Classic Poem

You have all of you heard of St. James for Spain
As one of the Champions Seven,
Who, having been good Knights on Earth
Became Hermits, and Saints in Heaven.

Their history once was in good repute
And so it ought to be still;
Little friends, I dare say you have read it
And if not, why, I hope you will.

Of this St. James that book proclaims
Great actions manifold;
But more amazing are the things
Which of him in Spain are told; —

How once a ship, of marble made,
Came sailing o'er the sea,
Wherein his headless corpse was laid,
Perfumed with sanctity; —

And how, though then he had no head,
He afterwards had two,
Which both work'd miracles so well,
That it was not possible to tell
The false one from the true; —

And how he used to fight the Moors
Upon a milk-white charger:
Large tales of him the Spaniards tell,
Munchausen tells no larger.
But in their cause, of latter years,
He has not been so hearty;
For that he never struck a stroke is plain,
When our Duke, in many a hard campaign,
Beat the French armies out of Spain,
And conquer'd Bonaparte:

Yet still they worship him in Spain,
And believe in him with might and main;
Santiago there they call him;
And if any one there should doubt these tales,
They've an Inquisition to maul him.

At Compostella, in his Church,
His body and one head
Have been, for some eight hundred years,
By Pilgrims visited.

Old scores might there be clean rubb'd off;
And tickets there were given
To clear all toll-gates on the way
Between the Church-yard and Heaven.

Some went for payment of a vow
In time of trouble made;
And some, who found that pilgrimage
Was a pleasant sort of trade; —

And some, I trow, because it was
Believed, as well as said,
That all, who in their mortal stage
Did not perform this pilgrimage,
Must make it when they were dead; —

Some upon penance for their sins,
In person, or by attorney;
And some who were or had been sick;
And some who thought to cheat Old Nick;
And some who liked the journey;

Which well they might when ways were safe;
And therefore rich and poor
Went in that age on pilgrimage,
As folks now make a tour.

The poor with scrip, the rich with purse,
They took their chance for better for worse,
From many a foreign land,
With a scallop-shell in the hat for badge,
And a Pilgrim's staff in hand.

Something there is, the which to leave
Untold would not be well,
Relating to the Pilgrim's staff,
And to the scallop-shell.

For the scallop shows, in a coat of arms,
That of the bearer's line
Some one, informer days, hath been
To Santiago's shrine.

And the staff was bored and drilled for those
Who on a flute could play;
And thus the merry Pilgrim had
His music on the way.