Jack The Giant Killer. Leigh Percival

"So ho! Sir Giant," said Jack, with a bow,

           "Of breakfast art thou fain?

           For a tit-bit wilt thou broil me now,

           An' I let thee out again? "

           Gnashing his teeth, and rolling his eyes,

           The furious lubber strives to rise.

           "Don't you wish you may get it?" our hero cries

             And he drives the pickaxe into his skull:

             Giving him thus a belly-full,

                              If the expression is n't a bull.

VII

                          Old Cormoran dead,

                             Jack cut off his head,

             And hired a boat to transport it home.

                          On the "bumps" of the brute,

             At the Institute,

             A lecture was read by a Mr. Combe.

               Their Worships, the Justices of the Peace,

               Called the death of the monster a "happy release:"

               Sent for the champion who had drubbed him,

               And "Jack the Giant Killer" dubbed him;

               And they gave him a sword, and a baldric, whereon

               For all who could read them, these versicles shone: —

                  'THIS IS YE VALYANT CORNISHE MAN

                  WHO SLEWE YE GIANT CORMORAN"

      JACK SURPRISED ONCE IN THE WAY

I

           Now, as Jack was a lion, and hero of rhymes,

           His exploit very soon made a noise in the "Times;"

                    All over the west

                    He was fêted, caressed,

           And to dinners and soirees eternally pressed:

           Though't is true Giants did n't move much in society,

           And at "twigging" were slow,

           Yet they could n't but know

           Of a thing that was matter of such notoriety.

           Your Giants were famous for esprit de corps;

           And a huge one, whose name was O'Blunderbore,

           From the Emerald Isle, who had waded o'er,

           Revenge, "by the pow'rs!" on our hero swore.

II

                    Sound beneath a forest oak

                    Was a beardless warrior dozing,

                    By a babbling rill, that woke

                    Echo – not the youth reposing.

                    What a chance for lady loves

                    Now to win a "pair of gloves!"

III

           "Wake, champion, wake, be off, be off;

           Heard'st thou not that earthquake cough!

           That floundering splash,

           That thundering crash?

           Awake! – oh, no,

                      It is no go!"

              So sang a little woodland fairy;

                      'T was O'Blunderbore coming

              And the blackguard was humming

              The tune of "Paddy Carey."

IV

           Beholding the sleeper,

           He open'd each peeper

           To about the size of the crown of your hat;

           "Oh, oh!" says he,

                        "Is it clear I see

           Hallo! ye young spalpeen, come out o' that."

                       So he took him up

                       As ye mote a pup,

           Or an impudent varlet about to "pop" him:

           "Wake up, ye young baste;

                       What's this round your waist?

           Och! murder! " – I wonder he did n't drop him.

           He might, to be sure, have exclaimed "Oh, Law!"

           But then he preferred his own patois;

           And "Murder!" though coarse, was expressive, no doubt,

           Inasmuch as the murder was certainly out.

           He had pounced upon Jack,

                     In his cosy bivouack,

           And so he made off with him over his back.

V

                   Still was Jack in slumber sunk;

                   Was he Mesmerised or drunk?

            I know not in sooth, but he did not awake

            Till, borne through a coppice of briar and brake,

            He was roused by the brambles that tore his skin,

            Then he woke up and found what a mess he was in

            He spoke not a word that his fear might shew,

            But said to himself – "What a precious go!"

VI

                    Whither was the hero bound,

                    Napping by the Ogre caught?

                    Unto Cambrian Taffy's ground

                    Where adventures fresh he sought.

VII

            They gained the Giant's castle hall,

                Which seemed a sort of Guy's museum;

            With skulls and bones 'twas crowded all —

                You would have blessed yourself to see 'em.

            The larder was stored with human hearts,

            Quarters, and limbs, and other parts, —