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.