THE ENCHANTED NET.

Could we only give credit to half we are told,There were sundry strange monsters existing of old;As evinced (on theex pedeHerculean plan,Which from merely a footstep presumes the whole man)By ourSavansdisturbing those very large bones,Which have turned (for the rhyme’s sake, perhaps) into stones,And have chosen to wait aLong while hid instrata,While old Time has been dining on empires and thrones.Old bones and dry bones,Leg-bones and thigh-bones,Bones of the vertebræ, bones of the tail,—Very like, only more so, the bones of a whale;Bones that were very long, bones that were very short(They have never as yet found a real fossil merry-thought;Perchance because mastodons, burly and big,Considered all funny-bones quiteinfra dig.)Skulls have they found in strange places imbedded,Which, at least, prove their owners were very long-headed;And other queer things,—which ’tis not my intention,Lest I weary your patience, at present to mention,—As I think I can prove, without further apology,What I said to be true, sans appeal to geology,That there lived in the good old days gone byThings unknown to our modern philosophy,And a giant was then no more out of the wayThan a dwarf is now in the present day.Sir Eppo of Epstein was young, brave, and fair;Dark were the curls of his clustering hair,Dark the moustache that o’ershadowed his lip,And his glance was as keen as the sword at his hip;Though the enemy’s charge was like lightning’s fierce shock,His seat was as firm as the wave-beaten rock;And woe to the foeman, whom pride or mischanceOpposed to the stroke of his conquering lance.He carved at the board, and he danced in the hall,And the ladies admired him, each one and all.In a word, I should say, he appears to have beenAs nice a young “ritter” as ever was seen.He could not read nor write,He could not spell his name,Towards being a clerk, Sir Eppo, his (†) mark,Was as near as he ever came.He had felt no vexationFrom multiplication;Never puzzled was heBy the rule of three;The practice he’d hadDid not drive him mad,Because it all layQuite a different way.The Asses’ Bridge, that Bridge of Sighs,Had (lucky dog!) ne’er met his eyes.In a very few words he expressed his intentionOnce for all to decline every Latin declension,When persuaded to add, by the good Father Herman,That most classical tongue to his own native German.And no doubt he was right inPoint of fact, for a knight inThose days was supposed to like nothing but fighting;And one who had learned any language that is hardWould have stood a good chance of being burned for a wizard.Education being then never pushed to the verge yeNow see it, was chiefly confined to the clergy.’Twas a southerly wind and a cloudy sky,For aught that I know to the contrary;If it wasn’t, it ought to have been properly,As it’s certain Sir Eppo, his feather bed scorning,Thought thatsomethingproclaimed it a fine hunting morning;So, pronouncing his benisonO’er a cold haunch of venison,He floored the best half, drank a gallon of beer,And set out on the Taurus to chase the wild deer.Sir Eppo he rode through the good greenwood,And his bolts flew fast and free;He knocked over a hare, and he passed the lair(The tenant was out) of a grisly bear;He started a wolf, and he got a snap shotAt a bounding roe, but he touched it not,Which caused him to mutter a naughty wordIn German, which luckily nobody heard,For he said it right viciously;And he struck his steed with his armèd heel,As though horse-flesh were tougher than iron or steel,Or anything else that’s unable to feel.What is the sound that meets his ear?Is it the plaint of some wounded deer?Is it the wild-fowl’s mournful cry,Or the scream of yon eagle soaring high?Or is it only the southern breezeAs it sighs through the boughs of the dark pine trees?No Sir Eppo, be sure ’tis not any of these:And hark, again!It comes more plain—’Tis a woman’s voice in grief or pain.Like an arrow from the string,Like a stone that leaves the sling,Like a railroad-train with a queen inside,With directors to poke and directors to guide,Like the rush upon deck when a vessel is sinking,Like (I vow I’m hard up for a simile) winking!In less time than by name you Jack Robinson can call,Sir Eppo dashed forward o’er hedge, ditch, and hollow,In a steeple-chase style I’d be sorry to follow,And found a young lady chained up by the ankle—Yes, chained up in a cool and business-like way,As if she’d been only the little dog Tray;While, the more to secure any knight-errant’s pity,She was really and truly excessively pretty.Here was a terrible state of things!Down from his saddle Sir Eppo springs,As lightly as if he were furnished with wings,While every plate in his armour rings.The words that he uttered were short and few,But pretty much to the purpose too,As sternly he asked, with lowering brow,“Who’s been and done it, and where is he now?”’Twere long to tellEach word that fellFrom the coral lips of that demoiselle;However, as far as I’m able to see,The pith of the matter appeared to beThat a horrible giant, twelve feet high,Having gazed on her charms with a covetous eye,Had stormed their castle, murdered papa,Behaved very rudely to poor dear mamma,Walked off with the family jewels and plate,And the tin and herself at a terrible rate;Then by way of conclusionTo all this confusion,Tied her up like a dogTo a nasty great log,To induce her (the brute) to become Mrs. Gog;That ’twas not the least use for Sir Eppo to tryTo chop off his head, or to poke out his eye,As he’d early in life done a bit of Achilles(Which, far better than taking an “Old Parr’s life-pill” is,)Had been dipped in the Styx, or some equally old stream,And might now face unharmed a battalion of Coldstream.But she’d thought of a schemeWhich did certainly seemVery likely to pay—no mere vision or dream:—It appears that the giant each day took a napFor an hour (the wretch!) with his head in her lap:Oh, she hated it so! but then what could she do?Here she paused, and Sir Eppo remarked, “Very true;”And that during this time one might pinch, punch, or shake him,Or do just what one pleased, but that nothing could wake him,While each horse and each man in the emperor’s payWould not be sufficient to move him away,Without magical aid, from the spot where he lay.In an old oak chest, in an up-stairs roomOf poor papa’s castle, was kept an heir-loom,An enchanted net, made of iron links,Which was brought from Palestine, she thinks,By her great grandpapa, who had been a Crusader;If she had but got that, she was sure it would aid her.Sir Eppo, kind man,Approves of the plan;Says he’ll do all she wishes as quick as he can;Begs she wont fret if the time should seem long;Snatches a kiss, which was “pleasant but wrong;”Mounts, and taking a fence in good fox-hunting style,Sets off for her family-seat on the Weil.The sun went down,The bright stars burned,The morning came,And the knight returned;The net he spreadO’er the giant’s bed,While Eglantine, and Hare-bell blue,And some nice green moss on the spot he threw;Lest perchance the monster alarm should take,And not choose to sleep from being toowide awake.Hark to that sound!The rocks aroundTremble—it shakes the very ground;While Irmengard cries,As tears stream from her eyes,—A lady-like weakness we must not despise(And here, let me add, I have been much to blame,As I long ago ought to have mentioned her name):“Here he comes! now do hide yourself, dear Eppo, pray;Formysake, I entreat you, keep out of his way.”Scarce had the knightTime to get out of sightAmong some thick bushes, which covered him quite,Ere the giant appeared. Oh! he was such a fright!He was very square built, a good twelve feet in height,And his waistcoat (three yards round the waist) seemed too tight;While, to add even yet to all this singularity,He had but one eye, and his whiskers were carroty.What an anxious moment! Will he lie down?Ah, how their hearts beat! he seems to frown,—No, ’tis only an impudent fly that’s been teasingHissnublime proboscis, and set him a sneezing.Attish hu! attish hu!You brute, how I wish youWere but as genteel as the Irish lady,Dear Mrs. O’Grady,Who, chancing to sneeze in a noble duke’s face,Hoped she hadn’t been guilty of splashing his Grace.Now, look out. Yes, he will! No, he wont! By the powers!I thought he was taking alarm at the flowers;But it luckily seems, his gigantic inventionHas at once set them down as a little attentionOn Irmengard’s part,—done by way of suggestionThat she means to say “Yes,” when he next pops the question.There! he’s down! now he yawns, and in one minute more—I thought so, he’s safe—he’s beginning to snore;He is wrapped in that sleep he shall wake from no more.From his girdle the knight take a ponderous key;It fits—and once more is fair Irmengard free.From heel to head, and from head to heel,They wrap their prey in that net of steel,And theycrochéthe edges together with care,As you finish a purse for a fancy-fair,Till the last knot is tied by the diligent pair.At length they have ended their business laborious,And Eppo shouts “Bagged him, by all that is glorious!”No billing and cooing,You must up and be doing.Depend on’t, Sir Knight, this is no time for wooing;You’ll discover, unless you progress rather smarter,That catching a giant’s like catching a Tartar:He still has some thirty-five minutes to sleep.Close to this spot hangs a precipice steep,Like Shakspeare’s tall cliff which they show one at Dover;Drag him down to the brink, and then let him roll over;As they scarce make a capital crime of infanticide,There can’t be any harm in a little giganticide.“Pull him, and haul him! take care of his head!Oh, how my arms ache—he’s as heavy as lead!That’ll do, love—I’m sure I can move him alone,Though I’m certain the brute weighs a good forty stone.Yo! heave ho! roll him along(It’s exceedingly lucky the net’s pretty strong);Once more—that’s it—there, now, I thinkHe’s done to a turn, he rests on the brink;At it again, and over he goesTo furnish a feast for the hooded crows;Each vulture that makes the Taurus his homeMay dine upon giant for months to come.”Lives there a man so thick of headTo whom it must in words be said,How Eppo did the lady wed,And built upon the giant’s bedA castle, walled and turreted?We will hope not; or, if there be,Defend us from his company!

Could we only give credit to half we are told,

There were sundry strange monsters existing of old;

As evinced (on theex pedeHerculean plan,

Which from merely a footstep presumes the whole man)

By ourSavansdisturbing those very large bones,

Which have turned (for the rhyme’s sake, perhaps) into stones,

And have chosen to wait a

Long while hid instrata,

While old Time has been dining on empires and thrones.

Old bones and dry bones,

Leg-bones and thigh-bones,

Bones of the vertebræ, bones of the tail,—

Very like, only more so, the bones of a whale;

Bones that were very long, bones that were very short

(They have never as yet found a real fossil merry-thought;

Perchance because mastodons, burly and big,

Considered all funny-bones quiteinfra dig.)

Skulls have they found in strange places imbedded,

Which, at least, prove their owners were very long-headed;

And other queer things,—which ’tis not my intention,

Lest I weary your patience, at present to mention,—

As I think I can prove, without further apology,

What I said to be true, sans appeal to geology,

That there lived in the good old days gone by

Things unknown to our modern philosophy,

And a giant was then no more out of the way

Than a dwarf is now in the present day.

Sir Eppo of Epstein was young, brave, and fair;

Dark were the curls of his clustering hair,

Dark the moustache that o’ershadowed his lip,

And his glance was as keen as the sword at his hip;

Though the enemy’s charge was like lightning’s fierce shock,

His seat was as firm as the wave-beaten rock;

And woe to the foeman, whom pride or mischance

Opposed to the stroke of his conquering lance.

He carved at the board, and he danced in the hall,

And the ladies admired him, each one and all.

In a word, I should say, he appears to have been

As nice a young “ritter” as ever was seen.

He could not read nor write,He could not spell his name,Towards being a clerk, Sir Eppo, his (†) mark,Was as near as he ever came.He had felt no vexationFrom multiplication;Never puzzled was heBy the rule of three;The practice he’d hadDid not drive him mad,Because it all layQuite a different way.The Asses’ Bridge, that Bridge of Sighs,Had (lucky dog!) ne’er met his eyes.In a very few words he expressed his intentionOnce for all to decline every Latin declension,When persuaded to add, by the good Father Herman,That most classical tongue to his own native German.And no doubt he was right inPoint of fact, for a knight inThose days was supposed to like nothing but fighting;And one who had learned any language that is hardWould have stood a good chance of being burned for a wizard.Education being then never pushed to the verge yeNow see it, was chiefly confined to the clergy.

He could not read nor write,

He could not spell his name,

Towards being a clerk, Sir Eppo, his (†) mark,

Was as near as he ever came.

He had felt no vexation

From multiplication;

Never puzzled was he

By the rule of three;

The practice he’d had

Did not drive him mad,

Because it all lay

Quite a different way.

The Asses’ Bridge, that Bridge of Sighs,

Had (lucky dog!) ne’er met his eyes.

In a very few words he expressed his intention

Once for all to decline every Latin declension,

When persuaded to add, by the good Father Herman,

That most classical tongue to his own native German.

And no doubt he was right in

Point of fact, for a knight in

Those days was supposed to like nothing but fighting;

And one who had learned any language that is hard

Would have stood a good chance of being burned for a wizard.

Education being then never pushed to the verge ye

Now see it, was chiefly confined to the clergy.

’Twas a southerly wind and a cloudy sky,For aught that I know to the contrary;If it wasn’t, it ought to have been properly,As it’s certain Sir Eppo, his feather bed scorning,Thought thatsomethingproclaimed it a fine hunting morning;So, pronouncing his benisonO’er a cold haunch of venison,He floored the best half, drank a gallon of beer,And set out on the Taurus to chase the wild deer.

’Twas a southerly wind and a cloudy sky,

For aught that I know to the contrary;

If it wasn’t, it ought to have been properly,

As it’s certain Sir Eppo, his feather bed scorning,

Thought thatsomethingproclaimed it a fine hunting morning;

So, pronouncing his benison

O’er a cold haunch of venison,

He floored the best half, drank a gallon of beer,

And set out on the Taurus to chase the wild deer.

Sir Eppo he rode through the good greenwood,And his bolts flew fast and free;He knocked over a hare, and he passed the lair(The tenant was out) of a grisly bear;He started a wolf, and he got a snap shotAt a bounding roe, but he touched it not,Which caused him to mutter a naughty wordIn German, which luckily nobody heard,For he said it right viciously;And he struck his steed with his armèd heel,As though horse-flesh were tougher than iron or steel,Or anything else that’s unable to feel.

Sir Eppo he rode through the good greenwood,

And his bolts flew fast and free;

He knocked over a hare, and he passed the lair

(The tenant was out) of a grisly bear;

He started a wolf, and he got a snap shot

At a bounding roe, but he touched it not,

Which caused him to mutter a naughty word

In German, which luckily nobody heard,

For he said it right viciously;

And he struck his steed with his armèd heel,

As though horse-flesh were tougher than iron or steel,

Or anything else that’s unable to feel.

What is the sound that meets his ear?Is it the plaint of some wounded deer?Is it the wild-fowl’s mournful cry,Or the scream of yon eagle soaring high?Or is it only the southern breezeAs it sighs through the boughs of the dark pine trees?No Sir Eppo, be sure ’tis not any of these:And hark, again!It comes more plain—’Tis a woman’s voice in grief or pain.

What is the sound that meets his ear?

Is it the plaint of some wounded deer?

Is it the wild-fowl’s mournful cry,

Or the scream of yon eagle soaring high?

Or is it only the southern breeze

As it sighs through the boughs of the dark pine trees?

No Sir Eppo, be sure ’tis not any of these:

And hark, again!

It comes more plain—

’Tis a woman’s voice in grief or pain.

Like an arrow from the string,Like a stone that leaves the sling,Like a railroad-train with a queen inside,With directors to poke and directors to guide,Like the rush upon deck when a vessel is sinking,Like (I vow I’m hard up for a simile) winking!In less time than by name you Jack Robinson can call,Sir Eppo dashed forward o’er hedge, ditch, and hollow,In a steeple-chase style I’d be sorry to follow,And found a young lady chained up by the ankle—Yes, chained up in a cool and business-like way,As if she’d been only the little dog Tray;While, the more to secure any knight-errant’s pity,She was really and truly excessively pretty.

Like an arrow from the string,

Like a stone that leaves the sling,

Like a railroad-train with a queen inside,

With directors to poke and directors to guide,

Like the rush upon deck when a vessel is sinking,

Like (I vow I’m hard up for a simile) winking!

In less time than by name you Jack Robinson can call,

Sir Eppo dashed forward o’er hedge, ditch, and hollow,

In a steeple-chase style I’d be sorry to follow,

And found a young lady chained up by the ankle—

Yes, chained up in a cool and business-like way,

As if she’d been only the little dog Tray;

While, the more to secure any knight-errant’s pity,

She was really and truly excessively pretty.

Here was a terrible state of things!Down from his saddle Sir Eppo springs,As lightly as if he were furnished with wings,While every plate in his armour rings.The words that he uttered were short and few,But pretty much to the purpose too,As sternly he asked, with lowering brow,“Who’s been and done it, and where is he now?”

Here was a terrible state of things!

Down from his saddle Sir Eppo springs,

As lightly as if he were furnished with wings,

While every plate in his armour rings.

The words that he uttered were short and few,

But pretty much to the purpose too,

As sternly he asked, with lowering brow,

“Who’s been and done it, and where is he now?”

’Twere long to tellEach word that fellFrom the coral lips of that demoiselle;However, as far as I’m able to see,The pith of the matter appeared to beThat a horrible giant, twelve feet high,Having gazed on her charms with a covetous eye,Had stormed their castle, murdered papa,Behaved very rudely to poor dear mamma,Walked off with the family jewels and plate,And the tin and herself at a terrible rate;Then by way of conclusionTo all this confusion,Tied her up like a dogTo a nasty great log,To induce her (the brute) to become Mrs. Gog;That ’twas not the least use for Sir Eppo to tryTo chop off his head, or to poke out his eye,As he’d early in life done a bit of Achilles(Which, far better than taking an “Old Parr’s life-pill” is,)Had been dipped in the Styx, or some equally old stream,And might now face unharmed a battalion of Coldstream.

’Twere long to tell

Each word that fell

From the coral lips of that demoiselle;

However, as far as I’m able to see,

The pith of the matter appeared to be

That a horrible giant, twelve feet high,

Having gazed on her charms with a covetous eye,

Had stormed their castle, murdered papa,

Behaved very rudely to poor dear mamma,

Walked off with the family jewels and plate,

And the tin and herself at a terrible rate;

Then by way of conclusion

To all this confusion,

Tied her up like a dog

To a nasty great log,

To induce her (the brute) to become Mrs. Gog;

That ’twas not the least use for Sir Eppo to try

To chop off his head, or to poke out his eye,

As he’d early in life done a bit of Achilles

(Which, far better than taking an “Old Parr’s life-pill” is,)

Had been dipped in the Styx, or some equally old stream,

And might now face unharmed a battalion of Coldstream.

But she’d thought of a schemeWhich did certainly seemVery likely to pay—no mere vision or dream:—It appears that the giant each day took a napFor an hour (the wretch!) with his head in her lap:Oh, she hated it so! but then what could she do?Here she paused, and Sir Eppo remarked, “Very true;”And that during this time one might pinch, punch, or shake him,Or do just what one pleased, but that nothing could wake him,While each horse and each man in the emperor’s payWould not be sufficient to move him away,Without magical aid, from the spot where he lay.In an old oak chest, in an up-stairs roomOf poor papa’s castle, was kept an heir-loom,An enchanted net, made of iron links,Which was brought from Palestine, she thinks,By her great grandpapa, who had been a Crusader;If she had but got that, she was sure it would aid her.Sir Eppo, kind man,Approves of the plan;Says he’ll do all she wishes as quick as he can;Begs she wont fret if the time should seem long;Snatches a kiss, which was “pleasant but wrong;”Mounts, and taking a fence in good fox-hunting style,Sets off for her family-seat on the Weil.The sun went down,The bright stars burned,The morning came,And the knight returned;The net he spreadO’er the giant’s bed,While Eglantine, and Hare-bell blue,And some nice green moss on the spot he threw;Lest perchance the monster alarm should take,And not choose to sleep from being toowide awake.Hark to that sound!The rocks aroundTremble—it shakes the very ground;While Irmengard cries,As tears stream from her eyes,—A lady-like weakness we must not despise(And here, let me add, I have been much to blame,As I long ago ought to have mentioned her name):“Here he comes! now do hide yourself, dear Eppo, pray;Formysake, I entreat you, keep out of his way.”Scarce had the knightTime to get out of sightAmong some thick bushes, which covered him quite,Ere the giant appeared. Oh! he was such a fright!He was very square built, a good twelve feet in height,And his waistcoat (three yards round the waist) seemed too tight;While, to add even yet to all this singularity,He had but one eye, and his whiskers were carroty.

But she’d thought of a scheme

Which did certainly seem

Very likely to pay—no mere vision or dream:—

It appears that the giant each day took a nap

For an hour (the wretch!) with his head in her lap:

Oh, she hated it so! but then what could she do?

Here she paused, and Sir Eppo remarked, “Very true;”

And that during this time one might pinch, punch, or shake him,

Or do just what one pleased, but that nothing could wake him,

While each horse and each man in the emperor’s pay

Would not be sufficient to move him away,

Without magical aid, from the spot where he lay.

In an old oak chest, in an up-stairs room

Of poor papa’s castle, was kept an heir-loom,

An enchanted net, made of iron links,

Which was brought from Palestine, she thinks,

By her great grandpapa, who had been a Crusader;

If she had but got that, she was sure it would aid her.

Sir Eppo, kind man,

Approves of the plan;

Says he’ll do all she wishes as quick as he can;

Begs she wont fret if the time should seem long;

Snatches a kiss, which was “pleasant but wrong;”

Mounts, and taking a fence in good fox-hunting style,

Sets off for her family-seat on the Weil.

The sun went down,

The bright stars burned,

The morning came,

And the knight returned;

The net he spread

O’er the giant’s bed,

While Eglantine, and Hare-bell blue,

And some nice green moss on the spot he threw;

Lest perchance the monster alarm should take,

And not choose to sleep from being toowide awake.

Hark to that sound!

The rocks around

Tremble—it shakes the very ground;

While Irmengard cries,

As tears stream from her eyes,—

A lady-like weakness we must not despise

(And here, let me add, I have been much to blame,

As I long ago ought to have mentioned her name):

“Here he comes! now do hide yourself, dear Eppo, pray;

Formysake, I entreat you, keep out of his way.”

Scarce had the knight

Time to get out of sight

Among some thick bushes, which covered him quite,

Ere the giant appeared. Oh! he was such a fright!

He was very square built, a good twelve feet in height,

And his waistcoat (three yards round the waist) seemed too tight;

While, to add even yet to all this singularity,

He had but one eye, and his whiskers were carroty.

What an anxious moment! Will he lie down?Ah, how their hearts beat! he seems to frown,—No, ’tis only an impudent fly that’s been teasingHissnublime proboscis, and set him a sneezing.Attish hu! attish hu!You brute, how I wish youWere but as genteel as the Irish lady,Dear Mrs. O’Grady,Who, chancing to sneeze in a noble duke’s face,Hoped she hadn’t been guilty of splashing his Grace.Now, look out. Yes, he will! No, he wont! By the powers!I thought he was taking alarm at the flowers;But it luckily seems, his gigantic inventionHas at once set them down as a little attentionOn Irmengard’s part,—done by way of suggestionThat she means to say “Yes,” when he next pops the question.

What an anxious moment! Will he lie down?

Ah, how their hearts beat! he seems to frown,—

No, ’tis only an impudent fly that’s been teasing

Hissnublime proboscis, and set him a sneezing.

Attish hu! attish hu!

You brute, how I wish you

Were but as genteel as the Irish lady,

Dear Mrs. O’Grady,

Who, chancing to sneeze in a noble duke’s face,

Hoped she hadn’t been guilty of splashing his Grace.

Now, look out. Yes, he will! No, he wont! By the powers!

I thought he was taking alarm at the flowers;

But it luckily seems, his gigantic invention

Has at once set them down as a little attention

On Irmengard’s part,—done by way of suggestion

That she means to say “Yes,” when he next pops the question.

There! he’s down! now he yawns, and in one minute more—I thought so, he’s safe—he’s beginning to snore;He is wrapped in that sleep he shall wake from no more.From his girdle the knight take a ponderous key;It fits—and once more is fair Irmengard free.

There! he’s down! now he yawns, and in one minute more—

I thought so, he’s safe—he’s beginning to snore;

He is wrapped in that sleep he shall wake from no more.

From his girdle the knight take a ponderous key;

It fits—and once more is fair Irmengard free.

From heel to head, and from head to heel,They wrap their prey in that net of steel,And theycrochéthe edges together with care,As you finish a purse for a fancy-fair,Till the last knot is tied by the diligent pair.At length they have ended their business laborious,And Eppo shouts “Bagged him, by all that is glorious!”No billing and cooing,You must up and be doing.Depend on’t, Sir Knight, this is no time for wooing;You’ll discover, unless you progress rather smarter,That catching a giant’s like catching a Tartar:He still has some thirty-five minutes to sleep.Close to this spot hangs a precipice steep,Like Shakspeare’s tall cliff which they show one at Dover;Drag him down to the brink, and then let him roll over;As they scarce make a capital crime of infanticide,There can’t be any harm in a little giganticide.

From heel to head, and from head to heel,

They wrap their prey in that net of steel,

And theycrochéthe edges together with care,

As you finish a purse for a fancy-fair,

Till the last knot is tied by the diligent pair.

At length they have ended their business laborious,

And Eppo shouts “Bagged him, by all that is glorious!”

No billing and cooing,

You must up and be doing.

Depend on’t, Sir Knight, this is no time for wooing;

You’ll discover, unless you progress rather smarter,

That catching a giant’s like catching a Tartar:

He still has some thirty-five minutes to sleep.

Close to this spot hangs a precipice steep,

Like Shakspeare’s tall cliff which they show one at Dover;

Drag him down to the brink, and then let him roll over;

As they scarce make a capital crime of infanticide,

There can’t be any harm in a little giganticide.

“Pull him, and haul him! take care of his head!Oh, how my arms ache—he’s as heavy as lead!That’ll do, love—I’m sure I can move him alone,Though I’m certain the brute weighs a good forty stone.Yo! heave ho! roll him along(It’s exceedingly lucky the net’s pretty strong);Once more—that’s it—there, now, I thinkHe’s done to a turn, he rests on the brink;At it again, and over he goesTo furnish a feast for the hooded crows;Each vulture that makes the Taurus his homeMay dine upon giant for months to come.”

“Pull him, and haul him! take care of his head!

Oh, how my arms ache—he’s as heavy as lead!

That’ll do, love—I’m sure I can move him alone,

Though I’m certain the brute weighs a good forty stone.

Yo! heave ho! roll him along

(It’s exceedingly lucky the net’s pretty strong);

Once more—that’s it—there, now, I think

He’s done to a turn, he rests on the brink;

At it again, and over he goes

To furnish a feast for the hooded crows;

Each vulture that makes the Taurus his home

May dine upon giant for months to come.”

Lives there a man so thick of headTo whom it must in words be said,How Eppo did the lady wed,And built upon the giant’s bedA castle, walled and turreted?We will hope not; or, if there be,Defend us from his company!

Lives there a man so thick of head

To whom it must in words be said,

How Eppo did the lady wed,

And built upon the giant’s bed

A castle, walled and turreted?

We will hope not; or, if there be,

Defend us from his company!

Frank E. S.

THE ENCHANTED NET.—p. 51.

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