Ciera

Next thing ? But Jack retreated,
He could not well stand by

And see his friend ill treated,
His dear old comrade die.

He went again a-fishing,
But Pheasant cried ‘Enough!
The ass will bear him right through,
And prove his guantum suff.

Come, see the golden ices!
The late old giant’s hoard :
These you must soon remove, sir,
And have securely stored.’

She showed him bars and ingots
Of tapering yellow gold ;

‘We find them in the tree-top,
They’re sunbeams fixed by cold.

But, like all other riches,
They soon may melt. away ;

And also may be stolen—
We'll hide them, sir, to-day.

Hark ! there’s a sound like thunder,
As if a boiler rusted,

O’ercharged with steam, exploded.
See! ’tis the lion bursted !’

His skin grown thin had tightened,

 

Cracked in its wrinkled creases,

And with the inward pressure
At last had burst to pieces.

The Pheasant flapped her light wing,
To call the carrion crows:
(That such things happened ev’ry day |

 

A stranger might suppose).

‘Tll show you now the greenhouse—
We only grow rich fruit ;

Each plum you see’s a diamond—
That’s gold-dust at the root.

Those pods contain our seed pearls—
They grow a wondrous size;

The Giant was a micer,
And planted these cats’ eyes.

The emeralds, like taties,
Were started in yon pot ;
But, being over-watered,
I think have gone to rot.’

They stroll into an arbour
Of climbing, fragrant flowers ;
‘Here!’ said the weary Reynard,
‘T could repose for hours.

For nights I’ve been a-working,
And, truth must be confest,
I feel a little drowsy,
So here will take a rest.’

‘Ere slumb’ring’ said the Pheasant,
‘ This ring place on my toe:

A little shining plain thing,
Which you again may know.’

He did as she requested,
And then fell fast asleep ;
He really was nigh worn out,
His rest was sound and deep.

For full an hour unconscious,
Then with a yawn he woke ;

‘Where is my golden pheasant ?
*Twas you, I think, that spoke.’