Part II
Four weeks they travel'd painfully, They paid their vows, and then To La Calzada's fatal town Did they come back again.
The Mother would not be withheld, But go she must to see Where her poor Pierre was left to hang Upon the gallows tree.
Oh tale most marvelous to hear, Most marvelous to tell! Eight weeks had he been hanging there, And yet was alive and well!
"Mother," said he, "I am glad you're return'd, It is time I should now be released: Though I can not complain that I'm tired, And my neck does not ache in the least.
"The Sun has not scorch'd me by day, The Moon has not chilled me by night; And the winds have but helped me to swing, As if in a dream of delight.
"Go you to the Alcayde, That hasty Judge unjust, Tell him Santiago has saved me, And take me down he must!"
Now, you must know the Alcayde, Not thinking himself a great sinner, Just then at table had sate down, About to begin his dinner.
His knife was raised to carve The dish before him then; Two roasted fowls were laid therein, That very morning they had been A Cock and his faithful Hen.
In came the Mother, wild with joy: "A miracle!" she cried; But that most hasty Judge unjust Repell'd her in his pride.
"Think not," quoth he, "to tales like this That I should give belief! Santiago never would bestow His miracles, full well I know, On a Frenchman and a thief."
And pointing to the Fowls, o'er which He held his ready knife, "As easily might I believe These birds should come to life!"
The good Saint would not let him thus The Mother's true tale withstand; So up rose the Fowls in the dish, And down dropt the knife from his hand.
The Cock would have crow'd if he could: To cackle the Hen had a wish; And they both slipt about in the gravy Before they got out of the dish.
And when each would have open'd its eyes, For the purpose of looking about them, They saw they had no eyes to open, And that there was no seeing without them.
All this was to them a great wonder, They stagger'd and reel'd on the table; And either to guess where they were, Or what was their plight, or how they came there, Alas! they were wholly unable:
Because, you must know, that that morning, A thing which they thought very hard, The Cook had cut off their heads, And thrown them away in the yard.
The Hen would have pranked up her feathers, But plucking had sadly deform'd her; And for want of them she would have shiver'd with cold, If the roasting she had had not warm'd her.
And the Cock felt exceedingly queer; He thought it a very odd thing That his head and his voice were he did not know where, And his gizzard tuck'd under his wing.
The gizzard got into its place, But how Santiago knows best: And so, by the help of the Saint, Did the liver and all the rest.
The heads saw their way to the bodies, In they came from the yard without check, And each took its own proper station, To the very great joy of the neck.
And in flew the feathers, like snow in a shower, For they all became white on the way; And the Cock and the Hen in a trice were refledged, And then who so happy as they!
Cluck! cluck! cried the Hen right merrily then, The Cock his clarion blew, Full glad was he to hear again His own cock-a-doo-del-doo!
Part III
"A miracle! a miracle!" The people shouted, as they might well, When the news went through the town And every child and woman and man Took up the cry, and away they ran To see Pierre taken down.
They made a famous procession My good little women and men, Such a sight was never seen before And I think will never again.
Santiago's Image, large as life, Went first with banners and drum and fife; And next, as was most meet, The twice-born Cock and Hen were borne Along the thronging street.
Perched on a cross-pole hoisted high, They were raised in sight of the crowd; And when the people set up a cry, The Hen she cluck'd in sympathy, And the Cock he crow'd aloud.
And because they very well knew for why They were carried in such solemnity, And saw the Saint and his banners before 'em They behaved with the greatest propriety, And most correct decorum.
The Knife, which had cut off their heads that morn, Still red with their innocent blood, was borne, The scullion boy he carried it; And the Skewers also made part of the show, With which they were truss'd for the spit.
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.