THE BALLAD OF SIR CHRISTOPHER J. JONES
317
One evening, when wearied with toils of the chase— An evening of bright hunter’s moontime— Our hero drew rein in a still, woodsy place, Where fain would he rest him, and slumber a space, Having slain ninety monsters since noontime. His chestnut he tied to a horse-chestnut tree, (A natural bond of connection), Then, having his armor-canned body pried free, His limbs he outstretched, and with yawns, one, two, three, Set forward in Nodland’s direction; And soon, in rich baritone tones, Snored Sir Christopher Jenkinson Jones. |
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Not long had this snore been outbooming, before
An answering challenge came sounding;
He sprang to his feet, as with oncoming roar,
A creature with blazing eyes down on him bore,
With terrible leaping and bounding!
No nightmare that ever climbed up on your bed
Could mate with this fearsome creation:
Of iron and brass was its big, bulgy head,
Its body was colored a fiery red,
Its feet pranced in rapid rotation.
(Prepare now your last mortal moans,
Bold Sir Christopher Jenkinson Jones.)
An answering challenge came sounding;
He sprang to his feet, as with oncoming roar,
A creature with blazing eyes down on him bore,
With terrible leaping and bounding!
No nightmare that ever climbed up on your bed
Could mate with this fearsome creation:
Of iron and brass was its big, bulgy head,
Its body was colored a fiery red,
Its feet pranced in rapid rotation.
(Prepare now your last mortal moans,
Bold Sir Christopher Jenkinson Jones.)
