re, the fight is renewed, and the Dragon
again killed._

_Saint George._ Here am I, St. George,
That worthy champion bold,
And with my sword and spear
I won three crowns of gold.
I fought the fiery dragon,
And brought him to the slaughter;
By that I won fair Sabra,
The King of Egypt's daughter.
Where is the man, that now will me defy?
I'll cut his giblets full of holes, and make his buttons fly.

_The Turkish Knight advances._

Here come I, the Turkish Knight,
Come from the Turkish land to fight.
I'll fight St. George, who is my foe,
I'll make him yield before I go;
He brags to such a high degree,
He thinks there's none can do the like of he.

_Saint George._ Where is the Turk, that will before me stand?
I'll cut him down with my courageous hand.

[_They fight, the Knight is overcome, and falls on one knee._

_Turkish Knight._ Oh! pardon me, St. George, pardon of thee I crave,
Oh! pardon me this night, and I will be thy slave.

_Saint George._ No pardon shalt thou have, while I have foot to stand,
So rise thee up again, and fight out sword in hand.

[_They fight again, and the Knight is killed. Father Christmas calls for
the Doctor, with whom the same dialogue occurs as before, and the cure
is performed._

_Enter the Giant Turpin._

Here come I, the Giant, bold Turpin is my name,
And all the nations round do tremble at my fame.
Where'er I go, they tremble at my sight,
No lord or champion long with me would fight.

_Saint George._ Here's one that dares to look thee in the face,
And soon will send thee to another place.

_They fight, and the Giant is killed; medical aid is called in as
before, and the cure performed by the Doctor, to whom then is given a
basin of girdy grout and a kick, and driven out._

_Father Christmas._ Now, ladies and gentlemen, your sport is most ended,
So prepare for the hat, which is highly commended.
The hat it would speak, if it had but a tongue;
Come throw in your money, and think it no wrong.

APPENDIX B

FROM THE CORNISH MYSTERY OF THE CRUCIFIXION

_Jesus._ Woman, seest thou thy son?
A thousand times your arms have borne him
With tenderness.
And John, behold thy mother;
Thus keep her, without denial,
As long as ye live.

_Mary._ Alas! alas! oh! sad, sad!
In my heart is sorrow,
When I see my son Jesus,
About his head a crown of thorns
He is Son of God in every way,
And with that truly a King;
Feet and hands on every sid