When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight flies, And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies-- When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs bay the moon, Then is the spectres' holiday--then is the ghosts' high noon! As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie low on the fen, From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women and men, And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too soon, For cockcrow limits our holiday--the dead of the night's high noon! And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds take flight, With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim "good night"; Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest tune, And ushers our next high holiday--the dead of the night's high noon! [Illustration] [Illustration] A WORM WILL TURN I love a man who'll smile and joke When with misfortune crowned; Who'll pun beneath a pauper's yoke, And as he breaks his daily toke, Conundrums gay propound. Just such a man was BERNARD JUPP, He scoffed at Fortune's frown; He gaily drained his bitter cup-- Though Fortune often threw him up, It never cast him down. Though years their share of sorrow bring, We know that far above All other griefs, are griefs that spring From some misfortune happening To those we really love. E'en sorrow for another's woe Our BERNARD failed to quell; Though by this special form of blow No person ever suffered so, Or bore his grief so well. His father, wealthy and well clad, And owning house and park. Lost every halfpenny he had, And then became (extremely sad!) A poor attorney's clerk. All sons it surely would appal, Except the passing meek, To see a father lose his all, And from an independence fall To one pound ten a week! But JUPP shook off this sorrow's weight And, like a Christian son, Proved Poverty a happy fate-- Proved Wealth to be a devil's bait, To lure poor sinners on. With other sorrows BERNARD coped, For sorrows came in packs; His cousins with their housemaids sloped-- His uncles forged--his aunts eloped-- His sisters married blacks. [Illustration] But BERNARD, far from murmuring (Exemplar, friends, to us), Determined to his faith to cling,-- He made the best of everything, And argued softly thus: "'Twere harsh my uncles' forging knack Too rudely to condemn-- My aunts, repentant, may come back, And blacks are nothing like as black As people colour them!"