Page 175—Piggy Land

Three Naughty Pigs
Three naughty pigs,
All in one pen,
Drank up the milk
Left by the men,
Then all the three
Fast as they could,
Dug their way out
To find something good.
Out in the garden
A maiden fair
Had set some flowers
Of beauty rare.
Out in the garden
A merry boy
Had planted seeds,
With childish joy,
One naughty pig
Ran to the bed;
Soon lay the flowers
Drooping and dead.
To naughty pigs
Dug up the seeds,
And left, for the boy,
Not even weeds.
Three naughty pigs,
Back in the pen,
Never could do
Such digging again.
For, in their noses,
Something would hurt
Whenever they tried
To dig in the dirt.

Little Biddy
Little Biddy O'Toole, on her three-legged stool,
Was 'atin' her praties so hot;
Whin up stepped the pig,
Wid his appetite big,
And Biddy got down like a shot.

The Spectre Pig
It was the stalwart butcher man
That knit his swarthy brow,
And said the gentle pig must die,
And sealed it with a vow.
And oh! it was the gentle pig
Lay stretched upon the ground,
And ah! it was the cruel knife
His little heart that found.
They took him then those wicked men,
They trailed him all along;
They put a stick between his lips,
And through his heels a thong.
And round and round an oaken beam
A hempen cord they flung,
And like a mighty pendulum
All solemnly he swung.
Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man
And think what thou hast done,
And read thy catechism well,
Thou sanguinary one.
For if its sprite should walk by night
It better were for thee,
That thou were mouldering in the ground,
Or bleaching in the sea.
It was the savage butcher then
That made a mock of sin,
And swore a very wicked oath,
He did not care a pin.
It was the butcher's youngest son,
His voice was broke with sighs,
And with his pocket handkerchief
He wiped his little eyes.
All young and ignorant was he,
But innocent and mild,
And, in his soft simplicity,
Out spoke the tender child—
"Oh! father, father, list to me;
The pig is deadly sick,
And men have hung him by his heels,
And fed him with a stick."
It was the naughty butcher then
That laughed as he would die,
Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child
And bid him not to cry.
"Oh! Nathan, Nathan, what's a pig,
That thou shouldst weep and wail?
Come bear thee like a butcher's child,
And thou shalt have his tail."
It was the butcher's daughter then,
So slender and so fair,
That sobbed as if her heart would break
And tore her yellow hair.
And thus she spoke in thrilling tone—
Fell fast the tear-drops big:
"Ah! woe to me! Alas! alas!
The pig! the pig! the pig!"
Then did her wicked father's lips
Make merry wit her woe,
And call her many a naughty name,
Because she whimpered so.
Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones,
In vain your tears are shed,
Ye cannot wash the crimson hand,
Ye cannot sooth the dead.
The bright sun folded on his breast,
His robes of rosey flame,
And softly over all the west
The shades of evening came.
He slept, and troops of murdered pigs
Were busy in his dreams;
Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks,
Wide yawned their mortal seams.
The clock struck twelve; the dead hath heard;
He opened both his eyes,
And sullenly he shook his tail
To lash the feeding flies.
One quiver of the hempen cord—
One struggle and one bound—
With stiffened limb and leaded eye,
The pig was on the ground.
And straight towards the sleeper's house
His fearful way he wended;
And hooting owl, and hovering bat,
On midnight wing attended.
Back flew the bolt, uprose the latch,
And open swung the door,
And little mincing feet were heard
Pat, pat, along the floor.
Two hoofs upon the sanded floor,
And two upon the bed;
And they are breathing side by side,
The living and the dead.
"Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man!
What makes your cheeks so pale?
Take hold! take hold! thou dost not fear
To clasp a spectre's tail?"
Untwisted every winding coil;
The shuddering wretch took hold,
Till like an icicle it seemed,
So tapering and so cold.
"Thou com'st with me, thou butcher man!"
He strives to loose his grasp,
But, faster than the clinging vine,
Those twining spirals clasp.
And open, open, swung the door,
And fleeter than the wind,
The shadowy spectre swept before,
The butcher trailed behind.
Fast fled the darkness of the night,
And morn rose faint and dim;
They called full loud, they knocked full long
They did not waken him.
Straight, straight towards that oaken beam,
A trampled pathway ran;
A ghastly shape was swinging there—
It was the butcher man.
O. W. Holmes

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