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.
The twice-born Birds to the Pilgrim's Church
As by miracle consecrated,
Were given, and there unto the Saint
They were publicly dedicated.
At their dedication the Corporation
A fund for their keep supplied;
And after following the Saint and his banners,
This Cock and Hen were so changed in their manners,
That the Priests were edified.
Gentle as any turtle-dove,
Saint Cock became all meekness and love;
Most dutiful of wives,
Saint Hen she never peck'd again,
So they led happy lives.