Читать книгу Jack The Giant Killer - Leigh Percival - Страница 5

     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.

              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!"

     "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."

     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.

             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!"

              Whither was the hero bound,

              Napping by the Ogre caught?

              Unto Cambrian Taffy's ground

              Where adventures fresh he sought.

      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, —

           A grisly sight to see;

      There Jack the cannibal monster led,

      "I lave you there, my lad," he said,

          "To larn anatomy! —

         I'm partial to this kind of mate,

         And hearts with salt and spice to ate

         Is just what plases me;

         I mane to night on yours to sup,

         Stay here until you 're aten up

         He spoke, and turned the key.

     "A pretty business this!" quoth Jack,

          When he was left alone;

     "Old Paddy Whack,

          I say! come back —

     I wonder where he's gone?"

      In ghastly moans and sounds of wail,

      The castle's cells replied;

      Jack, whose high spirits ne'er could quail,

      Whistled like blackbird in the vale,

      And, "Bravo, Weber!" cried.

      When, lo! a dismal voice, in verse,

      This pleasant warning did rehearse: —

      "Haste!" quoth the hero, "yes, but how?

      They come, the brutes! – I hear them now.'

      He flew to the window with mickle speed,

      There was the pretty pair indeed,

      Arm-in-arm in the court below,

      O'Blunderbore and his brother O.

      "Now then," thought Jack, "I plainly see

      I 'm booked for death or liberty; —

      Hallo! those cords are 'the jockeys for me.'

     Jack was nimble of finger and thumb —

     The cords in a moment have halters become

         Deft at noosing the speckled trout,

         So hath he caught each ill-favoured lout:

         He hath tethered the ropes to a rafter tight,

         And he tugs and he pulls with all his might,

         "Pully-oi! Pully-oi!" till each Yahoo

         In the face is black and blue;

     Till each Paddy Whack

     Is blue and black;

     "Now, I think you're done brown," said courageous Jack.

     Down the tight rope he slides,

     And his good sword hides

     In the hearts of the monsters up to the hilt;

     So he settled them each:

     O'Blunderbore's speech,

     Ere he gave up the ghost was, "Och, murder, I'm kilt!"

         The dungeons are burst and the captives freed;

     Three princesses were among them found —

         Very beautiful indeed;

     Their lily white hands were behind them bound: