O'er the drawbridge he courses, mid shouts of laughter Mac Thundel heavily flounders after, Whirling his mace around his head:-- The drawbridge groans beneath his tread-- It creaks--it crashes--he tumbles in, Very nearly up to his chin, Amid the assembled company's jeers, Who hail his fall with "ironical cheers." {047} He roars, rolls, splashes, and behaves Much like some monster of the waves, When "sleeping on the Norway foam," The barbéd harpoon strikes him home. By the side of the moat Jack, standing safe, Begins the Giant thus to chafe;-- "Just now, old chap, I thought you said You'd grind my bones to make your bread." Mac Thundel plunged from side to side, But he could n't get out although he tried; Sooth to say, he was thoroughly done-- "Now," said Jack, "we 'll end the fun. Yon cart rope bring, Ay--that's the thing!" And he cast it o'er the heads so big; A team was at hand, And he drew him to land, While all the spectators cried, "That's the rig!" His falchion gleams aloft in air, It falls; the monster's heads, I ween, Are off as quick as Frenchmen's e'er Were severed by the guillotine. With shouts of joy the castle rang, And they hied them again to the festal cheer Long life to brave Sir Jack they sang, And they drank his health in floods of beer. {048} XVII. Awhile the hero now reposes, In knightly hall an honoured guest; His brow by beauty crowned with roses, And filled his belly with the best. But soon the life of idlesse palls, For daring deeds his heart is "game;" "Farewell," he cries, "ye lordly walls!" And starts anew in quest of fame. Over hill and dale he wends; Fate no fresh adventure sends To reward him for his pains, Till a mountain's foot he gains. Underneath that hill prodigious Dwelt an anchorite religious: He batter'd the door with divers knocks; He didn't make a little din; And the hermit old, with his hoary locks, Came forth at the summons to let him in "Reverend sire," cried Jack, "I say, Can you lodge a chap who has lost his way? The grey-beard eremite answered "Yea-- That is if thou cans't take 'pot luck.'" "I rather think I can, old buck!" The hero answer made, and went To supper with no small content. {049} XX. When Jack had eaten all he could, Bespoke him thus the hermit good,- "My son, I think I 'twig' the man Who 'slew the Giant Cormoran.'