Chapter 1

Minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently corrected.
Variable, archaic and unusual spelling as well as apparent printer's
errors have been retained as they appear in the original. The poems
"Bohemians, hail!" and "Sonnet on shares" do not appear in the table of
contents.

Mark up: _italics_

SPOOK BALLADS

BY

W. THEODORE PARKES.

_Crown 8vo, Cloth gilt, 5s._

POPULAR EDITION 2S.

LONDON:

SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT, & CO., LIMITED.

_And all Booksellers._

CHEERS OF THE PRESS!

"Ingoldsby, Thomas Hood, W. S. Gilbert,--these are the names that occur
to one in trying to 'place' Mr. Parkes after reading this volume of
rollicking, verbal and pictorial fun. THE SPOOK BALLADS are in no sense
imitations of any of those classics of the comic muse, yet we find in
them the same thorough abandonment to 'the humour of the thing.'"--_The
Publisher's Circular._

"A substantial volume introducing a Comic Poet, who in the future may
give us a modern Ingoldsby. Mr. Parkes has an intellectual touch to his
drollery and his sense of the possible humours of versification is
pleasantly keen, the SPOOK BALLADS is far above the contemporary average
of the lighter rhymesters. Mr. Parkes wields a sprightly pencil, and he
has illustrated his verses lavishly and with effect."--_The Stage._

"Not only are the literary merit of these fantastic ballads of a high
order, but the illustrations by the author are of such a humorous nature
as to give a unique pleasure to the reader."--_The Morning Leader._

"Well written, well illustrated, and funny is a combination of good
qualities not often met with even in the Spook world, so Messrs.
Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent, and Co., ought to be well pleased
with their publication."--_The Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News._

"Dealing largely with ghosts and legends embracing a dash of diablerie
such as would have been dear to the heart of Ingoldsby. There is a
rugged force in 'The Girl of Castlebar' that will always make it tell in
recitation; and even greater success in this direction has attended 'The
Fairy Queen,' a story unveiling the seamy side, with quaint humour and
stern realism. It is specially worthy of note that Mr. Parkes's skill in
versification has received the warmest acknowledgment from those best
qualified to appreciate the bright local coloring as well as the
blending of fancy and fun."--_Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper._

"A cheery and spirited production, and full of fun; the style reminds
one of 'Bon Gaultier,' the style and illustrations combined inevitably
recall the famous 'Bab Ballads.' Indeed it is hard to say which is the
most felicitous, the draughtsman or the poet."--_The Bookseller._

"In the attractive SPOOK BALLADS, the talented Irish artist has
displayed qualities to a remarkable degree. There are many pieces
reciters will be glad to lay hold of, while the Ballads and
Illustrations are full of the pleasing humour which characterises all
Mr. Parkes' work, and which will serve to cheer and to amuse many
readers."--_The Sun._

"As the combined production of a clever pencil and a clever pen, this
volume may be said to be unique. These poems are pure fun of the most
entirely frolicsome kind, hung upon the peg of a quaint idea. 'The
German Band' rises to a really tragic pathos. The illustrations are
either quaint, droll, or dainty, or partake of broad caricature."--_The
Citizen._

"It contains a store of humour that will delight and amuse the reader,
who will be sure to re-read the many capital lays. Just the thing for
reciters. The Artist, his own Illustrator, shines here as conspicuously
as in the kindred branch of Authorship."--_British and Colonial Printer
and Stationer._

"Mr. Parkes is clever and polished alike in the expression of humour and
pathos. Indescribably funny is his story of the deluge as told by
'Antediluvian Pat O'Toole,' and a note of grim tragedy is struck in the
tale of 'John McKune.' Rollicking lays, many of them admirably adapted
for recitation, go to make a delightful book, which has the uncommon
merit of being well illustrated by Mr. Parkes, who is as skilful an
artist as he is an author."--_Photographic Journal._

"SPOOK BALLADS possess an amount of boisterous humour and variety of
quaint versification which make them excellent and refreshing reading.
The book owes a good deal of its charm to the author's clever and
laughable illustrations which are plentifully besprinkled in its
pages."--_The Weekly Sun_.

"There is a good store of pleasant humour in SPOOK BALLADS, by Theodore
Parkes, who also has a happy gift with the pencil, as witness the
illustrations, the fare he provides certainly deserves a really grateful
'grace after meat.'"--_The People._

"In his attractive volume, THE SPOOK BALLADS, Mr. Theodore Parkes has
shown himself to be not only an author but an artist of considerable
talents."--_Weekly Budget._

"The fun is good humoured and light-hearted, and better than most
popular verse as to rhyme and metre. The illustrations are really clever
and range from broad farce to charming little head and tail pieces that
are graceful and suggestive."--_Borderland._

"---- Ballads all of which are undeniably clever. A book which will be
gratefully turned to by all who seek occasional relaxation in the best
of good company."--_The Surveyor._

"A clever collection of poems illustrated by their author and deserve
great popularity. The author is well known in London literary circles in
which he has given several of the pieces here presented as
recitations."--_The Lamp._

"Irrespective of the pleasure to be derived from reading the Ballads,
the book is well worth obtaining for the author's remarkably clever
illustrations."--_South London Press._

"A facile flow of versification, keen sense of humour, and a good
mastery of English as she is spoke by Irish, German and other
nationalities, as well as how she should be spoken, characterise
this book of ballads. The sketches are well adapted to the
themes."--_Manchester Courier._

"'The Colonel and the Cook' is not only genuine farce in conception, but
felicitous anti-pathos in the execution."--_Manchester Guardian._

"These Ballads are as original and racy and facetious as any I have come
across for a long time; Parkes's pencil is a lively companion for his
pen; the two of them rollick and frolic down page after page in a state
of hilarity that would dissipate and dispose of the worst attack of
'blues.' The sun does not shine every day, and when the hour is dark and
dreary there will be found enlivement and joviality and wholesome
entertainment within the covers of this volume."--_Free Lance in the
Weekly Irish Times._

"If any of our readers wish to enjoy a long and pleasant life let them
ask for SPOOK BALLADS! there is abundance of mirth, fun, wit and
merriment in this beautiful volume."--_Munster Express._

"About as laugh-inspiring verse as perhaps ever issued from the Press,
the SPOOK BALLADS are one and all conceived in a most exuberant spirit
of drollery. There is a laugh almost in every line, fun galore bubbles
through every page. Where could one find a more touching combination of
humour and pathos than the dedication lines 'Bohemians Hail!' There are
lines in it worthy of some of the best touches of Poe. The book is a
book for _bon vivants_. It is a veritable ode to conviviality, and its
pages teeming with most artistic illustrations. Alive with ever-recurring
flashes of wit and drollery, will afford many a pleasant hour to all to
whom a laugh is welcome."--_United Ireland._

"A delightful diverting volume, from cover to cover, of the sixty-one
ballads before us; not one halts, they are all boisterous with bubbling
mirth and frolic. Happy the man who in a moment of ill humour, lights on
a copy of SPOOK BALLADS. Fun of this kind is contagious, and before he
has dipped far into Mr. Parkes' pages he will have forgotten his temper
or his ennui. The book is full too of social satire, with touches of
biting realism."--_The Freeman's Journal._

"Most amusingly humorous verses cleverly and quaintly illustrated, and,
like all genuine humour, teaches many a needed and important lesson in
morals and the conduct of life, and hits sharp blows at hypocrisy and
current shams and humbugs. Surely the author must have had Jabez Balfour
and the Liberator swindle in his mind when he composed the scathing
ballad entitled 'The Devil in Richmond Park.'"--_The Christian Age._

"This is a very charming and winning volume. Everything about the book
is an incentive to make a prompt acquaintance with its literary merits.
Mr. Parkes is a consummate artist in verse, and through all runs the
same vein of drollery, of pungency, of real humour difficult to resist,
and which makes us wish for more, and much more from so entertaining a
pen."--_The Carlow Sentinel._

"A collection of humorous verses quaintly and cleverly illustrated by
his own pencil. The author has a broad vein of humour."--_Evening News_
(_London_).

"When parties perusing this volume have completed its 250 pages they
will only regret that it is not double its size."--_The Irish Times._

"The naivete of the wit is most irresistible, and the humour most
amusing. 'The Ghost of Hampton Court' and 'The spirit that held him
down' are both decidedly clever, but it is to 'The Girl of Castlebar,'
'The Fairy Queen' and 'Why did ye die?" we turn for all that is most
original and sparkling. The volume itself is as tastefully finished
outside as it is wittily furnished and illustrated inside."--_King's
County Chronicle._

"THE SPOOK BALLADS will greatly amuse the class of readers who prefer a
good hearty laugh to the emotions produced by 'Paradise lost' or
'Hamlet.' The book is crammed with fun of the funniest sort, though it
contains many passages which possess a value above mere
jollity."--_Glasgow Herald._

"There is no lack of rollicking fun in THE SPOOK BALLADS. The pieces are
always amusing in idea, and the free sweep of the verse has a certain
buoyancy which carries a reader pleasantly along."--_The Scotsman._

"The humourous drawings are charming, and the figure subjects and
decorative designs show great versatility and skill. Mr. Parkes has a
wonderful way of introducing odd expressions, quaint conceits, and
grotesque imagery. Many a hearty laugh will be got out of the SPOOK
BALLADS."--_The Aberdeen Journal._

"The illustrations by the Author copiously strewn throughout the work
are exceedingly clever, and are in themselves enough to commend the
book, and will appeal to readers endowed with a particle of humour.
Altogether the book is the kind to cheer the winter fireside or make the
summer holiday slide joyously into autumn."--_Kirkudbrightshire
Advertiser._

"The pages abound in illustrations and marginal etchings, and these
display rare artistic skill and a genuine spirit of comicality."--_The
Derry Journal._

"John M'Kune is racy of the soil, and rests on something stranger than
fiction."--_The Tyrone Constitution._

THE SPOOK BALLADS.

THE

SPOOK BALLADS

BY

WM. THEODORE PARKES

_Author of "THE BARNEY BRADEY BROCHURES"_

ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR

LONDON:

SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & Co., LIMITED.

1895

CONTENTS.

THE SPOOK BALLADS PAGE

THE GHOSTS OF HAMPTON COURT 1

YE FILIAL SACRIFICE 13

MADAME STIFFIN'S GHOST 17

SONNET ON PARTING 24

HIS BOUQUET 25

THE GIRL OF CASTLEBAR 29

THE GERMAN BAND 34

OUT OF PLUMB 38

A WARD IN THE CHANCERIE 39

THE FAIRY QUEEN 45

THE DEVIL IN RICHMOND PARK 58

SAVED 63

A MOST REMARKABLE CASE 64

A TOUR TO SVITZERLAND 72

JOY! ON SEEING A FLYING SPRING 77

THE MATE OF THE MARY ANNE 78

AN UMBRELLA CASE 83

THE SPOOK OF ROTTEN ROW 84

THE MAGIC SPECS 93

YE CURIOUS TAYLE 95

LEATHER VERSUS LAW 105

HEADS AND TAILS 110

THE COLONEL AND THE COOK 111

THE SPIRIT THAT HELD HIM DOWN 118

HIS FUTURE STATE 123

A FIGHT IN THE PHOENIX PARK 124

AN ABDICATED CROWN 129

TEARS IN LAW 130

HE FOLLOWED THE FOX 133

THE HONEST YOUNG CASHIER 134

THE ROAD TO LONDON 139

ANTEDILUVIAN PAT O'TOOLE 142

THE LUCKY SIXPENCE 156

A WALLFLOWER SONNET 160

PARADOXICAL WORDS 161

A CANTABILE ON MUSIC, ART AND LAW 166

WOMAN'S TEARS 170

HERALDIC FRUITS 171

THE POLIS AND THE PRINCESS GRANAUILLE 180

A HORROR OF LONDON TOWN 186

A CONFIDENTIAL SONNET 188

A TRAM CAR GHOST 189

MARGATE SANDS 194

JOHN MCKUNE 195

I'LL GO FOR A SOJER 201

ODE HERE! 202

THE SMUGGLER'S FATE 203

THE LATE FITZ-BINKS 213

A FUGITIVE KISS 216

THE BEDROOM CURSE 217

A GUN SOLO 224

THE SEMI-GRAND PIANO 225

CANTICRANK 228

AN ILL WIND BLEW HIM GOOD 230

A KLEPTOMANIAC'S DOOM 231

CAUGHT IN THE BREACH 235

THE GHOST OF HIRAM SMIKE 236

WHY DID YE DIE? 239

A PRETTY LITTLE LAND I KNOW 241

HOW THEY ENLIST 243

THE KINDERGARTEN WAY 245

The daylight dreams of many a time,
When song, and rhythmic story,
Were tuned, and voiced for Bigot, and in gay Bohemian ears,
Bring welcome wraiths of joyous nights, thro' whirling clouds
of glory;
The incense of the social weed, o'er spirit cup that cheers.
With hail! to Cycle speedmen, and the boaters of Dunleary,
Clontarf, and the Harmonic, where we sang with midnight chimes,
The smokers of Conservatives, and Liberal Unions cheery,
I weave regretful tribute to their jovial social times;
For autumn gales of life have blown those festal hours asunder,
And scattered far by land and sea, the steps of many a one,
And some alas! beneath the sod, for evermore gone under,
Have left a rainbow thro' the mist of grief that they have won.
But slantha! to the hearts, and hands, of those who yet remaining,
Do carry down traditions of that bright Bohemian throng,
And slantha! to the soulful sheen, of life-light never waning
From Old Eblana's heaven of her social art, and song.

And here's to all Bohemians, of whatever rank, or station,
Whatever tint, or black or tan, or creed you are by birth,
Sweet voices of the earth's romance, of every land, or nation,
Hail! brothers, in the carnival of music, song, and mirth:
So fill we tankards, or the glass, for draught with lusty cheering,
Of honor to a crowning toast, with greeting heart and hand,
As everlasting goal, for letters, art, and song, and beering,
Hip, hip, hurrah! vive! hoc! and skoal! to Fleet Street and
the Strand!

IN THE following verses, a remarkable supernatural interview is
narrated. It is now for the first time launched into publicity, on the
authority, and with the approbation of a quaint old friend of mine,
Professor Simon Chuffkrust, a savant who has daringly groped his way
through certain gloomy mysteries of occult science.

The confidential and impressive manner of Chuffkrust, is jewelled with
eyes of sparkling jet, semitoned behind a screen of moonblue spectacles.

His voice is of such convincing suasion, that it is a novel and
interesting experience to hear him relate with circumstantial
enthusiasm, the ghostly interview afforded him by a fortuitous chance
within the interesting grounds of Hampton Court. His is a testimony most
reliable, and calculated to establish as a fact the actual presence of
supernatural shadows in that historic locality.

It also hints at the necessity, and use, of making the ghost a more
familiar study, whereby the belated world would rid itself of much
unnecessary fright, consequent on the invariable habit of spasmodically
avoiding the familiar advances of the common or bedroom spook.

IN Hampton Court I wandered on a twilight evening grey,
Amidst its mazy precincts I had lost my tourist way,
And while I cogitated, on a seat of carven stone,
I heard beneath an orange tree, an elongated groan!
I crinkled with astonishment, 'twas not a fit of fright,
For loud elastic wailings, I have heard at twelve at night,
The midnight peace disturbing in the lamplit streets below,
But this was uttered in an unfamiliar groan of woe,
And Hampton Court I wot had got some questionable nooks,
In which it harboured spectres, and disreputable spooks,
In which it shrouded headless Queens, and shades of evil Kings
With ill-conditioned titled knaves, in lemans leading strings.

I listened! 'twas a voice that cried as 'twere from out the dust
Of time, that clogged its music, with a husk of mould and rust,
A voice that once as tenor, might have won a slight repute,
But combination now of asthma, whooping cough, and flute.

I sauntered towards the orange tree, and lo! the gloaming thro'
I saw a man in trunk and hose, and silver buckled shoe,
With ruffles and embroidered vest, in wig without a hat,
Inclining to the contour, which is designated fat.
Just then the waxing moonlight bloomed behind, and lifed the stain
Of color thro' him, like a Saint upon a window pane,
I could not spare such noted chance; so stepping from the gloom,
I bowed politely and exclaimed
"A Spectre I presume?"
With glad pathetic wondered look, but still in tones of woe,
He answered thus, "Alack! ah me I am exactly so"
And confidential gleam of hope across his features grew,
Which gave me courage thus to start a social interview.
"I pray of thee to speak, alas! why grims it so with thee?
Some evil canker nips thy peace, divulge thy wrongs to me,
That I may give thee hope, for I am one to sympathize
With manhood's lamentation, as with womanhood, her sighs,
But ha! Mayhap it fits your jest, with elongated groan,
To seek to fright me, as I'm here in Hampton Court alone,
To wreck my spirits as of old has been the game of spook,"
The spectre turned upon me with a sad reproachful look.
And cried, "Alack! that living men, so long have held it good,
To flee from Ghosts, and hence the Ghost is not yet understood,
Now as for me, I moan it not, for jest of idle sport,
My task, it is as murdered Ghost, to haunt in Hampton Court!
I play the victim to a spook, who chucked me down a stair,
Thro' being caught too near my lady's bedroom unaware."

"Poor shade of ill mischance!" I sobbed, the while a wayward tear,
Tricked out along my nose, and lodged upon my tunic here,
"I pray that thou would'st tell me all, withholding ne'er a jot,
For I might do thee service, in some most unlikely spot,"

"O blessed chance!" the Ghost exclaimed, "Thou art the only one
Of all men else, who spoke me so, they always turn and run!
Thou art the first, that I have seen drop sympathetic tears,
Responsive to my moanings, aye for full one hundred years!
And so I feel that I can speak in unreserving tone,
And give thee cause for this alack! my chronic nightly groan!

When I was in my thirties, I engaged to mind the spoons,
Of Colonel Sir John Bouncer, of the Sixty-fifth Dragoons,
And tho' of lowly stature, I am proud I was by half,
More manly than the footman, by step, and chest, and calf.
With frontispiece well favored, in a frame of powdered wig,
I wot amongst the female sex, I joyed a game of tig,
I played the captivating spark, till Colonel Bouncer caught
Me jesting with my Mistress, and he spake with furious haught,
Expressed him his disfavor loud, unto my Lady thus,
"An' thou do not discharge the knave, 'twill cause some future fuss,
The cock-a-dandy bantam, pillory graduate, and scoff
On manhood, give him notice!" but no, she begged me off.

* * * * *

It was not long thereafter, an early postman bore
A warrant for the Colonel, to start for Singapore,
He sailed, and in the August, 'twas just ten months away
He stayed, and he was due in town, upon the first of May,
Twas on that ninth of August at twelve o'clock at night,
'Thro Bouncer Hall I wandered, to see that all was right;
And in my course of searching, to check the silver stock,
I chanced upon the key, with which my Lady wound the clock,
A Louis clock she valued, it was on the mantel shelf
In her boudoir, her habit was to wind it up herself,
I brought it to her bedroom, and scratched a single knock,
And asked her through the keyhole, if she had wound the clock.

My words were scarcely uttered, when from another door, I heard
a foot,
that should have been that night in Singapore!
I saw an eye, that should have seen that night a foreign shore,
"Ha! Caitiff knave!!" He shouted,
'Twas all I heard, no more,
He collared me by neck, and breech, and swept me off the floor,
And bore me down the corridor,
And hoisting me as light as cork, an act I could not check,
He flung me down the oaken stair, and wanton cracked my neck!
For that he paid the penalty, one day on Tyburn tree,
Alack! it was the sorest deed, the Law could wreak for me
For when it made a Ghost of him, he came, and sought me out,
Where haunting at my Lady's door, I heard the self-same shout,
Of "Caitiff knave!!"
The pity on't! he took me unaware,
Once more by gripping of my breech, and tossed me down the stair!

Night after night he compassed it, nor recked he who was there
But by my crop, and grip of trunks, he bumped me down the stair!
Thus mortified by evil fate, his widow nightly wept,
To hear the periodic row, and scarce a wink she slept;
She daily sought to lay his ghost by penance and by prayer,
And got a brace of saintly monks, to exorcise the scare
With holy water sprinked about, a jot he did not care!
But seized me with a fiercer grip, and jocked me down the stair!
And mocked the frightened monks, who flew, with fringe of standing
hair.
At last his widow could not reck his evil conduct there,
She moved to otherwhere.
The only tenants that remained in Bouncer Hall, were rats,
Until 'twas taken down, to build some fashionable flats,
And when the workmen moved the stair, I wot he was cut up,
To see its broken banisters, upon a cart put up.

But vengeance of his hate for me, remained a danger yet,
To find a suitable resort, to work it out he set,
And tapped the telephone, until he heard of that resort;
It is an antient oaken stair, that's here in Hampton Court,
'Twas vacant of a Ghost, I faith, a lobby to be let,
And with some Royal Spook, he had a ghostly compact set,
And then he brought me here to work, his midnight murder yet.
An hour ago, accosting me, says he to me, "Prepare!
Be ready! for once more to-night, I'll crock thee down the stair!

To-night, a cousin German of the noble house of Teck
Will occupy the bedroom, and I'll have to crack thy neck!"

In yonder wing, and up the stairs as high as thou canst go,
There is the bedroom, with a door, of casement rather low,
And if thou stay a night therein, thy sleep might wake for shock,
Of scratching on the door, and keyhole cry, to wind your clock,
And then the shout of
"Caitiff knave!"
And if thou'rt bold and dare,
To peer out on that lobby then, he crocks me down the stair!
And leaves thee shivering in thy shirt, with fright and besomed
hair!
I've heard the County Council, for the City weal is rife,
I'd hold it as a favor, if thou'ds't intimate that life
Is perilled on that lobby, and suggest in thy report,
That lifts would be more suitable, than stairs in Hampton Court.

Then with a comprehensive wail of anguish at his fate,
He gradually vanished thro' the grating of a gate,
And left me sorely puzzled, in a sad reflective state,
Then up a creeping tree, and spout, with stern resolve of hate
Compressed within my breast for Bouncer's evil ghost I clomb,
And slipping thro' the window frame with feline caution dumb,
I slid behind a folding screen, and with a craning neck,
I listened for the snoring of the Colonel Van der Teck,
But not a soul had come that night into the room to rest,
There was no cousin German, and the bed was yet unpressed;
A knavish and mendacious trick it was of Bouncer's Ghost,
To crack his butler's neck again, but with some beans and toast,
I picketed behind the door, on eager ear to catch,
The slightest human murmur, thro' the keyhole of the latch,
At last it came! the midnight yet, was booming from a clock,
When lo! a scratching on the door, and half-way thro' the lock,
I heard the question, and with shout, I gave the ghosts a shock,
By springing to the lobby, like a chip of blasting rock!
And bounded twixt the spectres, with the rage of fighting cock,

Then facing Colonel Bouncer's Ghost, "Thou caitiff spook" I cried,
"Was it for this, that Shakespeare wrote, and Colonel Hampden died?
For this! that Cromwell lopped a royal head as traitor knave?
For this! that all his cuirassiers were sworn to pray and shave?
Was it for this we lost a world! when George the Third was king?
For this! that laureates have lived of royal deeds to sing?
For this! the printing press was made, torpedoes, dynamite?
The iron ships, and bullet proof cuirass to scape the fight?
Was it for this! we've wove around the world a social net
Of speaking steel, that thou should'st perpetrate thy murder yet?
Out! out on thee! as traitor of thine oath unto the crown!
By gripping of thy butler, by his breech to jock him down,
Was it for this! that justice wrung thy neck on Tyburn tree,
To expiate the direful debt to justice due by thee?
For this! did Lord Macaulay write "The Lays of Antient Rome?"
For this! did Government send out to bring us Jabez home?
Have we been privileged to pay our swollen rates and tax?
And legislative rights imposed upon the noble's backs?
For this! was England parcelled out amongst the Norman few,
That thou should'st haunt in Hampton Court thy noisome work to do?
For this! is London soaring up, to Babel flights of flats
As cross between a poorhouse, and a prison?--are top hats
Still worn by busmen, beadles, undertakers, men of prayer!
That thou should'st cause the lieges to irradiate their hair,
With horror at thy felon work? paugh! out upon thee! there!
Thou misbegotten sprite! was it for this! we fought and flew,
On many a bloody battle field, right on to Peterloo?
Thou gall embittered martinet! What boots it if thou crack
Thy butler's neck? Unto that lock, he'll still be harking back,
And grow envigorated, by thy ghastly midnight work,
Like shooting of the chutes, or breezing down the switchback jerk!
"Psha! that unto thee!" and I snapped my finger at him "bosh!
Go, give thy vengeful spirit to contrition, for the wash,
And with the soap of keen remorse, erase the stain of blood,
From out thy soul, and straight atone, with deeds of useful good,
Go, croak behind the Marble Arch, or take a flag and stand
In Grosvenor Square, as captain of a hallelujah band,
Do anything, but mockery of murder, in the dark,
Ay even spout in windy speech, from wagons in the park,
Thou thing of misty cobwebine! thou woman frighter go!
And never more be seen again, to make thyself a show.
For children's fears, or if thou would'st a manly vengeance dare,
Pick up this fourteen stone of mine, and jock me down the stair
Thou idiot spook, thou ill-conditioned cloud concocted sprite
With the immortal bard I cry, Avaunt! and quit my sight!"
So fiercely did I thus denounce, his evil midnight trick,
The vigour of the vengeful scowl upon his brow grew sick
With quail of deep abasement, to behold a mortal's blood
On fire, to beard a felon spook, and ghosts were understood,
A transposition of remorse, upon his features came,
Until he shook before me, in an abject wreck of shame,
And cried with tones of keen reproach,

"Adzooks! Alack! Ah me!
Oddsbodikins, well well! heigho! that I should die to see,
My ghost derided, with contempt of scoffing stock from thee!
But of thy clacking caustic tongue, I prithee give no more,
I'll take my passage by a breeze, to-night for Singapore,
Or anywhere the wind may blow, Japan! or Timbuctoo!
To rid me of thy clapper jaw, a flout on thee! Adieu!"

He then evaporated, and with some pride embued,
I turned, for an expression of the butler's gratitude,
But he was gone! and from his place, with india rubber shoe,
A lamp was flashed upon my face, by number 90, Q,
They're never where they're wanted, and that blue, belted elf,
Did hail me up for trespass, and for shouting to myself!

HE was ye wrothful widowere,
Unto his child spak he,
"Thou art not wise in this my son,
To court with Susan Lee,
A Mayde, ye least that's prattled of,
Ye safer for her fame,
Bethink thee, thou art Jabez Gray,
Respect thy Sire, his name!

"Ye reputation of ye Mayde,
Is dewdrop to ye root
Of wedded life, that canks ye blight,
Or ripes ye wholesome fruit,
Then part thee boy, from Susan Lee,
Her ways and lightsome game,
As Jabez Gray, behave thee well,
Respect thy Sire, his name!"

Ah! well a day, for Jabez Gray,
O wallow was his woe,
It stung his heart with pain and rue,
That Mayden Lee should go,

Alack! Ah! me, that such should be,
But compensation came,
For he was true, as Jabez Gray,
Unto his Sire, his name.

He gave unto ye Mayde, ye sore,
And sorry last farewell,
Ye pang unto his crinkled heart,
Was gall of woe to tell!
But from his conscience, filial faith,
With healing balsam came
His heart unto, for he was true,
Unto his Sire, his name.