

And when he found himself aground, Not caring to be slain He sprang afoot, and off he shot Till he might breathe again.

Now Jack while he sat thoughtfully One glorious sabbath morn, It so befel, as I did tell, That Cormoran wound his horn.

The ewes were browsing o’er the downs, And scatter’d far away; The lusty lambs had drain’d their dams, And gamboll’d off to play.

Now all did prick their ears right quick Astounded at the blast; As if a kite had soar’d in sight, Or fox had skulken past.

And then they scour’d about the lay, And piteously did bleat, Till in the throng that rush’d along Each one its own might meet.

Cried Jack--It is a shame, I wis, A burning shame to see This Cormoran, a single man, Defy the whole countrie!

What! tho’ no hand on Cornish land Can wield the giant’s axe: One heart there is as stout as his, And that one heart is Jack’s.

And, if I know a trick or two May serve me in good stead, This very night my mark I’ll write Upon the giant’s head.

That day pass’d by most tediously, And Jack the hours did count, Till night came on and he was gone Alone to Michael’s mount.

His horn was at his collar hung, His hatchet in his hand; Adown his side his spade was tied; A pickaxe at his back was slung; And thus he left the land.

Across the bay he held his way, And swam with all his might; It was so dark he scarce could mark The mountain’s frowning height.

But soon he gain’d the rocky land, And dripping from the wave He peer’d around, till he had found The hateful giant’s cave.

There right afore the giant’s door He dug a huge big hole; Full deep and wide on every side He scoop’d it like a mole.

With muchel toil he moved the soil; And then, to hide his tricks, Above the cavern’s gaping mouth He wove a frame of sticks.

A frame of sticks just strong enough To bear the living sward; Which he so laid o’er as it was before, Not a trace of the hole appear’d.

Then pickaxe, spade, and hatchet too Upon the ground he cast: And he took his horn to salute the morn And blew a jolly blast.

Now how he danced, and how he pranced, To think what he had done! But when he heard what then he heard, He well nigh burst for fun.

“Holloa--Yaugh! Holloa--Yaugh! Who dares wake Cormoran? As I am good, by my father’s blood, I smell a breathing man!”

Then he rubb’d his eyes and drove to rise, But woke so tardily, That while he yawn’d the morning dawn’d, And Jack bethought to flee.

But while yet slumber his lids did cumber He blew another blast; And the giant rush’d out and blink’d about, Till Jack he spied at last.

What whipster is that scarce as tall as a cat? He’ll do to broil or bake: But he’s too small for me withal This long night’s fast to break.

Tis Jack, I swear! ah Jack, mon cher, This is a merry bout! I’ll pay your score--and all before Your mother knows you’re out.

So on he strode: but soon he trod Aboon Jack’s handywork; When in he fell, and roll’d pell-mell Blaspheming like a Turk.

Then Jack peep’d in, and rubb’d his chin, While thus he spake his foe:— Now, as you’re good, by your father’s blood, Dear giant, swear not so.

Why thus perplex’d and sorely vex’d, Kind heart! for me and mine? My mother knows I’m out;--but does Your father know you’re in?

At Jack’s keen wit the giant bit His flesh with grief and pain: Then with mock glee--Bravo! cried he: Now help me out again.

Jack quick replied: on either side With both your hands hold tight: While I take care to seize your hair, And pull with all my might.

The Giant did as he was bid; When Jack his humour spoke: For though so brave and seeming grave He dearly loved a joke.

“Stay, stay: the air is cold up here, And you are delicate: It sure were best to breakfast first; I well can spare to wait.

But broil not me, who am you see Scarce taller than a cat: Not half enough, besides I’m tough; Do pray instead take--that:”—

Whereat a thump he dealt so plump, Upon the Giant’s head, That down he roll’d upon the mould, And there he lay like dead.

Then Jack jump’d down and kneeling on Him pull’d his clasp-knife out; And here he gash’d, and there he slash’d, As one would crimp a trout.

Now such a flood of giant’s blood Came rushing from each wound, Jack well had need to off with speed, Or sooth he had been drown’d.

Then up he sprang, and, like a cock That dead hath struck his foe, He stood aloof upon a rock, And thus began to crow.

The deed is done! the game is won! Great Cormoran is slain! Now frisk and leap, my pretty sheep, All merrily again.

The deed is done! the game is won! Right glorious Jack will be: All Cornwall’s coast his fame shall boast For this great victory!

But who can know who struck the blow, Since none were here to see? What boots to Jack if he go back Without some true trophee?

For men in sooth are wondrous loth To spend a word of praise: Though great and small are prodigal Of evil words always.

But off to bear the Giant’s gear Jack was too weak of limb: He scarce could stand the weight on land; Then how with it to swim?

Wherefor he felt beneath his belt; Perchance he there mote wear A signet, or some love-token, Or lock of lady’s hair.

For who so fierce, but love may pierce His breast, to all unknown? What heart so sere, but springs a tear In secret and alone?

But Cormoran was not the man To rue his lonely couch: Nor pledge nor plight of lady bright Was there within his pouch.

There lay alone a steer’s thigh-bone, Sharp pointed, huge, and thick; Wherewith he used (for tell’t I must) His monstrous teeth to pick.

Now this took Jack, and on his back He slung the ugly spoil: And thus again he swam the main, Sore sick of blood and toil.

The morn was bright, the breeze was light, Jack stemm’d the wave meanwhile: And all Penzance came forth to see Who left the Giant’s isle.

They mark’d him ride the buoyant tide, As one of stubborn mind; And how he cleft his way and left A blood-red track behind.—

Now Jack once more on Cornwall’s shore Unslung his huge trophee: And all flock’d round, and mark’d with stound What this strange thing mote be.

So thick! so long! so sharp! so strong! They saw the truth full quick: For who but he its lord could be? ’Twas Cormoran’s own tooth-pick!

And who could seize that pocket-piece, Nor pay for’t with his head? And who e’er felt beneath that belt? It must be he was dead!

Then did they shout with joyous rout, And Jack bore off amain: Right up Penzance they led their dance, Then led it down again.

It chanced that morn the Ealdorman Sat there in civic state; On matters high of polity For to deliberate.

So when this noise of men and boys Resounded through the street, He felt the weight of high estate And trembled in his seat.

But soon a scout who had peep’d out These welcome tidings told:— “They bring a lad--some thief, or pad!” Whereat he waxed more bold.

For though he had no heart to beard A burglar stout and tall, He yet was glad to trounce a lad, Because he was so small.

But threats soon turn to promises, And punishment to praise, When Jack walks in and on the board The giant’s tooth-pick lays!

The Ealdorman is all astound, And scarce his eyes believes; For ’twas long syne that he did dine Upon his own fat beeves.

As fitting meed for such brave deed, He fain would wealth bestow: But money there was then as rare As now-a-days, I trow.

But honour shone more bright than coin Before Jack’s noble eyes: Awake--asleep--he still might keep Untarnish’d this fair prize.

The Ealdorman then rising up, While Jack before him knelt, In Arthur’s name he dubb’d him knight, And girt him with a belt.

The belt it was of good leather, With letters stamp’d of gold; And all the world might read thereon This simple history told:—

=This is the valiant Cornish man Who slew the giant Cormoran!=

DIVERS SMALL HISTORIES,

_not known to the Ancients_.

The Vain Mouse.

UPON a river side A Frog had built his house; And in a hole close by There lived a little Mouse.

Now as they lived so near, And went out in fine weather, They used to meet sometimes, And laugh and talk together.

Thus as they jogg’d along So happily through life, The neighbours often said, They must be man and wife.

Now Mouse was rather gay, While Froggy was most proper; And so he said one day, ’Tis time for me to stop her.

[Sidenote: A fair offer,]

That very afternoon, As they were taking tea, I love you, Mouse, said he; Pray will you marry me?

But Mouse was very vain; And, though mice are so rife, I’m sure she thought herself The prettiest mouse in life.

[Sidenote: rejected with disdain.]

So looking grave at Frog That he should dare to woo, She said,--how can I love A cold, damp thing, like you?

Then jumping from her seat, As if to shew her spite, She whisk’d him with her tail, Nor wish’d him once good-night.

But, as it so fell out, Old Pussy had been walking, And stopp’d to listen there While Frog and Mouse were talking:

[Sidenote: Vanity meets its deserts.]

And just as this vain Mouse Was trotting home to bed, Old Pussy cried,--Stop, stop! And seized her by the head.

Then Froggy who peep’d out And saw how she was treated, It serves her right, said he, For being so conceited.

So Pussy took poor Mouse, And gave her to her kittens, Who supp’d upon her flesh, But saved her skin for mittens.

Cock Robin and Jenny Wren.

“GOOD morning, dear Robin!” said sweet Jenny Wren: “Good morning, sweet Jenny!” said Robin again. Then chirping and flirting and hopping and bobbing Together sat down Jenny Wren and Cock Robin.

Then Jenny broke silence:—“Ah me! if you knew, Dear Robin, how this little heart beats for you, It hardly would happen that poor Jenny Wren Must always give place to Dame Robin your hen.”

“Sweet Jenny!” said he, “you don’t surely suppose That Robins can trifle like jackdaws and crows! You know birds of my quality must be decorous; Though between you and me, sweet, it may sometimes bore us.”

“Then come, my dear Robin! then come to my bower, Now the trees are all leaf and the fields are all flower: The world may tell stories,--I don’t care a fig, While pretty Cock Robin is perch’d on my twig.”

Cock Robin was tickled, and thrice chirp’d aloud, And thrice wagg’d his tail and thrice graciously bow’d: Then he bustled and rustled and whittled so high, That he woke a dull owl who was dozing close by.

“Whit-a-whoo!” cried the owl, as he blink’d with surprise: “Where is he?--this sun is too bright for my eyes.” But a cloud passing over, as if fate was in it, He pounced upon Robin at that very minute.

Poor Cock Robin! alas, that he should be so frail! How could he give ear to her flattering tale! The Owl minced him for supper: but, had he been wise, He had still supp’d himself on Dame Robin’s mince-pies.

The Proud Eagle.

AN eagle dwelt upon a rock, And perch’d upon the topmost stones: Whence he would pounce on bird and beast And bear them off to pick their bones.

He was a proud and cruel bird, And boasted of his beak and claw; His eye could reach both far and near, And hunger was his only law.

One morning in the month of May A lamb was bleating on the lawn: “A fig for lambs,” said he; “to-day I’ll breakfast on a pretty fawn.”

But every pretty fawn that day Was shelter’d by its careful dam: So as he could not breakfast there, He turn’d again to find the lamb.

And though he might have caught a hare Who hurried off towards her brue; “Nay think not, silly puss” he cried “That I would stoop to lunch on you.”

But now the shepherd watch’d his lambs, And, as he dared not venture there, Away he flew, and swore aloud He’d gobble up alive the hare.

He pass’d a little mouse just then, Nor deigned to touch such paltry food: But soon he found the prudent hare Had stole away into the wood.

Then in a passion back he flew To swallow whole the little mouse: But little mouse her danger knew, And so had crept into her house.

And now the evening dews were rising: And as the light was waxing pale, This proud bird (deem it not surprising) Was glad to sup upon a snail.

Young Lumpkin’s Hyæna.

IT was once on a time people said a hyæna Lived close by the village and had a snug lair; They were sure ’twas a real one, young Lumpkin had seen her, With a head like a wolf and a tail like a bear.

Old Gaffer moreover, who used to sit quaffing, One night heard a scuffle and found a goose dead; And dame Slipperslopper had often heard laughing, While folks were, or ought to have been, all abed.

So with common consent they determined to stop her, For hyænas they said were a mischievous race: So Gaffer and Lumpkin and Dame Slipperslopper Sallied forth one fine morning all girt for the chase.

They soon reach’d the hole where they reckon’d to find her, And all took their posts as they gather’d round close; And the Dame she peep’d in, though no mole could be blinder, As she settled her spectacles over her nose.

But just at that moment our old friend the fox, (For no more and no less was Young Lumpkin’s Hyæna) Was starting to visit old Gaffer’s fat cocks, And he brush’d past her face just as if he’d not seen her.

She started--her glasses fell into the hole; And backward she tumbled and shriek’d like a child. Young Lumpkin stood silent and look’d like a fool; Old Gaffer ran homeward, as if he was wild.

But before he got home he had lost a fine chicken, And Dame Slipperslopper came back in chagrin: But the Fox grinn’d with joy while his chops he sat licking, And put on the glasses, to pick the bones clean.

[Sidenote: Moral.]

When a fool prates of wonders--a ghost or a dragon, Believe not his story, albeit he may swear; For be sure, that as usual the world will still wag on, And never a dragon nor ghost will be there.

The Young Thrushes.

A TRUE STORY.

A PRETTY thrush with speckled breast Within a yew had made her nest, And laid her five eggs there: Five pretty eggs so smooth and blue, And, like herself all speckled too, She brooded with much care.

By day, by night, so close she sat, No babbling dog, no crafty cat, No boy her secret knew: Nor bird--save one, who sat apart And whistled to console her heart,— Her gentle mate, and true.

Thus time pass’d cheerily away; Meanwhile her bosom day by day With kindling fondness yearn’d: Till, on the morn when it befel Her callow nestlings burst the shell, With mother’s love it burn’d.

Now all seem’d brighter to her eye, The earth more green, more blue the sky, For all with love was dyed: And while she flitted round for food, And pick’d it for her helpless brood, She wish’d no joy beside.

Alas, that joy so sweet and pure Should be on earth so little sure! But such is Heaven’s decree. Puss mark’d where she was wont to fly, And watch’d her with a yellow eye, And noted well the tree.

Now stealthily she crept beneath, And there she crouch’d as still as death, Till home the thrush might go: But mother’s eyes are open wide; And soon the cautious parent spied The ambush of her foe.

Wherefore she went not near the yew, But quite another way she flew; And Pussy’s game seem’d lost: For all in vain she strove to find The nest which lay so close and blind, Where two thick stems were cross’d.

Then basking in the sunny ray, She soon began to purr and play, As all on love intent: And mildness, like the velvet paw Which cloked the terrors of her claw, Belied her natural bent.

Twas thus, whenas the senseless brood, Who miss’d awhile their custom’d food, Began to chirp complaints; As if their mother knew not best, Or would not charge her careful breast With all their little wants.

Full soon their folly did they rue; (As foolish children always do;) But ah! they rued too late: For Pussy heard their silly wail, And prick’d her ears, and lash’d her tail, And grinn’d with scorn and hate.

Then up the tree amain she sprung, From branch, to bough, she leapt, she clung, Till right within the nook, Where lay the nestlings snug and warm, She planted her terrific form, And all the yew-tree shook!

How then they trembled in despair, And long’d to have their Mother there, Most grievous is to tell: And how Puss scorn’d such unripe meat, And fiercely spurn’d them with her feet. Till on the ground they fell!

Alas! poor birds! had they been still, Nor chirp’d their little plaints of ill, While all was for the best, The unheeding cat had walk’d away; And they had lived secure that day Within their happy nest.

M. P. or The Magpie.

[Sidenote: A blockhead]

A MAGPIE once was such a dunce, That all the people said, More bricks would lie in a fish’s eye, Than learning in his head.

And though his mother herself did bother And every trouble took, Yet not one word could that dull bird Repeat without his book.

Till once he saw a young jackdaw Who dearly loved his letters; Though not so much his taste was such, As ’twas to ape his betters.

Howe’er this be the jackdaw he Could tell a funny story; And many a bird his prattle heard And envied him his glory.

[Sidenote: may emulate eloquence;]

But when he shew’d the wond’ring crowd How he could spout and swell, The Magpie tried for very pride If he could do as well.

[Sidenote: and, by practice,]

And every night by candlelight He conn’d his lessons o’er, And every morn with the herdsman’s horn He rose and practised more.

[Sidenote: learn to speak with fluency,]

Full soon he thought himself well taught, And then began to chatter: And the careful dame, his mother, came To see what was the matter.

[Sidenote: plausibility,]

Like Miller Peel he smiled a deal, And cull’d the fairest diction; And look’d quite true though well he knew That every word was fiction.

[Sidenote: and grimace,]

[Sidenote: so as to satisfy himself,—]

Then to his nose he raised his toes, And gravely look’d askew; And thought himself a clever elf:— And his mother thought so too.

[Sidenote: and his mother,]

“Caw, caw!” quoth she; “he sure must be An orator or poet: I’ll have him sent to Parliament, That all the world may know it.”

[Sidenote: --but not the Commons of England.]

But though he shone so much alone, And made his mother stare, “The Members” swore he was a bore, And had no business there.

Yet there he is, and there I wis, He’s likely still to be; As, should you call at Stephen’s hall, Yourself may chance to see.

The Pigeon and the Hen,

OR, THE PRIDE OF STATION.

[Sidenote: Fortune puffeth up the heart,]

A MILK-WHITE pigeon (records state) Was wedded to a milk-white mate: Nor envied prince nor potentate This dainty dove, While crouching to her lord she sate, And coo’d her love.

[Sidenote: to judge others.]

Indulged in all her heart’s desire She felt no spark of lawless fire; So plumed herself throughout the shire A pattern wife: And chid dame Partlet, as in ire, For her loose life.

A scandal to our sex, I vow, Those cackling ladies of the mow! Or black, or red, or high, or low, They have no care; So he’s a Cock--’tis quite enow For welcome there!

Dame Partlet heard, but felt no shame; And let alone the vaunty dame, To nurse her pride of wedded fame; Herself content That conscience whisper’d her no blame Of evil bent.

A shot!--the dove--she knew the sound! Her milk-white mate has ta’en a wound: He languishes upon the ground: His swimming eyes Heed not his comrades hovering round: He gasps--he dies.

[Sidenote: Altered circumstances]

Oh! what can stint a widow’s grief! Our pattern wife defied relief: No grain pick’d she, no sprouting leaf, --As folks could see: A pattern widow (to be brief) She fain would be.

So trimly prinn’d she sat alone, And lean’d her breast against a stone, As one for ever woe-begone; And would not coo: No wonder that a suitor soon Came down to woo.

A vulgar bluerock by my fay! Without the gentle pouting way Of him that died the other day: Alas! he’s gone! And sore it is for one to stay, And live alone!

[Sidenote: induce altered feelings.]

This bluerock press’d his suit so close, Now strutting up upon his toes, Now whispering something nose to nose,— Our milk-white dove Crouch’d to him, as the story goes, And coo’d her love.

[Sidenote: Few can afford to indulge a fine taste, though many may have it.]

Dame Partlet eyed the scene askaunt, And spake:--The pamper’d few may vaunt Their dainty taste o’er such as want; But coarser bread Is good enough to one who can’t Get fine instead.

The Oyster and the Muscle,

OR, THE USES OF ADVERSITY.

AN Oyster, full of health and pride, Once heard a Muscle by his side O’er cruel fate repine; Driv’n by the tyrant flood to roam An outcast from his river-home, And sicken in the brine.

While faint lay one and gaped half-dead, The other hugg’d his native bed, And snuggled in his shell: “Poor paltry child of ooze!” he spake, “From Ocean’s sons example take, “And dare to laugh at ill.”

E’en as he spake, the dredgers came, And fish’d him from his depth amain, And stow’d him in the boat: To London thence he found his way, Where high and dry with more he lay,— A dozen for a groat.

The play was o’er, the people throng’d; Yet fear’d he nought, howe’er he long’d In Ocean’s sand to delve: But now a Captain of the Blues Dropt in at Arthur’s to carouse, And call’d for oysters twelve.

The word went out, the knife went in; Our Oyster naked to the skin Was brought upon a plate: The Captain saw, the Captain seized, And quick three drops of lemon squeezed Upon his smarting pate.

The pride of the Ocean then gave way; He crisp’d his beard, (as people say) And fetch’d a heavy groan: Ah me! he thought; how light to bear The troubles of our neighbours are; How grievous are our own!

PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM, CHISWICK.