He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore, On Gryffyth ap Conan, and Owen Glendour; On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more. He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice, And on all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce; When a lumbering noise from behind made him start, And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart, Which went pit-a-pat As he cried out, "What's that?-- That very queer sound? Does it come from the ground? Or the air,--from above, or below, or around? It is not like Talking, It is not like Walking, It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan, Or the tramp of a horse,--or the tread of a man,-- Or the hum of a crowd,--or the shouting of boys,-- It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise! Not unlike a Cart's,--but that can't be; for when Could "all the King's horses and all the King's men," With Old Nick for a waggoner, drive one up "PEN?" Pryce, usually brimful of valour when drunk, Now experienced what schoolboys denominate "funk." In vain he look'd back On the whole of the track He had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black, At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon, And did not seem likely to pass away soon; While clearer and clearer, 'Twas plain to the hearer, Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer, And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares, Very much "like a Coffin a-walking up stairs." Mr. Pryce had begun To "make up" for a run, As in such a companion he saw no great fun, When a single bright ray Shone out on the way He had pass'd, and he saw with no little dismay Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock, The deceased Mrs. Winifred's "Grandmother's Clock!!" Twas so!--it had certainly moved from its place, And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase; 'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case, And nothing was alter'd at all but the Face! In that he perceived, with no little surprise, The two little winder-holes turn'd into eyes Blazing with ire, Like two coals of fire; And the "Name of the Maker" was changed to a Lip, And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip. No!--he could not mistake it,--'twas SHE to the life! The identical Face of his dear defunct Wife!! One glance was enough, Completely "_Quant. Suff._" As the doctors write down when they send you their "stuff,"-- Like a Weather-cock whirl'd by a vehement puff, David turn'd himself round; Ten feet of ground He clear'd, in his start, at the very first bound!