I had read _Phantasmagoria_ by that writer quaint but grand, Who penned _The Hunting of the Snark_ and _Alice in Wonderland_. And I thought I knew a thing or two, or might be even three, About a Ghoul, and a Fay or Troll, and a Brownie or Banshee. I knew that a Banshee always howled, whilst a Goblin might but yawn, I also knew that a Poltergeist was _not_ a Leprechaun, But the Psychicals, I'm bound to say, had me on "buttered toastes" With the wonderful changes which they rang on the good old Churchyard "Ghostes." _CHORUS._ Some of their Ghosts were sages, some of them seemed sheer noddies; Some of the same like a "Wandering Flame," and others as "Astral Bodies." Some of theirs croaked "Ha! ha!" some of them chuckled "Ho! ho!" And I got so sad, I was heartily glad when I found it was time to go. I dropped into the "Rose and Crown," a highly respectable tavern, For Ghosts are dry, and my thirst was high, my throat like a chalky cavern. I didn't have much, only four of cold Scotch, which is good to moisten chalk. The night was fine, it was twelve twenty-nine, so I thought I might just as well walk. But when I entered Trafalgar Square, I heard a mysterious sound; There was not even a Bobby in sight as I stole a glance around; But seated on NELSON's lions four, and perched on the neighbouring "posteses," I saw, as we said in our Nursery Rhyme, a dozen or so of "Ghosteses"! _CHORUS._ Some of the Ghosts were short, some of the Ghosts were tall, Some of them had most preposterous noddles, and some of them none at all, They all gave a shrill "Ha! ha!" they all gave a hushed "Ho! ho!" I turned in a fright and I wished 'em good night--but they would not let me go! Then one of the Ghosts began to speak; down on my knees I sank, "I am a Nobleman's Ghost," said he, "and mine offence is Rank! I never cared for the Common Herd, the People I loved to crush; My only remark on the Poor was 'Pooh!' my retort to the Toilers 'Tush!' And if they dared to grumble, why, I used to raise my rents, For I always held that the Mob were made to keep up the Cent-per-cents, And now in this Square I hear BURNS's blare, see the Red Banner wave, And Society swished by the Socialist; so I cannot rest in my grave." _CHORUS._ Another Ghost commenced. He said: "I was a great R.A. (I remember the time when we used to meet in "the pepper-pots," over the way), My daubs were always hung on the line, for ourselves we used to judge, Our sole Ideal conventional cant, our _technique_ broad brown smudge. And now BURNE JONES's pictures _sell_!!!"--here he writhed with a spectral twist-- "And our 'broad brown smudge' gives way to the fudge cranks call 'Impressionist.' I've lost my head, as perhaps you mark--though I keep a ventriloquist tongue. What's the use of a head to an Artist Ghost, who has never a chance to be hung?"