The Cook in triumph bore that Spit As high as he was able; And the Dish was display'd wherein they were laid When they had been served at table. With eager faith the crowd prest round; There was a scramble of women and men For who should dip a finger-tip In the blessed Gravy then. Next went the Alcayde, beating his breast, Crying aloud like a man distrest, And amazed at the loss of his dinner, "Santiago, Santiago! Have mercy on me a sinner!" And lifting oftentimes his hands Toward the Cock and Hen, "Orate pro nobis!" devoutly he cried, And as devoutly the people replied, Whenever he said it, "Amen!" The Father and Mother were last in the train; Rejoicingly they came, And extoll'd, with tears of gratitude, Santiago's glorious name. So, with all honors that might be, They gently unhang'd Pierre; No hurt or harm had he sustain'd, But, to make the wonder clear, A deep biack halter-mark remain'd Just under his left ear. PART IV. And now, my little listening dears With open mouths and open ears, Like a rhymer whose only art is That of telling a plain unvarnish'd tale, To let you know I must not fail, What became of all the parties. Pierre went on to Compostella To finish his pilgrimage, His parents went back with him joyfully, After which they returned to their own country, And there, I believe, that all the three Lived to a good old age. For the gallows on which Pierre So happily had swung, It was resolved that never more On it should man be hung. 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.