But the high tarn nation place is The dank tarn of Auber In the Ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. There they sit, with their faces Bow’d down to their knees, At the feet of dead trees. With the dew dropping down from their hair, They sit there from the end of October, To the end of the winter next year, These are woodlandish Ghouls, Damp, desolate souls Who have nothing to do But be haunting the dank tarn of Auber Through the mildewest part of the year, That begins at the end of October, In the woodlandish Ghouldom of Weir. Yes! these are the woodlandish Ghouls―― Ghouls――Ghouls――Ghouls―― With no business kind of controls―― Mere shoals. But busier――ah! much busier polls Have the Churchyard Ghouls, Prowling there for the bodies of poor dead souls; And who after supper Take an upper Climb to their goal in the steeple! Where they sit, where they brood, where they heap ill On the people undergone; Sitting cheeks by jowls. Now and then they roll a stone, Having set the bells a-tolling In a muffled monotone, On the people undergone. And their King it is who tolls, As he lolls, lolls, lolls On his throne all carved with scrolls In his palace in the steeple. Where he lolls among his people! Ah! his people who roll stones, In muffled monotones, On the hearts of the underfolk, In the dead of night awoke By the melancholy yells, By the miserable howls, To say nothing of the growls, Of these Ghouls, Of these tollers of the bells, As they toll, toll, toll Toll; Toll; Toll A pæan from the bells: And the merry bosom swells Of the Ghoul-King as he tolls, As he dances and he yells To the throbbing of the bells As they toll, Toll, Toll.