Whene'er in place of using patent wile, Or trying to frighten me with horrid grin, You tempt me with two crimson lips curved in a smile; Old Devil, I must really own, you win. GHOSTS OF THE OLD YEAR The snow has ceased its fluttering flight, The wind sunk to a whisper light, An ominous stillness fills the night, A pause--a hush. At last, a sound that breaks the spell, Loud, clanging mouthings of a bell, That through the silence peal and swell, And roll, and rush. What does this brazen tongue declare, That falling on the midnight air Brings to my heart a sense of care Akin to fright? 'Tis telling that the year is dead, The New Year come, the Old Year fled, Another leaf before me spread On which to write. It tells the deeds that were not done, It tells of races never run, Of victories that were not won, Barriers unleaped. It tells of many a squandered day, Of slighted gems and treasured clay, Of precious stores not laid away, Of fields unreaped. And so the years go swiftly by, Each, coming, brings ambitions high, And each, departing, leaves a sigh Linked to the past. Large resolutions, little deeds; Thus, filled with aims unreached, life speeds Until the blotted record reads, "Failure!" at last. THE GHOST OF DEACON BROWN In a backwoods town Lived Deacon Brown, And he was a miser old; He would trust no bank, So he dug, and sank In the ground a box of gold, Down deep in the ground a box of gold. He hid his gold, As has been told, He remembered that he did it; But sad to say, On the very next day, He forgot just where he hid it: To find his gold he tried and tried Till he grew faint and sick, and died. Then on each dark and gloomy night A form in phosphorescent white, A genuine hair-raising sight, Would wander through the town. And as it slowly roamed around, With a spade it dug each foot of ground; So the folks about Said there was no doubt 'Twas the ghost of Deacon Brown. Around the church This Ghost would search, And whenever it would see The passers-by Take wings and fly It would laugh in ghostly glee, Hee, hee!--it would laugh in ghostly glee. And so the town Went quickly down, For they said that it was haunted; And doors and gates, So the story states, Bore a notice, "Tenants wanted." And the town is now for let, But the ghost is digging yet. "LAZY" Some men enjoy the constant strife Of days with work and worry rife, But that is not my dream of life: I think such men are crazy. For me, a life with worries few, A job of nothing much to do, Just pelf enough to see me through: I fear that I am lazy.