Page:The Bab Ballads.djvu/43

 First and worst in the grim array— Ghosts of ghosts that have gone their way, Which I wouldn't revive for a single day
 * For all the wealth of —

Are the horrible ghosts that school-days scared: If the classical ghost that dared Was the ghost of his "Cæsar" unprepared,
 * I'm sure I pity.

I pass to critical seventeen; The ghost of that terrible wedding scene, When an elderly colonel stole my queen,
 * And woke my dream of heaven.

No school-girl decked in her nurse-room curls Was my gushing innocent queen of pearls; If she wasn't a girl of a thousand girls,
 * She was one of forty-seven!

I see the ghost of my first cigar— Of the thence-arising family jar— Of my maiden brief (I was at the bar),
 * (I called the judge, "Your wushup!")

Of reckless days and reckless nights, With wrenched-off knockers, extinguished lights, Unholy songs, and tipsy fights,
 * Which I strove in vain to hush up.

Ghosts of fraudulent joint-stock banks, Ghosts of "copy, declined with thanks," Of novels returned in endless ranks,
 * And thousands more, I suffer.