Chapter I: Front Matter

Transcriber's Note

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!

[Decoration]

"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.

O then 'twas his, 'twas Jabez Gray's
Reward and recompense,
To hear his Sire bespeake ye Mayde,
In fond and future tense,

He pry'd it in ye dark of night,
Beyond ye garden gate,
"I'll wed thee Sue, myself, to save
Thy name from evil prate."

[Decoration]

He heard ye Sire bespeak ye Mayde,
In tender guise, ye same,
As he did plead, before ye split,
To save ye Sire, his name.
He heard ye Parent, tell to Sue,
Ye lack of manly sense,
Of him, ye son, and with ye kiss,
He spake in future tense.

[Decoration]

Ye little month did pass, and then,
Ye Parent wed ye Mayde,
And this, ye counsel to ye son,
In confidence he say'd,
"Ye Spinster Sue is now ye Wife,
Of fair and goodly fame,
Be duteous to her, as ye son
Respect thy Sire, his name!"

IN BURTON Crescent, on the semi-circle apex there,
I lodged some little period up a six flight four foot stair,
It came about by freak of chance, 'twas in a cul-de-sac,
I found myself one morning, and compelled to tramp it back,
Whilst blessing gates of London town that bar the traffic yet,
I saw a window label, lettered, "lodgings to be let,"
A gloomy habitation 'twas, to give the nerves the creep!
But possibly a comfortable roosting place to sleep,
Of knockers on its oaken door, it bore a double stock,
I took those knockers, and I struck duet of double knock,
And just as I was rounding off my rallantando din,
The door was gently opened and a lady cried "Come in!"
I must confess, I fluttered with a flick of some surprise,
To see a lady so petite, and with such piercing eyes,
An artificial bloom was on her cheek, and nose, and neck,
Her gown was of a quaint brocade in antique floral check.
By transmutating hand of time, and his assistant care,
The golden sheen to silver light was paling thro' her hair,
And from the dentistry of art, that crowned her rippled chin,
She greeted me with pearly smile, the moment I stepped in.
I noted on her fingers small, some antique diamond rings,
And in her slippers russet brown, she tripped as 'twere on springs,
A dainty wrap, completed her little quaintly self,
She seemed a living Watteau, that stepped from off a shelf.
She seemed a living Watteau, from out a canvas sprung,
She wasn't--no, she wasn't--well you could not call her young.
She greeted me upsmiling, with business kindled fire,
And volunteered the question,
"What rooms do you require?"
It wasn't my intention, to move upon that day,
My humor was to dawdle, in idle sort of way,
So left it to her option, if twenty rooms or one,
In earth upon the basement, or garret near the sun.
She showed her approbation of my eccentric style,
And greeted me politely, with confidential smile,
"I have a room, the lodger is yet remaining there,
But leaving soon--I'll show it, if you will step the stair.--
She mounted up before me, her little cloak, like wings,
Did supplement her flexor, and her extensor springs,
She paused upon each lobby, to note the pleasing scene,
Of leaves amongst the chimneys, that lent a tint of green.
The sanitary question, she settled with some pains,
Explained, the County Council had just been down the drains,

And thus discussing features, and questions to be met,
We landed on the landing of lodging to be let.
Upon the door with knuckle she struck a low rum-tin,
And tardily was answered by husky voice "Come in."
To purpose of her visit, he gave a mild assent,
Which somewhat indicated a debt of backward rent.
We entered the apartment, and gaunt, and wan, and scared!
From tangle of the blankets, blear-eyed, and towsel-haired,
A moment rose the lodger, then underneath the clothes,
He snapped himself like oyster, and only left his nose.

I took a swift synopsis, again we stepped the stair,
She bowed me to her parlour, and all around me there,
Were virtue objects, suited for curioso sale,
Art of the reign of Louis, and good old Chippendale,
Cameo ware of Wedgewood, and Worcester bric-a-brac,
Miniatures of beauties, and oriental lac,
A cabinet and tables, in marquetry of buhl,
And feminine arrangements, of bombazine and tulle.
Old mezzotint engravings of Regent, buck and lord,
Between the window curtains, an agèd harpsichord.--
The instrument she fingered, and sang an olden rune,
She sang with taste, but slightly, the strings were out of tune,
She warbled of the Regent, of Sheridan and Burke,
Buck Nash, and of Beau Brummel, and of the fatal work,
Enacted in a duel, then struck a broken string,
And with a sigh she faltered, and then she ceased to sing.
I told her, composition of song, was in my line,
Then, with a look intended as tender and divine,
And mode of days of Brummel, in manner and in style,
She lauded up the bedroom with captivating smile,
Electro-biologic, magnetic in her glance,
She fixed me like a medium, as tenant in advance!

* * * * *

I entered occupation, as soon as I could get,
And everything in order, was for my comfort set,
The room was daily garnished, and swept, my bed was made,
In this was comprehended the lot for which I paid,
My daily mastication, in public grill was frayed,
Monotonous, and easy, with quiet self-content,
I went and came in silence, in silence came and went,
Was no domestic welcome when I came in, not one!
And in the morning ditto, till I was up and gone.
No sound of brush or bucket! no jar of door, or delph!
No foot upon the stairs, except the pair I have myself!
No smutty wench to greet me with cloud of dusty mat!
No snarl of vicious lap dog, or hiss of humping cat!
No slavey whiting up the steps, did ever strike my sight!
Yet everything was fixed for me, when I came home at night!

But often on my pillow, when darkness was my ward,
I heard the muffled numbers of distant harpsichord!
I heard a plaintive ballad, to measured cadence set,
Of long ago, that sounded for lordly minuet!
In wierdly notes it fluttered and lingered on the wing,
With wailing for the duel! the sigh! and broken string!

* * * * *

But once when I was taking a smoking circumflex,
Around the Burton Crescent, and just at its apex,
I heard a voice behind me, that put me on some toast,
"Look! there's the man, that's living with Madame Stiffin's Ghost!"
I turned, and in the lamplight, distinctly I could see,
A woman's dexter finger, was indicating me!
"He's living as a lodger, above the second floor
Of yonder house, that's haunted, with double-knockered door,
Look! isn't he a cough-drop? it's only such a scare,
Would live in such a lodging, with Madam Stiffin there!"

I never felt so worried at anything before!
Could scarcely find the keyhole of double-knockered door,
And up the stairs I tottered, as in a walking trance,
Next morning, she'd be coming for payment in advance,
Next morning, at the striking of twelve upon the clock,
I started from my slumber, it was her double knock!

I jumped up at the summons, and leaping out of bed,
I answered, and she entered, and unto her I said,
"I'm here thro' false pretences; _I understand you're dead_!"

A peal of mocking laughter, the little Watteau shook,
And with her arms akimbo, an attitude she struck,
She made an accusation of drink, and with a glance
Of keen reproach, demanded, her payment in advance!

I had already promised myself, that none should boast,
Of knowing me in future, as tenant of a ghost,
So got my cash, pretending to settle there, and then,
And just as she was lifting my eagle pointed pen,
Said I "Perhaps you'll give me receipt for also this?"
With that I would have tested her presence with a kiss!
I think my arm went thro' her, of that I can't be sure,
But with the table circuit, she took the bedroom door,
I took it quite as quick, and abreviated sight,
I caught of her next landing, and on her hasty flight,
From lobby down to lobby I chased her like a hare,
I tracked her to the kitchen, but lo! she wasn't there!
I flew into the area, back up the stairs I flew,
In drawing-room and parlour, in every bedroom too,
To overtake and seize her, with skidding foot I sped,
And under every sofa, and under every bed,
I searched,--it was a marvel!--exploited every flue,
Unlocked a couple of wardrobes and looked them thro' and thro',
Until in all its horror, the grim conviction grew,
I had in fact been lodging unconscious with a spook!
I rushed to get my waistcoat, pants, traps, and took my hook!

HE travelled by the mail,
On incognito scale,
With cautious care, and reck,
Of varied tricks of art.

For he had made a bag,
Of most extensive swag,
From bank where he was sec.,
And didn't want to part.

But story of his trick,
By telegraphic tick,
Brought him to book, and check,
It gave him quite a start,
He had it by a neck,
'Twas rough to have to part!

IT HAS been proved by more than one observant social Philosopher, that the impressionable star gazer of the Music Halls is one who often scatters rose leaves, and harvests thorns; let us hear what Muffkin Moonhead has to sing, concerning his own experience.

IT cost a florin square,
Her photo I declare,
To wear,
With care
Of uttermost esteem,
In pocket of my breast,
That picture lay at rest,
And blest,
With zest,
That fluttered thro' my dream;
My dream of love, where she
Was posed, in extacy,
Of gay phantasmagoria,
Of beauty unto me.

[Decoration]

Ten other bobs, I pay,
For hothouse plant bouquet,
When she,
On tree,
Of pantomimic treat
In semi-raiment stood,
As geni of the good,
I could,
And would,
Down cast them at her feet.
The feet of love where she
Was posed, in extacy,
Of bright phantasmagoria,
Of beauty unto me!

I took a numbered seat,
In stall select, and neat,
To treat
My sweet!
And when she did appear,
I flung the flow'rs I wis,
She took them, and with this,
O bliss
A kiss!
That thrilled me, while the cheer
Of gods applaudingly,
Did greet with storm of glee,
The loved phantasmagoria
Of beauty unto me!

[Decoration]

Sweet osculating scene
Of bouquet, and my queen,
And smug
Chaste hug,
Of posies to her nose,
As poising on her toe,
And then subsiding low,
A glow
Flushed so,
On my cheek, like a rose,
The while she bowed the knee,
Then skipped away O.P.,
That lithe phantasmagoria,
Of beauty unto me!

* * * * *

I waited by the door,
Classic door! out they pour,
A score,
Or more,
Escorting her, I say!
And ha! may I be blest,
Upon each jerkin breast,
Confest,
Were drest,
The buds of my bouquet!
Said she to me "ta ta!
Go home to your mamma!"
It wrought the rude evanishment
Of love of her from me!

The moral it is this,
Don't dally with such bliss,
A miss,
Is kiss
Unto thee from the play,
A kiss for gods, and stall,
The pit, and tier, on all
To fall
And small
The fig, for your bouquet,
When it has brought the balm,
Of the applauding palm,
She shares it with the supers, and
She gives the chill to thee!

THE sun was setting in a gloam of purple and gold, as I basked in the grass on the Staball hill one autumn evening, the stirring tuck of the tattoo rolled up the slope from the adjacent barracks; it affected me like a tonic, my blood circulated quicker, the spirit of an amateur ghostly seer took possession of me! I felt as one inspired.

A scene of early days of Anglo-foreign strife rose before me like a wraith of second sight. The tramp of sea-bound red coats, fifes and drums, the woe-mongering cries of parting wives. I saw two lovers on the Staball hill, heard their vows.

A rhyming fever tingled to my fingers' ends, my only manuscript medium to hand, the stump of a lead pencil, and blank margin of the morning paper. Upon that virgin border I jotted the sketch of the following founded on fact ballad. The reader will perceive in it a beautiful inverse lesson of the mutual commotion of two loving hearts.

THE bugle horn was sounding through the streets of Castlebar,
And many a gallant soldier, was bound unto the war,
And one upon the Staball hill, his sweetheart by his side
Swore many a rounded warlike oath, that she should be his bride.

"O Maggie!" cried the Corporal, "There's war across the sea,
And when I'm parted from thee, I would you'd pray for me,
And I will tell you what you'll do, when I am far away,
You'll come up to the Staball, and kneel for me, and pray."

And this to him she promised, and this to him she said,
"I'll still be ever true to thee, be thou alive, or dead!
I'll still be ever true to thee, and O if thou dost fall,
Thy soul at eve will find me here, upon the old Staball."

And then he swore a clinker oath, of what a vengeful doom,
Would him befal, who dared to win her from him, then the bloom
Came to her cheek again, "O Jim I'll never love but you,"
"I'm blowed but I'm the same!" he cried, and then they tore in two!

She saw her soldier leaving, she heard the music sweet,
Of "The girl I left behind me" sounding sadly up the street,
She saw the shrieking engine, that bore him far away,
Then went back to the Staball, to weep for him and pray.

And as the summer faded, and gloaming nights came round,
A maid anon was kneeling, upon that trysting ground,
And fearless of the winter, and of its falling snow,
That maiden sweet, and constant, unto her tryst would go.

Till on a certain evening, a stranger in the town,
Came sauntering up the Staball, and found her kneeling down,
He tipped her on the shoulder, and speaking soft, and low,
"O what on earth possesses you, to pray upon the snow."

She told him all her story then, and why so kneeling there,
She told him of her sorrowed heart, the object of her prayer,
She told him of her soldier lad, so far across the sea,
"I'd like to be a soldier lad, with you to love!" said he.

Said he "You're very lonely: If you have need to pray,
I'll come agrah! and help you, with 'Amens' if I may,
It's very hard acushla! to pray alone each night,"
And the colleen shyly answered, "She thought perhaps he might."

The tryst became more social for while the colleen prayed,
The stranger tooted "Amens" unto the kneeling maid,
Until at last he muttered "This pantomime must stop,
I'll buy the ring to-morrow, I've got a watch to pop!"

At length the war was over, she heard the beaten drum,
And up again thro' Castlebar, the scarlet men did come,
And her heart grew cold within her, to think how wroth he'd be
To learn she had been faithless, while he was o'er the sea.

Then, pleading to her husband "O hide yerself!" she said,
"Aye even up the chimbledy, or undhernate the bed!
For if he ketches howld of you, I don't know what he'll do,
It's maybe let his gun go off, an' maybe kill the two!

I'll try an' coax the grannies, to brake it to him first,
For if he's towld it sudden by me, 'twill be the worst,
They'll have to put it softly, I cannot be his bride,
So while I'm gone to tell them, do you run off an' hide."

* * * * *

"O break it to him, Grannies, the shocking news," she said
"That I have wed another, and him I cannot wed!
O put it to him gently, for great will be his pain,
That we'll never more be meeting on the Staball hill again."

They broke it to him softly, 'twas in a public bar,
A foaming pint before him, and on his brow a scar,
They broke it to him gently, and spoke it to him plain,
He needn't think to meet her, on the Staball hill again.

He swigged the pint before him, then heaved a bitter sigh,
"What? blow me, your a chaffin'!" "O divil a word o' lie!"
Then first he took his shako, and tossed it to the roof,
Then to each nervous grannie, "Here take the bloomin' loof."

"Come, wots yer shout for liquor? It's dooced well!" cried he,
"I'm buckled to a blackimoor, I met beyond the sea,
"You've taken a load from off of me! my mind is now at par,
She wouldn't have left a ribbon on the Girl of Castlebar!"

VE are ze vhandering Shermans,
Ve cooms vrom o'er ze sea,
Ve plays ze lovely music,
Of all ze great countree,
Ve all of us have romance,
Of life, so bigs to say,
I'll sing a verse for each man,
Ze vile ze band vill play.

Vings zerring zanzeraza,
Ve cooms from o'er ze sea,
Ve plays ze lovely music,
Of all ze great countree.

Zare's Herr Von Zingerpofel,
No prouder man vos he,
Zan ven he loved ze Fraulien
Afar in Shermanie.
But ven he found ze noders
Golds ring upon her hand,
He played on ze thriangles,
Und left ze Sherman land!

Zare's Blunder Bogle Fogen,
Vot bangs on ze big dhrum,
Thought all ze poor, und rich man,
Should own ze even sum;
Ze government vos differed,
But on ze prison valks,
He doubled up ze gaoler,
Und zen, he valked ze chalks!

Zare's Dreker Mandertoofel,
Ze opheclide he plays,
He'll never more see nodings,
Of all his happiest days;
He only blows ze music,
Because it brings ze cheer,
Of great big pipes of shmokin',
Und shugs of Lager Beer!

Zare's him vot puffs ze oboe,
In oder days vos he,
Of Heidelberg, a student
Ze pride of Shermanie,
But he did love der Lager,
Zoo mooch of Docter-Vien,
He killed ze man in duel!
Und he vos no more seen.

Zare's Mungen Val Tarara,
A Sherman born in Cork,
Und he vos von too many,
Because he vould not vork,
He left his home von mornings,
Mit all his back hair curled,
He jangs upon ze cymbals,
To bring him round ze vorld.

Now you vill be imagine,
Zat I must oondherstand,
Zat I vill tell ze story
Of leader of ze band,
But if I must, I'll speaks it,
All in ze simple rune,
So I vill stop ze music,
Ze tale is out of tune!

'Twas I vos vonce a Uhlan, who rode mit all ze band,
Zat von Alsace, und Lorraine, from Vrance vor Vaterland,
Ven in ze pits at Gravelotte, I lay von night to die,
I voke! for I vos faintings to hear ze voman sigh!

Und shust vere I vas vounded, I saw ze voman's zere,
Vos bound mine arm from bleeding, mit her own golden hair!
She nursed me through ze danger, und ven zere's peace again,
I svore zat I vould ved her, ze Fraulein of Lorraine.

I kissed my love von mornings, her vite face on my heart,
Mit sobs her eyes vos veeping, ze time vos come to part.
Ze Var vas not yet ended, I heard ze thrompet blow,
Zat I must rise, und answer, und leave ze sveetheart so!

Mine blood run cold zat mornings, und I felt somedings here,
Vos in my throat come choking, und on my cheek ze tear,
Vor O I vould not lose her, ze glory on me now,
Zat I vos hope to bless me, mit Cosette vor mine Frau.

I marched avay to Paris, vere all around vos dire,
Mit shmoke, und blood, und thunder, und fret, und woe und fire!
Und ven ze siege vos over, mit thrumpet und mit dhrum,
Vonce more again thro' Lorraine, ze Sherman bands did come.

I vent to find ze sveetheart, but grass vos on ze slain,
Ze cruel Var had murdered ze Fraulein of Lorraine!--
Shust vere mine heart is beating, I keep ze treasure zare,
Mit mine own blood upon it, von braid of golden hair,
Und all dried up und vithered, und gone to dust again,
Von flower zat vonce vos jewelled ze grave zats in Lorraine.

Ah vot is deed of glory, ven blood is on ze vings
Of love, zat makes ze heaven on earth, und vot are kings?
Auch! I vill have no patience. Strike up ze Band again,
Or I grow mad mit dhreamings, vot happened in Lorraine!

Vings zerring zanzaraza, ve cooms from o'er ze sea,
Ve plays ze lovely music, of all ze great countree.
Ve all of us have romance of life so bigs to say,
Vings zerring zanzaraza, ze vile ze band vill play.