Years have fled since the fatal day, When the Baron’s spirit wing’d its way, Obsequious at Apollyon’s call, To the mansions of death, and the spectral hall; But still on that ill-omened hour, The death hymn peals and the tempests low’r, And knives and forks are laid across, And the salt is spill’d to the beldame’s loss; And thirteen old women get into the room, And the last who goes in――goes out to the tomb. And an ugly thief flies into the candle, And pops in your face if you dare it to handle; And horrid coffins bounce out of the flame, Enough the most desperate courage to tame; And demon’s torment the Baron’s soul, And sing out exultingly, “Old King Coal;” Which proves that the imps and their souls and so forth, Are as black as the coals that you buy in the north. And legends assert, since this terrible stroke, That Bracey still lives like a pig in a poke; And my grandmother like to the village chimes, Has rung out the subject a hundred times; I wist not what the truth may be, But I’ll take my oath she has told it to me. * * * * * And the worsted night-cap the Baron wore, And his flannel hose were seen no more, And instead of the pillow as soft as his head, A coffin was placed at the foot of the bed; And dead men’s bones go dancing about, And skeleton’s guzzle a bottle of stout, Drained from a toper that died of the gout. And lights are seen in the midst of the room, And none know why or whence they come; But most people think that from motives of spite, There Beelzebub places his hellish rush-light. But ere the clock tolls a quarter to four, The Devils post back to the Stygian shore; And ere the clock points at a quarter to six, The Devils are safe on the banks of the Styx; And like the people that travel to Dover, Only wait for the packet to carry them over. This parody, which has more relation to the second part of _Christabel_ than to the first, is taken from “_The Dejeuné_, or Companion for the Breakfast Table.” Monday, November 6, 1820. _The Dejeuné_ was a small paper issued daily at the price of twopence, by Gold & Northhouse, London, and afterwards gathered into a volume, which is now very scarce. After long and patient searching in the British Museum Library no copy of it could be found, nor was its name, even, known to the authorities there. But the parody it contained had been mentioned by authorities on Coleridge, and this collection would have been incomplete without it, hence further searching. At last, after all hopes of obtaining it had departed, the volume was found, in the original boards, clean, and uncut, amongst waste books and pamphlets outside a second-hand bookshop.