The Haunted Homes of England, How eerily they stand, While through them flit their ghosts――to wit, The Monk with the Red Hand, The Eyeless Girl――an awful spook―― To stop the boldest breath; The boy that inked his copy-book, And so got “wopped” to death! Call them not shams――from haunted Glamis To haunted Hawthornden, I mark in hosts the griesly ghosts Of women, priests, and men! I know the spectral dog that howls Before the deaths of Squires; In my “Ghost-guide” addresses hide For Gurney and for Myers! I see the Vampire climb the stairs From vaults below the church; And hark! the Pirate’s spectre swears! Oh, Psychical Research, Cans’t _thou_ not hear what meets my ear, The viewless wheels that come? The wild Banshee that wails to thee? The Drummer with his drum? Oh, Haunted Homes of England, Though tenantless ye stand, With none content to pay the rent, Through all the shadowy land, Now, Science true will find in you A sympathetic perch, And take you all, both Grange and Hall, For Psychical Research! A.L. _The Pall Mall Gazette_, December 21, 1883. ―――― THE MEN OF ENGLAND. _By a blighted being turned pessimist through disappointed ambition._ I. The stately men of England, How eloquent the band; Setting their sails to catch the breeze Which they themselves have fanned! With argument, not over sound Patched up with awkward seam, Whig versus Tory――both a’ground On life’s tumultuous stream! II. The merry men of England, Who take a strange delight, In making jokes that none can see Unless he’s extra bright! Who volunteer a comic song Some pointless tale retold! Or try and make you think you’re wrong And roar to see you sold! III. The saintly men of England, Teaching their screeching choirs; Full of huge pedantic words! Their sermons lasting hours! Though down upon “life’s idle whims!” Though _other_ men they scorn, You’ll see them――well――not chanting hymns On many a tennis lawn. IV. The free, fair trade of England, Long, long in shop and stall, May harmless customers be fleeced Of their small and little all! Thus, to my thinking it behoves Him who earth’s paths hath trod To mind and not spoil other coves By sparing satire’s rod. From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley, Cambridge, 1883. ―――― THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.