Chapter VII

Away, away, to the mountain cave,
Rides Jack at a spanking trot;
No Knight of the Poll-axe, all so brave,
Could have distanced him I wot!

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The Gorgon's head you ne'er have seen--
Nor would it much avail,
To marble ears, Ï rather ween,
The bard to sing his tale.

But oft the Saracen's, I know,
Hath horrified your sight
On London's famous Hill of Snow,
Which is n't often white.

Such was the visage, but four times its size,
With a trunk to match, that our champion spies.

By the mouth of the cave on a chopping-block sitting,
Grinding his teeth and his shaggy brows knitting,
Was the Giant;--and rolling his terrible eyes
Like portentous meteors, they
Glimmered, glowed, and flashed away;

His cheeks and nose were fiery too;
Like wire on his chin the bristles grew;
And his tangled locks hung down his back,
Like the legs of a Brobdignag spider so black;
Ready, the thickest skull to crack
That ever county member wore,
His iron club beside him lay.

He was in a terrible way,
For he voted his brother's not coming a bore.