Phantasmagoria

Canto I: The Trysting

    • One winter night, at half-past nine,
    • Cold, tired, and cross, and muddy,
    • I had come home, too late to dine,
    • And supper, with cigars and wine,
    • Was waiting in the study.
    • There was a strangeness in the room,
    • And Something white and wavy
    • Was standing near me in the gloom—
    • I took it for the carpet-broom
    • Left by that careless slavey.
    • But presently the Thing began
    • To shiver and to sneeze:
    • On which I said “Come, come, my man!
    • That’s a most inconsiderate plan,
    • Less noise there, if you please!”
    • “I’ve caught a cold”, the Thing replies,
    • “Out there upon the landing.”
    • I turned to look in some surprise,
    • And there, before my very eyes,
    • A little Ghost was standing!
    • He trembled when he caught my eye,
    • And got behind a chair.
    • “How came you here,” I said, “and why?
    • I never saw a thing so shy.
    • Come out! Don’t shiver there!”
    • He said “I’d gladly tell you how,
    • And also tell you why;
    • But” (here he gave a little bow)
    • “You’re in so bad a temper now,
    • You’d think it all a lie.
    • “And as to being in a fright,
    • Allow me to remark
    • That Ghosts have just as good a right,
    • In every way, to fear the light,
    • As Men to fear the dark.”
    • “No plea”, said I, “can well excuse
    • Such cowardice in you:
    • For Ghosts can visit when they choose,
    • Whereas we Humans ca’n’t refuse
    • To grant the interview. "
    • He said “A flutter of alarm
    • Is not unnatural, is it ?
    • I really feared you meant some harm:
    • But, now I see that you are calm,
    • Let me explain my visit.
    • “Houses are classed, I beg to state,
    • According to the number
    • Of Ghosts that they accommodate:
    • (The Tenant merely counts as weight,
    • With Coals and other lumber).
    • “This is a ‘one-ghost’ house, and you,
    • When you arrived last summer,
    • May have remarked a Spectre who
    • Was doing all that Ghosts can do
    • To welcome the new-comer
    • “In Villas this is always done—
    • However cheaply rented:
    • For, though of course there’s less of fun
    • When there is only room for one,
    • Ghosts have to be contented.
    • “That Spectre left you on the Third—
    • Since then you’ve not been haunted:
    • For, as he never sent us word,
    • ‘Twas quite by accident we heard
    • That any one was wanted.
    • “A Spectre has first choice, by right,
    • In filling up a vacancy;
    • Then Phantom, Goblin, Elf, and Sprite—
    • If all these fail them, they invite
    • The nicest Ghoul that they can see.
    • “The Spectres said the place was low,
    • And that you kept bad wine:
    • So, as a Phantom had to go,
    • And I was first, of course, you know,
    • I couldn’t well decline.”
    • “No doubt”, said I, “they settled who
    • Was fittest to be sent:
    • Yet still to choose a brat like you,
    • To haunt a man of forty
    • Was no great compliment!”
    • “I’m not so young, Sir,” he replied,
    • “As you might think. The fact is,
    • In caverns by the water-side,
    • And other places that I’ve tried,
    • I’ve had a lot of practice:
    • “But I have never taken yet
    • A strict domestic part,
    • And in my flurry I forget
    • The Five Good Rules of Etiquette
    • We have to know by heart.”
    • My sympathies were warming fast
    • Towards the little fellow:
    • He was so utterly aghast
    • At having found a Man at last,
    • And looked so scared and yellow.
    • “At least”, I said, “I’m glad to find
    • A Ghost is not a dumb thing!
    • But pray sit down: you’ll feel inclined
    • (If, like myself, you have not dined)
    • To take a snack of something:
    • “Though, certainly, you don’t appear
    • A thing to offer food to!
    • And then I shall be glad to hear—
    • If you will say them loud and clear—
    • The Rules that you allude to.”
    • “Thanks! You shall hear them by and by.
    • This is a piece of luck!”
    • “What may I offer you?” said I
    • “Well, since you are so kind, I’ll try
    • A little bit of duck.
    • “One slice! And may I ask you for
    • Another drop of gravy?”
    • I sat and looked at him in awe,
    • For certainly I never saw
    • A thing so white and wavy.
    • And still he seemed to grow more white,
    • More vapoury, and wavier—
    • Seen in the dim and flickering light,
    • As he proceeded to recite
    • His “Maxims of Behaviour”.

Canto II: Hys Fyve Rules

    • “My First—but don’t suppose”, he said,
    • “I’m setting you a riddle—
    • Is—if your Victim be in bed,
    • Don’t touch the curtains at his head,
    • But take them in the middle,
    • “And wave them slowly in and out,
    • While drawing them asunder;
    • And in a minute’s time, no doubt,
    • He’ll raise his head and look about
    • With eyes of wrath and wonder.
    • “And here you must on no pretence
    • Make the first observation.
    • Wait for the Victim to commence:
    • No Ghost of any common sense
    • Begins a conversation.
    • “If he should say ‘How came you here?’
    • (The way that you began, Sir),
    • In such a case your course is clear—
    • ‘On the bat’s back, my little dear!’
    • Is the appropriate answer.
    • “If after this he says no more,
    • You’d best perhaps curtail your
    • Exertions and shake the door,
    • And then, if he begins to snore,
    • You’ll know the thing’s a failure.
    • “By day, if he should be alone—
    • At home or on a walk—
    • You merely give a hollow groan,
    • To indicate the kind of tone
    • In which you mean to talk.
    • “But if you find him with his friends,
    • The thing is rather harder.
    • In such a case success depends
    • On picking up some candle-ends,
    • Or butter, in the larder.
    • “With this you make a kind of slide
    • (It answers best with suet),
    • On which you must contrive to glide.
    • And swing yourself from side to side—
    • One soon learns how to do it.
    • “The Second tells us what is right
    • In ceremonious calls:—
    • ‘First burn a blue or crimson light’
    • (A thing I quite forgot to-night),
    • ‘Then scratch the door or walls.’”
    • I said “You’ll visit here no more,
    • If you attempt the Guy.
    • I’ll have no bonfires on my floor—
    • And, as for scratching at the door,
    • I’d like to see you try!”
    • “The Third was written to protect
    • The interests of the Victim,
    • And tells us, as I recollect,
    • To treat him with a grave respect,
    • And not to contradict him.”
    • “That’s plain”, said I, “as Tare and Tret,
    • To any comprehension:
    • I only wish some Ghosts I’ve met
    • Would not so constantly forget
    • The maxim that you mention!”
    • “Perhaps”, he said, “you first transgressed
    • The laws of hospitality:
    • All Ghosts instinctively detest
    • The Man that fails to treat his guest
    • With proper cordiality.
    • “If you address a Ghost as ‘Thing!’
    • Or strike him with a hatchet,
    • He is permitted by the King
    • To drop all formal parleying—
    • And then you’re sure to catch it!
    • “The Fourth prohibits trespassing
    • Where other Ghosts are quartered:
    • And those convicted of the thing
    • (Unless when pardoned by the King)
    • Must instantly be slaughtered.
    • “That simply means ‘be cut up small’:
    • Ghosts soon unite anew:
    • The process scarcely hurts at all—
    • Not more than when you’re what you call
    • ‘Cut up’ by a Review.
    • “The Fifth is one you may prefer
    • That I should quote entire:—
    • The King must be addressed as ‘Sir’.
    • This, from a simple courtier,
    • Is all the Laws require:
    • “But, should you wish to do the thing
    • With out-and-out politeness,
    • Accost him as ‘My Goblin King!’
    • And always use, in answering,
    • The phrase ‘Your Royal Whiteness……!’
    • “I’m getting rather hoarse, I fear,
    • After so much reciting:
    • So, if you don’t object, my dear,
    • We’ll try a glass of bitter beer—
    • I think it looks inviting.”

Canto III: Scarmoges

    • “And did you really walk”, said I,
    • “On such a wretched night?
    • I always fancied Ghosts could fly—
    • If not exactly in the sky,
    • Yet at a fairish height.”
    • “It’s very well”, said he, “for Kings
    • To soar above the earth:
    • But Phantoms often find that wings—
    • Like many other pleasant things—
    • Cost more than they are worth.
    • “Spectres of course are rich, and so
    • Can buy them from the Elves:
    • But we prefer to keep below—
    • They’re stupid company, you know,
    • For any but themselves:
    • “For, though they claim to be exempt,
    • From pride, they treat a Phantom
    • As something quite beneath contempt—
    • Just as no Turkey ever dreamt
    • Of noticing a Bantam.”
    • “They seem too proud”, said I, “to go
    • To houses such as mine.
    • Pray, how did they contrive to know
    • So quickly that ‘the place was low’,
    • And that I ‘kept bad wine’? "
    • “Inspector Kobold came to you—
    • The little Ghost began.
    • Here I broke in—Inspector who?
    • Inspecting Ghosts is something new!
    • Explain yourself, my man!”
    • “His name is Kobald,” said my guest:
    • “One of the Spectre order:
    • You’ll very often see him dressed
    • In a yellow gown, a crimson vest,
    • And a night-cap with a border.
    • “He tried the Brocken business first,
    • But caught a sort of chill;
    • So came to England to be nursed,
    • And here it took the form of thirst,
    • Which he complains of still.
    • “Port-wine, he says, when rich and sound,
    • Warms his old bones like nectar:
    • And as the inns, where it is found,
    • Are his especial hunting
    • We call him the Inn-Spectre.”
    • I bore it—bore it like a man—
    • This agonizing witticism!
    • And nothing could be sweeter than
    • My temper, till the Ghost began
    • Some most provoking criticism.
    • “Cooks need not be indulged in waste;
    • Yet still you’d better teach them
    • Dishes should have some sort of taste.
    • Pray, why are all the cruets placed
    • Where nobody can reach them ?
    • “That man of yours will never earn
    • His living as a waiter!
    • Is that queer thing supposed to burn?
    • (It’s far too dismal a concern
    • To call a Moderator.)
    • “The duck was tender, but the peas
    • Were very much too old:
    • And just remember, if you please,
    • The next time you have toasted cheese,
    • Don’t let them send it cold.
    • “You’ll find the bread improved, I think,
    • By getting better flour:
    • And have you anything to drink
    • That looks a little less like ink,
    • And isn’t quite so sour?”
    • Then, peering round with curious eyes,
    • He muttered “Goodness gracious!”
    • And so went on to criticize—
    • “Your room’s an inconvenient size:
    • It’s neither snug nor spacious.
    • “That narrow window, I expect,
    • Serves but to let the dusk in——”
    • “But please”, said I, “to recollect
    • ‘Twas fashioned by an architect
    • Who pinned his faith on Ruskin!”
    • “I don’t care who he was, Sir, or
    • On whom he pinned his faith!
    • Constructed by whatever law,
    • So poor a job I never saw,
    • As I’m a living Wraith!
    • “What a re-markable cigar!
    • How much are they a dozen?”
    • I growled “No matter what they are!
    • You’re getting as familiar
    • As if you were my cousin!
    • “Now that’s a thing I will not stand,
    • And so I tell you flat.”
    • “Aha,” said he, “we’re getting grand!”
    • (Taking a bottle in his hand)
    • “I’ll soon arrange for that!”
    • And here he took a careful aim,
    • And gaily cried “Here goes!”
    • I tried to dodge it as it came,
    • But somehow caught it, all the same,
    • Exactly on my nose.
    • And I remember nothing more
    • That I can clearly fix,
    • Till I was sitting on the floor,
    • Repeating “Two and five are four,
    • But five and two are six.
    • What really passed I never learned,
    • Nor guessed: I only know
    • That, when at last my sense returned,
    • The lamp, neglected, dimly burned—
    • The fire was getting low—
    • Through driving mists I seemed to see
    • A Thing that smirked and smiled:
    • And found that he was giving me
    • A lesson in Biography,
    • As if I were a child.

Canto IV: Hys Nouryture

    • “Oh, when I was a little Ghost,
    • A merry time had we!
    • Each seated on his favourite post,
    • We chumped and chawed the buttered toast
    • They gave us for our tea.”
    • “That story is in print!” I cried
    • “Don’t say it’s not, because
    • It’s known as well as Bradshaw’s Guide!”
    • (The Ghost uneasily replied
    • He hardly thought it was.)
    • “It’s not in Nursery Rhymes? And yet
    • I almost think it is—
    • ‘Three little Ghosteses’ were set
    • ‘On posteses’, you know, and ate
    • Their ‘buttered toasteses’.
    • “I have the book; so if you doubt it—
    • I turned to search the shelf.
    • “Don’t stir!” he cried. “We’ll do without it
    • I now remember all about it;
    • I wrote the thing myself.
    • “It came out in a ‘Monthly’, or
    • At least my agent said it did:
    • Some literary swell, who saw
    • It, thought it seemed adapted for
    • The Magazine he edited.
    • “My father was a Brownie, Sir;
    • My mother was a Fairy.
    • The notion had occurred to her,
    • The children would be happier,
    • If they were taught to vary.
    • “The notion soon became a craze;
    • And, when it once began, she
    • Brought us all out in different ways—
    • One was a Pixy, two were Fays,
    • Another was a Banshee;
    • “The Fetch and Kelpie went to school
    • And gave a lot of trouble;
    • Next came a Poltergeist and Ghoul,
    • And then two Trolls (which broke the rule),
    • A Goblin, and a Double—
    • “(If that’s a snuff-box on the shelf,”
    • He added with a yawn,
    • “I’ll take a pinch)—next came an Elf,
    • And then a Phantom (that’s myself),
    • And last, a Leprechaun.
    • “One day, some Spectres chanced to call,
    • Dressed in the usual white:
    • I stood and watched them in the hall,
    • And couldn’t make them out at all,
    • They seemed so strange a sight.
    • “I wondered what on earth they were,
    • That looked all head and sack;
    • But Mother told me not to stare,
    • And then she twitched me by the hair,
    • And punched me in the back.
    • “Since then I’ve often wished that I
    • Had been a Spectre born.
    • But what’s the use?” (He heaved a sigh.)
    • “They are the ghost-nobility,
    • And look on us with scorn.
    • “My phantom-life was soon begun:
    • When I was barely six,
    • I went out with an older one—
    • And just at first I thought it fun,
    • And learned a lot of tricks.
    • “I’ve haunted dungeons, castles, towers
    • Wherever I was sent:
    • I’ve often sat and howled for hours,
    • Drenched to the skin with driving showers,
    • Upon a battlement.
    • “It’s quite old-fashioned now to groan
    • When you begin to speak:
    • This is the newest thing in tone——”
    • And here (it chilled me to the bone)
    • He gave an awful squeak.
    • “Perhaps”, he added, “to your ear
    • That sounds an easy thing?
    • Try it yourself, my little dear!
    • It took me something like a year,
    • With constant practicing.
    • “And when you’ve learned to squeak, my man,
    • And caught the double sob,
    • You’re pretty much where you began:
    • Just try and gibber if you can!
    • That’s something like a job!
    • “I’ve tried it, and can only say
    • I’m sure you couldn’t do it, e-
    • ven if you practiced night and day,
    • Unless you have a turn that way,
    • And natural ingenuity.
    • “Shakespeare I think it is who treats
    • Of Ghosts, in days of old,
    • Who ‘gibbered in the Roman streets’,
    • Dressed, if you recollect, in sheets—
    • They must have found it cold.
    • “I’ve often spent ten pounds on stuff,
    • In dressing as a Double;
    • But, though it answers as a puff,
    • It never has effect enough
    • To make it worth the trouble.
    • “Long bills soon quenched the little thirst
    • I had for being funny.
    • The setting-up is always worst:
    • Such heaps of things you want at first,
    • One must be made of money!
    • “For instance, take a Haunted Tower,
    • With skull, cross-bones, and sheet;
    • Blue lights to burn (say) two an hour,
    • Condensing lens of extra power,
    • And set of chains complete:
    • “What with the things you have to hire—
    • The fitting on the robe—
    • And testing all the coloured fire—
    • The outfit of itself would tire
    • The patience of a Job!
    • “And then they’re so fastidious,
    • The Haunted-House Committee:
    • I’ve often known them make a fuss
    • Because a Ghost was French, or Russ,
    • Or even from the City!
    • “Some dialects are objected to—
    • For one, the Irish brogue is:
    • And then, for all you have to do,
    • One pound a week they offer you,
    • And find yourself in Bogies!”

Canto V: Byckerment

    • “Don’t they consult the ‘Victims’, though?”
    • I said. “They should, by rights,
    • Give them a chance—because, you know,
    • The tastes of people differ so,
    • Especially in Sprites.”
    • The Phantom shook his head and smiled.
    • “Consult them? Not a bit!
    • ‘Twould be a job to drive one wild,
    • To satisfy one single child—
    • There’d be no end to it!”
    • “Of course you ca’n’t leave children free”,
    • Said I, “to pick and choose:
    • But, in the case of men like me,
    • I think ‘Mine Host’ might fairly be
    • Allowed to state his views.”
    • He said “It really wouldn’t pay—
    • Folk are so full of fancies.
    • We visit for a single day,
    • And whether then we go, or stay,
    • Depends on circumstances.
    • “And, though we don’t consult ‘Mine Host’
    • Before the thing’s arranged,
    • Still, if he often quits his post,
    • Or is not a well-mannered Ghost,
    • Then you can have him changed.
    • “But if the host’s a man like you—
    • I mean a man of sense;
    • And if the house is not too new——”
    • “Why, what has that”, said I, “to do
    • With Ghost’s convenience?”
    • “A new house does not suit, you know—
    • It’s such a job to trim it:
    • But, after twenty years or so,
    • The wainscotings begin to go,
    • So twenty is the limit.”
    • “To trim” was not a phrase I could
    • Remember having heard:
    • “Perhaps”, I said, “you’ll be so good
    • As tell me what is understood
    • Exactly by that word?”
    • “It means the loosening all the doors,
    • The Ghost replied, and laughed:
    • “It means the drilling holes by scores
    • In all the skirting-boards and floors,
    • To make a thorough draught.
    • “You’ll sometimes find that one or two
    • Are all you really need
    • To let the wind come whistling through—
    • But here there’ll be a lot to do!”
    • I faintly gasped “Indeed!
    • “If I’d been rather later, I’ll
    • Be bound,” I added, trying
    • (Most unsuccessfully) to smile,
    • “You’d have been busy all this while,
    • Trimming and beautifying?”
    • “Why, no,” said he; “perhaps I should
    • Have stayed another minute
    • But still no Ghost, that’s any good,
    • Without an introduction would
    • Have ventured to begin it.
    • “The proper thing, as you were late,
    • Was certainly to go:
    • But, with the roads in such a state,
    • I got the Knight-Mayor’s leave to wait
    • For half an hour or so.”
    • “Who’s the Knight-Mayor?” I cried. Instead
    • Of answering my question
    • “Well, if you don’t know that,” he said
    • “Either you never go to bed,
    • Or you’ve a grand digestion!
    • “He goes about and sits on folk
    • That eat too much at night:
    • His duties are to pinch, and poke,
    • And squeeze them till they nearly choke.”
    • (I said “It serves them right!”)
    • “And folk who sup on things like these—
    • He muttered, “eggs and bacon—
    • Lobster—duck—and toasted cheese—
    • If they don’t get an awful squeeze,
    • I’m very much mistaken!
    • “He is immensely fat, and so
    • Well suits the occupation:
    • In point of fact, if you must know,
    • We used to call him years ago,
    • The Mayor and Corporation!
    • “The day he was elected Mayor
    • I know that every Sprite meant
    • To vote for me, but did not dare—
    • He was so frantic with despair
    • And furious with excitement.
    • “When it was over, for a whim,
    • He ran to tell the King;
    • And being the reverse of slim,
    • A two-mile trot was not for him
    • A very easy thing.
    • “So, to reward him for his run
    • (As it was baking hot,
    • And he was over twenty stone),
    • The King proceeded, half in fun,
    • To knight him on the spot.”
    • “‘Twas a great liberty to take!”
    • (I fired up like a rocket.)
    • “He did it just for punning’s sake:
    • ‘The man’, says Johnson, ‘that would make
    • A pun, would pick a pocket!’ "
    • “A man”, said he, “is not a King.”
    • I argued for a while,
    • And did my best to prove the thing—
    • The Phantom merely listening
    • With a contemptuous smile.
    • At last, when, breath and patience spent,
    • I had recourse to smoking
    • “Your aim”, he said, “is excellent:
    • But—when you call it argument—
    • Of course you’re only joking?”
    • Stung by his cold and snaky eye,
    • I roused myself at length
    • To say, “At least I do defy
    • The veriest sceptic to deny
    • That union is strength! "
    • “That’s true enough,” said he, “yet stay—”
    • I listened in all meekness—
    • “Union is strength, I’m bound to say;
    • In fact, the thing’s as clear as day;
    • But onions are a weakness.

Canto VI: Discomfyture

    • As one who strives a hill to climb,
    • Who never climbed before:
    • Who finds it, in a little time,
    • Grow every moment less sublime,
    • And votes the thing a bore:
    • Yet, having once begun to try,
    • Dares not desert his quest,
    • But, climbing, ever keeps his eye
    • On one small hut against the sky
    • Wherein he hopes to rest:
    • Who climbs till nerve and force are spent,
    • With many a puff and pant:
    • Who still, as rises the ascent
    • In language grows more violent,
    • Although in breath more scant:
    • Who, climbing, gains at length the place
    • That crowns the upward track
    • And, entering with unsteady pace,
    • Receives a buffet in the face
    • That lands him on his back:
    • And feels himself, like one in sleep,
    • Glide swiftly down again,
    • A helpless weight, from steep to steep,
    • Till, with a headlong giddy sweep,
    • He drops upon the plain—
    • So I, that had resolved to bring
    • Conviction to a ghost,
    • And found it quite a different thing
    • From any human arguing,
    • Yet dared not quit my post.
    • But, keeping still the end in view
    • To which I hoped to come,
    • I strove to prove the matter true
    • By putting everything I knew
    • Into an axiom:
    • Commencing every single phrase
    • With “therefore” or “because”,
    • I blindly reeled, a hundred ways,
    • About the syllogistic maze,
    • Unconscious where I was.
    • Quoth he “That’s regular clap
    • Don’t bluster any more.
    • Now do be cool and take a nap!
    • Such a ridiculous old chap
    • Was never seen before!
    • “You’re like a man I used to meet,
    • Who got one day so furious
    • In arguing, the simple heat
    • Scorched both his slippers off his feet! "
    • I said “That’s very curious!”
    • “Well, it is curious, I agree,
    • And sounds perhaps like fibs:
    • But still it’s true as true can be—
    • As sure as your name’s Tibbs,” said he.
    • I said “My name’s not Tibbs.”
    • “Not Tibbs!” he cried—his tone became
    • A shade or two less hearty—
    • “Why, no,” said I. “My proper name
    • Is Tibbets—” “Tibbets?” “Aye, the same.”
    • “Why, then you’re not the party!
    • With that he struck the board a blow
    • That shivered half the glasses.
    • “Why couldn’t you have told me so
    • Three quarters of an hour ago,
    • You prince of all the asses?
    • “To walk four miles through mud and rain,
    • To spend the night in smoking,
    • And then to find that it’s in vain—
    • And I’ve to do it all again—
    • It’s really too provoking!
    • “Don’t talk!” he cried, as I began
    • To mutter some excuse.
    • “Who can have patience with a man
    • That’s got no more discretion than
    • An idiotic goose?
    • “To keep me waiting here, instead
    • Of telling me at once
    • That this was not the house!” he said.
    • “There, that’ll do—be off to bed!
    • Don’t gape like that, you dunce!”
    • “It’s very fine to throw the blame
    • On me in such a fashion!
    • Why didn’t you enquire my name
    • The very minute that you came? "
    • I answered in a passion.
    • “Of course it worries you a bit
    • To come so far on foot
    • But how was I to blame for it?”
    • “Well, well!” said he. “I must admit
    • That isn’t badly put.
    • “And certainly you’ve given me
    • The best of wine and victual
    • Excuse my violence,” said he,
    • “But accidents like this, you see,
    • They put one out a little.
    • “‘Twas my fault after all, I find—
    • Shake hands, old Turnip-top!”
    • The name was hardly to my mind,
    • But, as no doubt he meant it kind,
    • I let the matter drop.
    • “Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!
    • When I am gone, perhaps
    • They’ll send you some inferior Sprite,
    • Who’ll keep you in a constant fright
    • And spoil your soundest naps.
    • “Tell him you’ll stand no sort of trick;
    • Then, if he leers and chuckles,
    • You just be handy with a stick
    • (Mind that it’s pretty hard and thick)
    • And rap him on the knuckles!
    • “Then carelessly remark ‘Old coon!
    • Perhaps you’re not aware
    • That if you don’t behave, you’ll soon
    • Be chuckling to another tune—
    • And so you’d best take care!’
    • “That’s the right way to cure a Sprite
    • Of such-like goings-on—
    • But gracious me! It’s getting light!
    • Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!”
    • A nod, and he was gone.

Canto VII: Sad Souvenaunce

    • “What’s this?” I pondered. “Have I slept?
    • Or can I have been drinking?”
    • But soon a gentler feeling crept
    • Upon me, and I sat and wept
    • An hour or so, like winking.
    • “No need for Bones to hurry so! "
    • I sobbed. “In fact, I doubt
    • If it was worth his while to go—
    • And who is Tibbs, I’d like to know,
    • To make such work about ?
    • “If Tibbs is anything like me,
    • It’s possible”, I said,
    • “He won’t be over-pleased to be
    • Dropped in upon at half-past three,
    • After he’s snug in bed.
    • “And if Bones plagues him anyhow—
    • Squeaking and all the rest of it,
    • As he was doing here just now—
    • I prophesy there’ll be a row,
    • And Tibbs will have the best of it! "
    • Then, as my tears could never bring
    • The friendly Phantom back,
    • It seemed to me the proper thing
    • To mix another glass, and sing
    • The following Coronach.
    • And art thou “one, beloved Ghost;
    • Best of Familiars!
    • Nay, then, farewell, my duckling roast,
    • Farewell, farewell, my tea and toast,
    • My meerschaum and cigars!
    • The hues of life are dull and gray,
    • The sweets of life insipid,
    • When thou, my charmer, art away—
    • Old Brick, or rather, let me say,
    • Old Parallelepiped!”
    • Instead of singing Verse the Third,
    • I ceased-abruptly, rather:
    • But, after such a splendid word
    • I felt that it would be absurd
    • To try it any farther.
    • So with a yawn I went my way
    • To seek the welcome downy,
    • And slept, and dreamed till break of day
    • Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay
    • And Leprechaun and Brownie!
    • For years I’ve not been visited
    • By any kind of Sprite;
    • Yet still they echo in my head,
    • Those parting words, so kindly said,
    • “Old Turnip-top, good-night!”