Page:The Bab Ballads.djvu/42

 HAUNTED.

AUNTED? Aye, in a social way, &emsp;By a body of ghosts in dread array: But no conventional spectres they—
 * Appalling, grim, and tricky:

I quail at mine as I'd never quail At a fine traditional spectre pale, With a turnip head and a ghostly wail,
 * And a splash of blood on the dicky!

Mine are horrible, social ghosts, Speeches and women and guests and hosts, Weddings and morning calls and toasts,
 * In every bad variety:

Ghosts who hover about the grave Of all that's manly, free, and brave: You'll find their names on the architrave
 * Of that charnel-house, Society.

Black Monday—black as its school-room ink— With its dismal boys that snivel and think Of its nauseous messes to eat and drink,
 * And its frozen tank to wash in.

That was the first that brought me grief And made me weep, till I sought relief In an emblematical handkerchief,
 * To choke such baby bosh in.