"Soul of my body, sir!" roar'd cook,--no fire
In his own kitchen, showing phiz more red,
Yet whether thus, from guilt he blazed, or ire,
Or _shame_ perdie, hath ne'er been sung or said,
"Soul of my body!--other leg?--Well done!--
No crane that e'er _I_ saw, had more than _one_."

Juan, thus silenc'd, but not satisfied,
In his own mind revolv'd
The neatest way
Of telling master Brazenface, he lied;
And so resolv'd
To take him out crane-shooting the next day.
They went:--"Well, cook," quoth Ayala, "for fun
I've brought thee here,
Where quickly 'twill appear
That if cranes have not _two_ legs,--why, they've _none_."
"Say you so, Senor?--look!--yon long-neck'd flock,
Each bird of it on _one_ foot, ends the matter;
Ay--there they stand,--as firm as any rock,
I swear by ev'ry dish I ever broke, or platter."
Straight to the flock, flight, covey, (we've no name
In Albion, to designate _such_ game.)
Rush'd Ayala, whose hearty psho! psho! psho!
Took the cranes off _one_ leg,--discovering _two_,
As up they rose, on rustling, sullen wing:
"Well cook?" "Why, body of my soul, sir, there's the thing,
Had you said _psho! psho!_ to your _roasted_ crane,
Belike you'd seen its hidden leg again!"