'Twere wrong to infer from what you're read
That Richard awoke with an aching head;
For nerves like his resisted
With wonderful ease what we might deem
Enough to stagger a Polypheme,
And his spirits would never more than seem
A trifle too much "assisted."
And yet in the morn no fumes were there,
And his eyes were bright,--almost as a pair
Of eyes that you and I know;
For his head, the best authorities write,
(See the Story of Tuck,) was always right
And sound as ever after a night
Of _"Pellite curas vino!"_
As soon as the light broke into his tent,
Without delay for a herald he sent,
And bade him don his tabard,
And away to the Count to say, "By law
_That gold_ was the king's: unless he saw
The same ere noon, his sword he would draw
And throw away the scabbard."
An hour, for his morning exercise,
He swayed that sword of wondrous size,--
'Twas called his great "persuader";
Then a mace of steel he smote in two,--
A feat which the king would often do,
Since Saladin wondered at that _coup_
When he met our stout crusader.
A trifle for him: he "trained to light,"--
Grown lazy now: but his appetite,
On the whole, was satisfactory,--
As the vanishing viands, warm and cold,
Most amply proved, ere, minus the gold,
The herald returned and trembling told
How the Count had proved refractory:
Had owned it true that his serfs had found
A treasure buried somewhere in the ground,--
Perhaps not strictly a nugget:
Though none but Norman lawyers chose
To count it tort, if the finders "froze"
To treasure-trove,--especially those
Who held the land where they dug it,--
For quits he'd give up half,--down,--cash;
And that, for one who had gone to smash,
Was a liberal restitution:
His neighbor Shent-per-Shent did sue
On a better claim, and put it through,--
Recovered his suit, but not a _sou_
At the tail of an execution.
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