The Feast of Saint George

There once was a bold British Knight Who went hunting a Dragon to fight; But when it smelled Dragon, His horse began laggin’, And then ran away out of fright. The Knight was left standing alone, To face the fierce Wurm on his own; This warrior so brave Followed smoke to a cave Where the Dragon lay deep in the stone. “Bold Knight,” said the well-hidden Beast, “Your visit shows courage, at least, But wisdom is lacking In Knights who go hacking At mountains, instead of at feast. “Go home, and carve pork-pies instead, And chickens, and cheeses, and bread; Come back with a share, Folks’ll be free from care, For no Dragon hunts when well fed!” The Knight walked all day down the road, Then rode back with a wagon-full load Of savory feast To feed to the Beast; And as for the Dragon, it _growed_! It ate ’till its stomach was swelling To fill all its cavernous dwelling; And, true to its word, The Dragon preferred To dine home instead of go killing. So now we may lift up our flagon In salute to the Knight (and his wagon), And wash down our feed With good whiskey and mead, And give a _big_ share to the Dragon!