CHEERFUL SPIRITS

"I was in a hooker once," said Karlssen, "And Bill, as was a seaman, died, So we lashed him in an old tarpaulin And tumbled him across the side; And the fun of it was that all his gear was Divided up among the crew Before that blushing human error Our crawling little captain, knew. "On the passage home one morning (As certain as I prays for grace) There was old Bill's shadder a-hauling At the mizzen weather topsail brace. He was all grown green with seaweed He was all lashed up and shored; So I says to him, I says, 'Why, Billy! What's a-bringin' of you back aboard?' "'I'm a-weary of them there mermaids,' Says old Bill's ghost to me; 'It ain't no place for a Christian Below there—under sea. For it's all blown sand and shipwrecks And old bones eaten bare, And them cold fishy females With long green weeds for hair. "'And there ain't no dances shuffled, And no old yarns is spun, And there ain't no stars but starfish, And never any moon or sun. I heard your keel a-passing And the running rattle of the brace, And I says, "Stand by,"' says William, '"For a shift towards a better place."' "Well, he sogered about decks till sunrise, When a rooster in the hen-coop crowed, And as so much smoke he faded, And as so much smoke he goed; And I've often wondered since, Jan, How his old ghost stands to fare Long o' them cold fishy females With long green weeds for hair."

The Captain is walking his quarter-deck, With a troubled brow and a bended neck; One eye is down through the hatchway cast, The other turns up to the truck on the mast; Yet none of the crew may venture to hint "Our skipper hath gotten a sinister squint!" The Captain again the letter hath read Which the bum-boat woman brought out to Spithead— Still, since the good ship sail'd away, He reads that letter three times a-day; Yet the writing is broad and fair to see As a Skipper may read in his degree, And the seal is as black, and as broad, and as flat, As his own cockade in his own cock'd hat: He reads, and he says, as he walks to and fro, "Curse the old woman—she bothers me so!" He pauses now, for the topmen hail— "On the larboard quarter a sail! a sail!" That grim old Captain he turns him quick, And bawls through his trumpet for Hairy-faced Dick. "The breeze is blowing—huzza! huzza! The breeze is blowing—away! away! The breeze is blowing—a race! a race! The breeze is blowing—we near the chase! Blood will flow, and bullets will fly,— Oh, where will be then young Hamilton Tighe?" —"On the foeman's deck, where a man should be, With his sword in his hand, and his foe at his knee. Cockswain, or boatswain, or reefer may try, But the first man on board will be Hamilton Tighe!" Hairy-faced Dick hath a swarthy hue, Between a gingerbread-nut and a Jew, And his pigtail is long, and bushy, and thick, Like a pump-handle stuck on the end of a stick. Hairy-faced Dick understands his trade; He stand by the breech of a long carronade, The linstock glows in his bony hand, Waiting that grim old Skipper's command. "The bullets are flying—huzza! huzza! The bullets are flying—away! away!"— The brawny boarders mount by the chains, And are over their buckles in blood and in brains. On the foeman's deck, where a man should be, Young Hamilton Tighe waves his cutlass high, And Capitaine Crapaud bends low at his knee. Hairy-faced Dick, linstock in hand, Is waiting that grim-looking Skipper's command:— A wink comes sly from that sinister eye— Hairy-faced Dick at once lets fly, And knocks off the head of young Hamilton Tighe! There's a lady sits lonely in bower and hall, Her pages and handmaidens come at her call: "Now look ye, my handmaidens, haste now and see How he sits there and glow'rs with his head on his knee! The maidens smile, and, her thought to destroy, They bring her a little, pale, mealy-faced boy; And the mealy-faced boy says, "Mother, dear, Now Hamilton's dead, I've ten thousand a-year!" The lady has donned her mantle and hood, She is bound for shrift at St. Mary's Rood:— "Oh! the taper shall burn, and the bell shall toll, And the mass shall be said for my step-son's soul, And the tablet fair shall be hung on high, Orate pro anima Hamilton Tighe!" Her coach and four Draws up to the door With her groom, and her footman, and a half score more The lady steps into her coach alone, And they hear her sigh, and they hear her groan; They close the door, and they turn the pin, But there's One rides with her that never stept in! All the way there, and all the way back, The harness strains, and the coach-springs crack, The horses snort, and plunge, and kick, Till the coachman thinks he is driving Old Nick; And the grooms and the footmen wonder, and say, "What makes the old coach so heavy to-day?" But the mealy-faced boy peeps in, and sees A man sitting there with his head on his knees! 'Tis ever the same—in hall or in bower, Wherever the place, whatever the hour, That Lady mutters, and talks to the air, And her eye is fix'd on an empty chair; But the mealy-faced boy still whispers with dread, "She talks to a man with never a head!" There's an old Yellow Admiral living at Bath, As grey as a badger, as thin as a lath; And his very queer eyes have such very queer leers, They seem to be trying to peep at his ears; That old Yellow Admiral goes to the Rooms, And he plays long whist, but he frets and he fumes, For all his knaves stand upside down, And the Jack of Clubs does nothing but frown; And the Kings and the Aces, and all the best trumps Get into the hands of the other old frumps; While, close to his partner, a man he sees Counting the tricks with his head on his knees. In Ratcliffe Highway there's an old marine store, And a great black doll hangs out of the door; There are rusty locks, and dusty bags, And musty phials, and fusty rags, And a lusty old woman, call'd Thirsty Nan, And her crusty old husband's a Hairy-faced man! That Hairy-faced man is sallow and wan, And his great thick pigtail is wither'd and gone; And he cries, "Take away that lubberly chap That sits there and grins with his head in his lap!" And the neighbors say, as they see him look sick, "What a rum old covey is Hairy-faced Dick!" That Admiral, Lady, and Hairy-faced man May say what they please, and may do what they can; But one things seems remarkably clear,— They may die to-morrow, or live till next year,— But wherever they live, or whenever they die, They'll never get quit of young Hamilton Tighe!

A Pathetic Ballad "Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"—Mercutio. 'Twas twelve o'clock by the Chelsea chimes, When all in a hungry trim, Good Mr. Jupp sat down to sup With wife, and Kate and Jim. Said he, "Upon this dainty cod How bravely I shall sup"— When, whiter than the tablecloth, A ghost came rising up! "O father dear, O mother dear, Dear Kate, and brother Jim— You know when some one went to sea— Don't cry—but I am him! "You hope some day with fond embrace To greet your lonesome Jack, But oh, I am come here to say I'm never coming back! "From Alexandria we set sail, With corn, and oil, and figs, But steering 'too much Sow,' we struck Upon the Sow and Pigs! "The ship we pumped till we could see Old England from the tops; When down she went with all our hands, Right in the Channel's Chops. "Just give a look in Norey's Chart, The very place it tells: I think it says twelve fathom deep, Clay bottom, mixed with shells. "Well, there we are till 'hands aloft,' We have at last a call, The pug I had for brother Jim, Kate's parrot, too, and all." "But oh, my spirit cannot rest In Davy Jones's sod, Till I've appeared to you and said, 'Don't sup on that there Cod! "You live on land, and little think What passes in the sea; Last Sunday week, at 2 p. m., That Cod was picking me! "Those oysters, too, that look so plump, And seem so nicely done, They put my corpse in many shells, Instead of only one. "Oh, do not eat those oysters, then, And do not touch the shrimps; When I was in my briny grave They sucked my blood like imps! "Don't eat what brutes would never eat, The brutes I used to pat, They'll know the smell they used to smell, Just try the dog and cat!" The spirit fled, they wept his fate, And cried Alas, Alack! At last up started brother Jim— "Let's try if Jack, was Jack!" They called the Dog, they called the Cat, The little Kitten, too, And down they put the Cod and sauce To see what brutes would do. Old Tray licked all the oysters up, Puss never stood at crimps, But munched the Cod—and little Kit Quite feasted on the Shrimps! The thing was odd, and minus Cod And sauce, they stood like posts; Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax, Put no belief in Ghosts!

A Legend of Palestine and West Kent Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray, A stalwart knight, I ween, was he, "Come east, come west, Come lance in rest, Come falchion in hand, I'll tickle the best Of the Soldan's Chivalrie!" Oh, they came west, and they came east, Twenty-four Emirs and Sheiks at the least, And they hammer'd away At Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Fall back, fall edge, cut, thrust, and point,— But he topp'd off head, and he lopp'd off joint; Twenty and three, Of high degree, Lay stark and stiff on the crimson'd lea, All—all save one—and he ran up a tree! "Now count them, my Squire, now count them and see!" "Twenty and three! Twenty and three!— All of them nobles of high degree: There they be lying on Ascalon lea!" Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray, "What news? What news? Come tell to me! What news? what news, thou little Foot-page?— I've been whacking the foe till it seems an age Since I was in Ingoldsby Hall so free! What news? what news from Ingoldsby Hall? Come tell me now, thou page so small!" "O, Hawk and Hound Are safe and sound, Beast in byre and Steed in stall; And the Watch-dog's bark, As soon as it's dark Bays wakeful guard around Ingoldsby Hall!" —"I care not a pound For Hawk or for Hound For Steed in stall or for Watch-dog's bay. Fain would I hear Of my dainty dear; How fares Dame Alice, my Lady gay?"— Sir Ingoldsby Bray, he said in his rage, "What news? what news? thou naughty Foot-page." The little Foot-page full low crouch'd he, And he doff'd his cap, and he bended his knee, "Now lithe and listen, Sir Bray, to me: Lady Alice sits lonely in bower and hall, Her sighs they rise, and her tears they fall. She sits alone, And she makes her moan; Dance and song, She considers quite wrong; Feast and revel Mere snares of the devil; She mendeth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack! When will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'" "Thou liest! thou liest! thou naughty Foot-page, Full loud doth thou lie, false Page, to me! There in thy breast, 'Neath thy silken vest, What scroll is that, false Page, I see?" Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his rage drew near, That little Foot-page, he blanch'd with fear; "Now where may the Prior of Abingdon lie? King Richard's confessor, I ween, is he, And tidings rare To him do I bear, And news of price from his rich Ab-bee!" "Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page! No learned clerk I trow am I, But well I ween May there be seen Dame Alice's hand with half an eye; Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page, From Abingdon Abbey comes not thy news; Although no clerk, Well may I mark The particular turn of her P's and Q's!" Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his fury and rage, By the back of the neck takes that little Foot-page; The scroll he seizes, The page he squeezes, And buffets—and pinches his nose till he sneezes;— Then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads Which they used in those days 'stead of little Queen's heads. When the contents of the scroll met his view, Sir Ingoldsby Bray in a passion grew, Backward he drew His mailéd shoe, And he kicked that naughty Foot-page, that he flew Like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew, I may not say whither—I never knew. "Now count the slain Upon Ascalon plain— Go count them, my Squire, go count them again!" "Twenty and three! There they be, Stiff and stark on that crimson'd lea!— Twenty and three?—Stay—let me see! Stretched in his gore There lieth one more! By the Pope's triple crown there are twenty and four! Twenty-four trunks I ween are there But their heads and their limbs are no-body knows where! Ay, twenty-four corpses, I rede there be, Though one got away, and ran up a tree!" "Look nigher, look nigher, My trusty Squire!" "One is the corse of a bare-footed Friar!" Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray, "A boon, a boon, King Richard," quoth he, "Now Heav'n thee save, A boon I crave, A boon, Sir King, on my bended knee; A year and a day Have I been away, King Richard, from Ingoldsby Hall so free; Dame Alice she sits there in lonely guise, And she makes her moan, and she sobs and she sighs, And tears like rain-drops fall from her eyes, And she darneth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack! Oh, when will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?' A boon, a boon, my liege," quoth he, "Fair Ingoldsby Hall I fain would see!" "Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray," King Richard said right graciously, "Of all in my host That I love the most, I love none better, Sir Bray, than thee! Rise up, rise up, thou hast my boon; But mind you make haste, and come back again soon!"

Pope Gregory sits in St. Peter's chair, Pontiff proud, I ween, is he, And a belted Knight, In armour dight, Is begging a boon on his bended knee, With sighs of grief and sounds of woe, Featly he kisseth his Holiness' toe. "Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave, O Holy Father, pardon and grace! In my fury and rage A little Foot-page I have left, I fear me, in evil case: A scroll of shame From a faithless dame Did that naughty Foot-page to a paramour bear: I gave him a 'lick' With a stick, And a kick, That sent him—I can't tell your Holiness where! Had he as many necks as hairs, He had broken them all down those perilous stairs!" "Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Rise up, rise up, I say to thee; A soldier, I trow, Of the Cross art thou; Rise up, rise up, from thy bended knee! Ill it seems that soldier true Of Holy Church should vainly sue:— —Foot-pages they are by no means rare, A thriftless crew, I ween, be they; Well mote we spare A Page—or a pair, For the matter of that—Sir Ingoldsby Bray, But stout and true Soldiers like you, Grow scarcer and scarcer every day!— Be prayers for the dead Duly read, Let a mass be sung, and a pater be said: So may your qualms of conscience cease, And the little Foot-page shall rest in peace!" "Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave. O Holy Father, pardon and grace! Dame Alice, my wife, The bane of my life, I have left, I fear me, in evil case! A scroll of shame in my rage I tore, Which that caitiff Page to a paramour bore; 'Twere bootless to tell how I storm'd and swore; Alack! and alack! too surely I knew The turn of each P, and the tail of each Q, And away to Ingoldsby Hall I flew! Dame Alice I found,—She sank on the ground,— I twisted her neck till I twisted it round! With jibe and jeer and mock and scoff, I twisted it on—till I twisted it off!— All the King's Doctors and all the King's Men Can't put fair Alice's head on agen!" "Well-a-day! well-a-day! Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Why really—I hardly know what to say:— Foul sin, I trow, a fair Ladye to slay, Because she's perhaps been a little too gay.— —Monk must chaunt and Nun must pray; For each mass they sing, and each pray'r they say, For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby Bray A fair rose-noble must duly pay! So may his qualms of conscience cease, And the soul of Dame Alice may rest in peace!" "Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave, O Holy Father, pardon and grace! No power could save That paramour knave; I left him, I wot, in evil case! There midst the slain Upon Ascalon plain, Unburied, I trow, doth his body remain His legs lie here and his arms lie there, And his head lies—I can't tell your Holiness where!" "Now out and alas! Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Foul sin it were, thou doughty Knight, To hack and to hew A champion true Of holy Church in such pitiful plight! Foul sin her warriors so to slay, When they're scarcer and scarcer every day!— A chauntry fair, And of Monks a pair, To pray for his soul for ever and aye, Thou must duly endow, Sir Ingoldsby Bray, And fourteen marks by the year thou must pay For plenty of lights To burn there o' nights— None of your rascally 'dips'—but sound, Round, ten-penny moulds of four to the pound;— And a shirt of the roughest and coarsest hair For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby, wear!— So may your qualms of conscience cease, And the soul of the Soldier shall rest in peace!" "Now, nay, Holy Father; now nay, now nay! Less penance may serve!" quoth Sir Ingoldsby Bray. "No champion free of the Cross was he; No belted Baron of high degree; No Knight nor Squire Did there expire; He was, I trow, a bare-footed Friar! And the Abbot of Abingdon long may wait, With his monks around him, and early and late, May look from loop-hole, and turret, and gate, He hath lost his Prior—his Prior his pate!" "Now Thunder and turf!" Pope Gregory said, And his hair raised his triple crown right off his head— "Now Thunder and turf! and out and alas! A horrible thing has come to pass! What! cut off the head of the Reverend Prior, And say he was 'only (!!!) a bare-footed Friar!'— 'What Baron or Squire, Or Knight of the shire Is half so good as a holy Friar?' O, turpissime! Vir nequissime! Sceleratissime!—quissime!—issime! Never, I trow, have the Servi servorum Had before 'em Such a breach of decorum, Such a gross violation of morum bonorum, And won't have again sæcula sæculorum!— Come hither to me, My Cardinals three, My Bishops in partibus, Masters in Artibus, Hither to me, A. B. and D. D., Doctors and Proctors of every degree! Go fetch me a book, go fetch me a bell As big as a dustman's!—and a candle as well— I'll send him where—good manners won't let me tell!" —"Pardon and grace!—now pardon and grace!" —Sir Ingoldsby Bray fell flat on his face— "Mea culpa!—in sooth I'm in pitiful case. Peccavi! peccavi!—I've done every wrong! But my heart it is stout and my arm it is strong, And I'll fight for Holy Church all the day long; And the Ingoldsby lands are broad and fair, And they're here and they're there and I can't tell you where, And the Holy Church shall come in for her share!" Pope Gregory paused and he sat himself down, And he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown, And his Cardinals three they picked up his crown. "Now if it be so that you own you've been wrong, And your heart is so stout and your arm is so strong, And you really will fight like a trump all day long;— If the Ingoldsby lands do lie here and there, And Holy Church shall come in for her share,— Why, my Cardinals three, You'll agree With me, That it gives a new turn to the whole affair, And I think that the Penitent need not despair! —If it be so, as you seem to say, Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray! An Abbey so fair Sir Bray shall found, Whose innermost wall's encircling bound Shall take in a couple of acres of ground; And there in that Abbey, all the year round, A full choir of monks and a full choir of nuns, And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Without delay, Shall hie him again To Ascalon plain, And gather the bones of the foully slain; And shall place said bones, with all possible care, In an elegant shrine in his abbey so fair; And plenty of lights shall be there o' nights— None of your rascally 'dips,' but sound, Best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound; And Monk and Nun Shall pray, each one, For the soul of the Prior of Abingdon! And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave, Never shall wash himself, comb or shave, Nor adorn his body, Nor drink gin-toddy, Nor indulge in a pipe— But shall dine upon tripe And blackberries gathered before they are ripe, And forever abhor, renounce and abjure Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch and liqueur!" (Sir Ingoldsby Bray Here gave way To a feeling which prompted a word profane, But he swallowed it down, by an effort, again, And His Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a Mere repetition of O meâ culpâ!) "Thrice three times on Candlemas-day, Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray Shall run round the Abbey, as best he may, Subjecting his back To thump and to thwack, Well and truly laid on by a bare-footed Friar, With a stout cat o' ninetails of whip-cord and wire, And not he nor his heir Shall take, use or bear, Any more from this day, The surname of Bray, As being dishonour'd, but all issue male he has Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an alias! So his qualms of conscience at length shall cease, And Page, Dame and Prior shall rest in peace!" Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray) Is off like a shot away and away, Over the brine To far Palestine, To rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain For the unburied bones of his victim slain. "Look out, my Squire, Look nigher and nigher, Look out for the corpse of a bare-footed Friar! And pick up the arms and the legs of the dead, And pick up his body and pick up his head!"

Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see, It hath manors a dozen, and royalties three, With right of free-warren (whatever that be); Rich pastures in front, and green woods in the rear, All in full leaf at the right time of year; About Christmas or so, they fall into the sear, And the prospect, of course, becomes rather more drear; But it's really delightful in spring-time,—and near The great gate Father Thames rolls sun-bright and clear. Cobham woods to the right,—on the opposite shore Landon Hill in the distance, ten miles off or more; Then you've Milton and Gravesend behind—and before You can see almost all the way down to the Nore.— So charming a spot, It's rarely one's lot To see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot. Yes, Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see, And its Monks and its Nuns are fifty and three, And there they all stand each in their degree, Drawn up in the front of their sacred abode, Two by two in their regular mode, While a funeral comes down the Rochester road, Palmers twelve, from a foreign strand, Cockle in hat and staff in hand, Come marching in pairs, a holy band! Little boys twelve, dressed all in white, Each with his brazen censer bright, And singing away with all his might, Follow the Palmers—a goodly sight; Next high in air Twelve Yeomen bear On their sturdy backs, with a good deal of care, A patent sarcophagus firmly rear'd Of Spanish mahogany (not veneer'd), And behind walks a Knight with a very long beard. Close by his side Is a Friar, supplied With a stout cat o' ninetails of tough cow-hide, While all sorts of queer men Bring up the rear—Men-at-arms, Nigger captives, and Bow-men and Spear-men. It boots not to tell What you'll guess very well, How some sang the requiem, some toll'd the bell; Suffice it to say, 'Twas on Candlemas-day The procession I speak of reached the Sacellum: And in lieu of a supper The Knight on his crupper Received the first taste of the Father's flagellum;— That, as chronicles tell, He continued to dwell All the rest of his days in the Abbey he'd founded, By the pious of both sexes ever surrounded, And, partaking the fare of the Monks and the Nuns, Ate the cabbage alone without touching the buns; —That year after year, having run round the Quad With his back, as enjoin'd him, exposed to the rod, Having not only kissed it, but bless'd it and thank'd it, he Died, as all thought in the odour of sanctity, When,—strange to relate! and you'll hardly believe What I'm going to tell you,—next Candlemas Eve The Monks and the Nuns in the dead of the night Tumble, all of them, out of their bed in affright, Alarm'd by the bawls, And the calls and the squalls Of some one who seemed running all round the walls! Looking out, soon By the light of the moon There appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view, And making, as seems to them, all this ado, The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew, As black as if steep'd in that "Matchless" of Hunt's, And so bushy, it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz; A bare-footed Friar stands behind him, and shakes A flagellum, whose lashes appear to be snakes; While, more terrible still, the astounded beholders Perceive the Friar has no head on his shoulders, But is holding his pate, In his left hand, out straight As if by a closer inspection to find Where to get the best cut at his victim behind, With the aid of a small "bull-eye lantern,"—as placed By our own new police,—in a belt round his waist. All gaze with surprise, Scarce believing their eyes, When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse and flies From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,— In vain,—for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks, "Running after him," so said the Abbot,—"like Bricks!" Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight Course round the Abbey as best he might Be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless Sprite, While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,— Then a whoop and a halloo,—and all was still! Ingoldsby Abbey has passed away, And at this time of day One can hardly survey Any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey With age, and fast mouldering into decay, Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray; But still there are many folks living who say That on every Candlemas Eve, the Knight, Accoutred, and dight In his armour bright, With his thick black beard,—and the clerical Sprite, With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight, Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood, And are seen in the neighboring glebe-land and wood; More especially still, if it's stormy and windy, You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy; And that once in a gale Of wind, sleet and hail They frighten'd the horses and upset the mail. What 'tis breaks the rest Of those souls unblest Would now be a thing rather hard to be guessed, Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confess'd That on Ascalon plain, When the bones of the slain Were collected that day, and packed up in a chest, Caulk'd and made water-tight, By command of the Knight, Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right, And the body itself in a decentish plight, Yet the Friar's Pericranium was nowhere in sight; So, to save themselves trouble, they pick'd up instead, And popp'd on the shoulders a Saracen's Head! Thus the Knight in the terms of his penance had fail'd, And the Pope's absolution, of course, naught avail'd. Now, though this might be, It don't seem to agree With one thing which, I own, is a poser to me,— I mean, as the miracle, wrought at the shrine Containing the bones brought from far Palestine Were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine This fact with the reason these people assign, Or suppose that the head of the murder'd Divine Could be aught but what Yankees would call "genu-ine." 'Tis a very nice question—but be't as it may, The Ghost of Sir Ingoldsby (ci-devant Bray), It is boldly affirm'd by the folks great and small About Milton and Chaulk, and round Cobham Hall, Still on Candlemas-day haunts the old ruin'd wall And that many have seen him, and more heard him squall. So I think, when the facts of the case you recall, My inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall, Viz: that, spite of the hope Held out by the Pope, Sir Ingoldsby Bray was d——d after all!

Foot-pages, and Servants of ev'ry degree, In livery or out of it, listen to me! See what comes of lying!—don't join in the league To humbug your master or aid an intrigue! Ladies! married and single, from this understand How foolish it is to send letters by hand! Don't stand for the sake of a penny,—but when you 've a billet to send To a lover or friend, Put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue! Reverend gentlemen! you who are given to roam, Don't keep up a soft correspondence at home! But while you're abroad lead respectable lives; Love your neighbours, and welcome,—but don't love their wives! And, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads When they're shovelling the snow off, "take care of your heads"! Knights!—whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms are so strong, Learn,—to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong! If your servants offend you, or give themselves airs, Rebuke them—but mildly—don't kick them downstairs! To "Poor Richard's" homely old proverb attend, "If you want matters well managed, Go!—if not, Send!" A servant's too often a negligent elf! —If it's business of consequence, do it yourself! The state of society seldom requires People now to bring home with them unburied Friars, But they sometimes do bring home an inmate for life; Now—don't do that by proxy!—but choose your own wife! For think how annoying 'twould be, when you're wed, To find in your bed, On the pillow, instead Of the sweet face you look for—a saracen's head!

'Twas twelve o'clock, not twelve at night, But twelve o'clock at noon; Because the sun was shining bright And not the silver moon. A proper time for friends to call, Or pots, or penny-post; When lo! as Phoebe sat at work, She saw her Pompey's ghost! Now when a female has a call From people that are dead, Like Paris ladies, she receives Her visitors in bed. But Pompey's spirit would not come Like spirits that are white, Because he was a Blackamoor, And wouldn't show at night! But of all unexpected things That happen to us here, The most unpleasant is a rise In what is very dear. So Phoebe screamed an awful scream To prove the seaman's text, That after black appearances, White squalls will follow next. "O Phoebe dear! Oh, Phoebe dear! Don't go and scream or faint; You think because I'm black, I am The Devil, but I ain't! Behind the heels of Lady Lambe I walked while I had breath, But that is past, and I am now A-walking after death! "No murder, though, I come to tell, By base and bloody crime; So, Phoebe dear, put off your fits To some more fitting time. No coroner, like a boatswain's mate, My body need attack, With his round dozen to find out Why I have died so black. "One Sunday, shortly after tea, My skin began to burn, As if I had in my inside A heater like a urn. Delirious in the night I grew, And as I lay in bed, They say I gathered all the wool You see upon my head. "His lordship for his doctor sent, My treatment to begin; I wish that he had called him out Before he called him in! For though to physic he was bred, And passed at Surgeons' Hall, To make his post a sinecure, He never cured at all! "The Doctor looked about my breast And then about my back, And then he shook his head and said, 'Your case looks very black.' At first he sent me hot cayenne, And then gamboge to swallow. But still my fever would not turn To scarlet or to yellow! "With madder and with turmeric, He made his next attack; But neither he nor all his drugs Could stop my dying black. At last I got so sick of life, And sick of being dosed, One Monday morning I gave up My physic and the ghost! "Oh, Phoebe dear, what pain it was To sever every tie! You know black beetles feel as much As giants when they die. And if there is a bridal bed, Or bride of little worth, It's lying in a bed of mould, Along with Mother Earth. "Alas! Some happy, happy day, In church I hoped to stand, And like a muff of sable skin Receive your lily hand. But sternly with that piebald match, My fate untimely clashes; For now, like Pompey-double-i, I'm sleeping in my ashes! "And now farewell! a last farewell! I'm wanted down below, And have but time enough to add One word before I go— In mourning crêpe and bombazine Ne'er spend your precious pelf; Don't go in black for me—for I Can do it for myself. "Henceforth within my grave I rest, But Death, who there inherits, Allowed my spirit leave to come, You seemed so near your spirits: But do not sigh, and do not cry, By grief too much engrossed, Nor for a ghost of color turn The color of a ghost! "Again, farewell, my Phoebe dear! Once more a last adieu! For I must make myself as scarce As swans of sable hue." From black to gray, from gray to nought The shape began to fade— And like an egg, though not so white, The ghost was newly laid!"

A Very Serious Ballad In Middle Row, some years ago, There lived one Mr. Brown; And many folks considered him The stoutest man in town. But Brown and stout will both wear out— One Friday he died hard, And left a widow'd wife to mourn At twenty pence a yard. Now widow B. in two short months Thought mourning quite a tax; And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce, To manumit her blacks. With Mr. Street she soon was sweet; The thing came thus about: She asked him in at home, and then At church, he asked her out! Assurance such as this the man In ashes could not stand; So like a Phoenix he rose up Against the Hand in Hand! One dreary night the angry sprite Appeared before her view; It came a little after one, But she was after two! "Oh, Mrs. B., O Mrs. B., Are these your sorrow's deeds, Already getting up a flame To burn your widows' weeds? "It's not so long since I have left For aye the mortal scene; My memory—like Rogers's— Should still be bound in green! "Yet if my face you still retrace I almost have a doubt— I'm like an old Forget-Me-Not With all the leaves torn out! "To think that on that finger-joint Another pledge should cling; O Bess! upon my very soul It struck like 'Knock and Ring.' "A ton of marble on my breast Can't hinder my return; Your conduct, ma'am, has set my blood A-boiling in its urn! "Remember, oh, remember how The marriage rite did run,— If ever we one flesh should be 'Tis now—when I have none! "And you, Sir—once a bosom friend— Of perjured faith convict, As ghostly toe can give no blow, Consider yourself kicked. "A hollow voice is all I have, But this I tell you plain, Marry come up! you marry, ma'am, And I'll come up again." More he had said, but chanticleer The spritely shade did shock With sudden crow—and off he went Like fowling piece at cock!

A Pathetic Ballad 'Twas in the middle of the night, To sleep young William tried, When Mary's ghost came stealing in, And stood at his bedside. "O William dear! O William dear! My rest eternal ceases; Alas! my everlasting peace Is broken into pieces. "I thought the last of all my cares Would end with my last minute; But though I went to my long home I didn't stay long in it. "The body-snatchers they have come And made a snatch at me; It's very hard them kind of men Won't let a body be! "You thought that I was buried deep, Quite decent-like and chary, But from her grave, in Mary-Bone, They've come and boned your Mary. "The arm that used to take your arm Is took to Doctor Vyse; And both my legs are gone to walk The hospital at Guy's. "I vowed that you should have my hand, But Fate gives us denial; You'll find it there, at Doctor Bell's, In spirits and a phial. "As for my feet, the little feet You used to find so pretty, There's one, I know, in Bedford Row, The T'other's in the City. "I can't tell where my head is gone, But Doctor Carpue can; As for my trunk, it's all packed up To go by Pickford's van. "I wish you'd go to Mr. P., And save me such a ride; I don't half like the outside place They've took for my inside. "The cock it crows—I must be gone! My William, we must part! But I'll be yours in death, altho' Sir Astley has my heart. "Don't go to weep upon my grave, And think that there I be; They haven't left an atom there Of my anatomie."

I'm such a quiet little ghost, Demure and inoffensive, The other spirits say I'm most Absurdly apprehensive. Through all the merry hours of night I'm uniformly cheerful; I love the dark; but in the light, I own I'm rather fearful. Each dawn I cower down in bed, In every brightness seeing That weird uncanny form of dread— An awful Human Being! Of course I'm told they can't exist, That Nature would not let them: But Willy Spook, the Humanist, Declares that he has met them! He says they do not glide like us, But walk in eerie paces; They're solid, not diaphanous, With arms! and legs!! and faces!!! And some are beggars, some are kings, Some have and some are wanting, They squander time in doing things, Instead of simply haunting. They talk of "art," the horrid crew, And things they call "ambitions."— Oh, yes, I know as well as you They're only superstitions. But should the dreadful day arrive When, starting up, I see one, I'm sure 'twill scare me quite alive; And then—Oh, then I'll be one!

There's a brook on the side of Greylock that used to be full of trout, But there's nothing there now but minnows; they say it is all fished out. I fished there many a Summer day some twenty years ago, And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so. There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the North Adams road, And he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors reaped and sowed. He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire hills, I think. And when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the tavern and drink. Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares very much; They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers and such, But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant as you could wish, He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly could fish. The other night I was walking up the hill from Williamstown And I came to the brook I mentioned, and I stopped on the bridge and sat down. I looked at the blackened water with its little flecks of white, And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the Summer night. And after I'd been there a minute it seemed to me I could feel The presence of someone near me, and I heard the hum of a reel. And the water was churned and broken, and something was brought to land By a twist and a flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and shadowy hand. I scrambled down to the brookside and hunted all about; There wasn't a sign of a fisherman; there wasn't a sign of a trout. But I heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak And I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to smoke. It's fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone fished that brook; And there's nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your hook. But before the sun has risen and after the moon has set I know that it's full of ghostly trout for Lilly's ghost to get. I guess I'll go to the tavern and get a bottle of rye And leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly's ghost went by. I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave And put some flowers on it—but this will be better for Dave.

When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen, Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of Shadowland, Beyond the trackless purple sea, Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me. Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft grey hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair. How good that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty. How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the dull and sombre earth. Some people ask: "What cruel chance Made Martin's life so sad a story?" Martin? Why, he exhaled romance, And wore an overcoat of glory. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive ancient child. Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation? Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress; Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success!