A Giant was, I should premise,
     A hulking lout of monstrous size;
     He mostly stood—I know you 'll laugh—
     About as high as a giraffe.

     His waist was some three yards in girth:
     When he walked he shook the earth.
     His eyes were of the class called "goggle,"
     Fitter for the scowl than ogle.

     His mouth, decidedly carnivorous,
     Like a shark's,—the Saints deliver us!
     He yawned like a huge sarcophagus,
     For he was an Anthropophagus,

     And his tusks were huge and craggy;
     His hair, and his brows, and his beard, were shaggy.

     I ween on the whole he was aught but a Cupid,
     And exceedingly fierce, and remarkably stupid;

              His brain partaking strongly of lead,
              How well soe'er he was off for head;
              Having frequently one or two
              Crania more than I or you.

              He was bare of arm and leg,
              But buskins had, and a philabeg;
              Also a body-coat of mail
              That shone with steel or brazen scale,
              Like to the back of a crocodile's tail;

                        A crown he wore,
                        And a mace he bore
              That was knobbed and spiked with adamant;
                        It would smash the skull
                        Of the mountain bull,
              Or scatter the brains of the elephant.

         His voice than the tempest was louder and gruffer—
         Well; so much for the uncouth "buffer."

               Of a right noble race was Jack,
               For kith and kin he did not lack,
                    Whom tuneful bards have puffed;
               The Seven bold Champions ranked among
               That highly celebrated throng,
                    And Riquet with the Tuft.

          Jack of the Beanstalk, too, was one;
          And Beauty's Beast; and Valour's son,
              Sir Amadis de Gaul:
          But if I had a thousand tongues,
          A throat of brass, and iron lungs,
              I could not sing them all.

     His sire was a farmer hearty and free;
     He dwelt where the Land's End frowns on the sea,
     And the sea at the Land's End roars again,
     Tit for tat, land and main.

     He was a worthy wight, and so
     He brought up his son in the way he should go;
     He sought not—not he!—to make him a "muff;"
     He never taught him a parcel of stuff;

     He bothered him not with trees and plants,
     Nor told him to study the manners of ants.
     He himself had never been
     Bored with the Saturday Magazine;
     The world might be flat, or