Nursery Rhyme. LXI. Tales.

In Arthur's court Tom Thumb[*] did live,             A man of mickle might;         The best of all the table round,             And eke a doughty knight.         His stature but an inch in height,             Or quarter of a span;         Then think you not this little knight             Was proved a valiant man?         His father was a ploughman plain,             His mother milk'd the cow,         Yet how that they might have a son             They knew not what to do:         Until such time this good old man             To learned Merlin goes,         And there to him his deep desires             In secret manner shows.         How in his heart he wish'd to have             A child, in time to come,         To be his heir, though it might be             No bigger than his thumb.         Of which old Merlin thus foretold,             That he his wish should have,         And so this son of stature small             The charmer to him gave.         No blood nor bones in him should be,             In shape, and being such         That men should hear him speak, but not             His wandering shadow touch.         But so unseen to go or come, -             Whereas it pleas'd him still;         Begot and born in half an hour,             To fit his father's will.         And in four minutes grew so fast             That he became so tall         As was the ploughman's thumb in height,             And so they did him call -         TOM THUMB, the which the fairy queen             There gave him to his name,         Who, with her train of goblins grim,             Unto his christening came.         Whereas she cloth'd him richly brave,             In garments fine and fair,         Which lasted him for many years             In seemly sort to wear.         His hat made of an oaken leaf,             His shirt a spider's web,         Both light and soft for those his limbs             That were so smally bred.         His hose and doublet thistle-down,             Together weaved full fine;         His stockings of an apple green,             Made of the outward rind;         His garters were two little hairs             Pull'd from his mother's eye;         His boots and shoes, a mouse's skin,             Were tann'd most curiously         Thus like a lusty gallant, he             Adventured forth to go,         With other children in the streets,             His pretty tricks to show.         Where he for counters, pins, and points,             And cherry-stones did play,         Till he amongst those gamesters young             Had lost his stock away.         Yet could he soon renew the same,             Whereas most nimbly he         Would dive into their cherry-bags,             And their partaker be,         Unseen or felt by any one,             Until this scholar shut         This nimble youth into a box,             Wherein his pins he put.         Of whom to be reveng'd, he took,             In mirth and pleasant game,         Black pots and glasses, which he hung             Upon a bright sun-beam.         The other boys to do the like,             In pieces broke them quite;         For which they were most soundly whipt;             Whereat he laughed outright.         And so Tom Thumb restrained was,             From these his sports and play;         And by his mother after that,             Compell'd at home to stay.         Until such time his mother went             A-milking of her kine;         Where Tom unto a thistle fast             She linked with a twine.         A thread that held him to the same,             For fear the blustering wind         Should blow him hence, - that so she might             Her son in safety find.         But mark the hap! a cow came by,             And up the thistle eat;         Poor Tom withal, that, as a dock,             Was made the red cow's meat.         Who, being miss'd, his mother went             Him calling everywhere;         Where art thou, Tom? Where art thou, Tom?             Quoth he, here, mother, here!         Within the red cow's stomach here,             Your son is swallowed up:         The which into her fearful heart,             Most careful dolours put.         Meanwhile the cow was troubled much,             And soon releas'd Tom Thumb;         No rest she had till out her mouth,             In bad plight he did come.         Now after this, in sowing time,             His father would him have         Into the field to drive his plough,             And thereupon him gave -         A whip made of a barley-straw,             To drive the cattle on;         Where, in a furrow'd land new sown,             Poor Tom was lost and gone.         Now by a raven of great strength,             Away he thence was borne,         And carried in the carrion's beak,             Even like a grain of corn,         Unto a giant's castle top,             In which he let him fall;         Where soon the giant swallowed up             His body, clothes, and all.         But soon the giant spat him out,             Three miles into the sea;         Whereas a fish soon took him up,             And bore him thence away.         Which lusty fish was after caught,             And to king Arthur sent;         Where Tom was found, and made his dwarf,             Whereas his days he spent.         Long time in lively jollity,             Belov'd of all the court;         And none like Tom was then esteem'd,             Among the noble sort.         Amongst his deeds of courtship done,             His highness did command,         That he should dance a galliard brave             Upon his queen's left hand.         The which he did, and for the same             The king his signet gave,         Which Tom about his middle wore,             Long time a girdle brave.         How, after this, the king would not             Abroad for pleasure go         But still Tom Thumb must ride with him,             Placed on his saddle-bow.         Whereon a time when, as it rain'd,             Tom Thumb most nimbly crept         In at a button-hole, where he             Within his bosom slept.         And being near his highness' heart,             He crav'd a wealthy boon,         A liberal gift, the which the king             Commanded to be done.         For to relieve his father's wants,             And mother's, being old;         Which was, so much of silver coin             As well his arms could hold.         And so away goes lusty Tom,             With threepence on his back,         A heavy burthen, which might make             His wearied limbs to crack.         So travelling two days and nights,             With labour and great pain,         He came into the house whereat             His parents did remain;         Which was but half a mile in space             From good king Arthur's court,         The which, in eight and forty hours,             He went in weary sort.         But coming to his father's door,             He there such entrance had         As made his parents both rejoice,             And he thereat was glad.         His mother in her apron took             Her gentle son in haste,         And by the fire-side, within             A walnut-shell him placed;         Whereas they feasted him three days             Upon a hazel-nut,         Whereon he rioted so long,             He them to charges put;         And thereupon grew wond'rous sick,             Through eating too much meat,         Which was sufficient for a month             For this great man to eat.         But now his business call'd him forth             King Arthur's court to see,         Whereas no longer from the same             He could a stranger be.         But yet a few small April drops             Which settled in the way,         His long and weary journey forth             Did hinder and so stay.         Until his careful father took             A birding trunk in sport,         And with one blast, blew this his son             Into king Arthur's court.         Now he with tilts and tournaments             Was entertained so,         That all the best of Arthur's knights             Did him much pleasure show:         As good Sir Lancelot du Lake,             Sir Tristain, and Sir Guy;         Yet none compar'd with brave Tom Thumb             For knightly chivalry.         In honour of which noble day,             And for his lady's sake,         A challenge in king Arthur's court             Tom Thumb did bravely make.         'Gainst whom these noble knights did run,             Sir Chinon and the rest,         Yet still Tom Thumb, with matchless might,             Did bear away the best.         At last Sir Lancelot du Lake             In manly sort came in,         And with this stout and hardy knight             A battle did begin.         Which made the courtiers all aghast,             For there that valiant man,         Through Lancelot's steed, before them all,             In nimble manner ran.         Yea, horse and all, with spear and shield,             As hardy he was seen,         But only by king Arthur's self             And his admired queen;         Who from her finger took a ring,             Through which Tom Thumb made way,         Not touching it, in nimble sort,             As it was done in play.         He likewise cleft the smallest hair             From his fair lady's head,         Not hurting her whose even hand             Him lasting honours bred.         Such were his deeds and noble acts             In Arthur's court there shone,         As like in all the world beside             Was hardly seen or known.         Now at these sports he toil'd himself,             That he a sickness took,         Through which all manly exercise             He carelessly forsook.         When lying on his bed sore sick,             King Arthur's doctor came,         With cunning skill, by physic's art,             To ease and cure the same.         His body being so slender small,             This cunning doctor took         A fine perspective glass, with which             He did in secret look -         Into his sickened body down,             And therein saw that Death         Stood ready in his wasted frame             To cease his vital breath.         His arms and legs consum'd as small             As was a spider's web,         Through which his dying hour grew on,             For all his limbs grew dead.         His face no bigger than an ant's,             Which hardly could be seen;         The loss of which renowned knight             Much grieved the king and queen.         And so with peace and quietness             He left this earth below;         And up into the fairy-land             His ghost did fading go,         Whereas the fairy-queen receiv'd,             With heavy mourning cheer,         The body of this valiant knight,             Whom she esteem'd so dear.         For with her dancing nymphs in green,             She fetch'd him from his bed,         With music and sweet melody,             So soon as life was fled;         For whom king Arthur and his knights             Full forty days did mourn;         And, in remembrance of his name,             That was so strangely born -         He built a tomb of marble gray,             And year by year did come         To celebrate ye mournful death             And burial of Tom Thumb.         Whose fame still lives in England here,             Amongst the country sort;         Of whom our wives and children small             Tell tales of pleasant sport.             [Footnote *: "I have an old edition of this author by me, the title of which is more sonorous and heroical than those of later date, which, for the better information of the reader, it may not be improper to insert in this place, 'Tom Thumb his Life and Death; wherein is declar'd his many marvellous Acts of Manhood, full of wonder and strange merriment.' Then he adds, 'Which little Knight liv'd in King Arthur's time, in the court of Great Britain.' Indeed, there are so many spurious editions of this piece upon one account or other, that I wou'd advise my readers to be very cautious in their choice." - A Comment upon the History of T. T. 1711. A "project for the reprinting of Tom Thumb, with marginal notes and cuts," is mentioned in the old play of The Projectours, 1665, p. 41.]