On many a bloody battle field, right on to Peterloo? Thou gall embittered martinet! What boots it if thou crack Thy butler's neck? Unto that lock, he'll still be harking back, And grow envigorated, by thy ghastly midnight work, Like shooting of the chutes, or breezing down the switchback jerk! "Psha! that unto thee!" and I snapped my finger at him "bosh! Go, give thy vengeful spirit to contrition, for the wash, And with the soap of keen remorse, erase the stain of blood, From out thy soul, and straight atone, with deeds of useful good, Go, croak behind the Marble Arch, or take a flag and stand In Grosvenor Square, as captain of a hallelujah band, Do anything, but mockery of murder, in the dark, Ay even spout in windy speech, from wagons in the park, Thou thing of misty cobwebine! thou woman frighter go! And never more be seen again, to make thyself a show. For children's fears, or if thou would'st a manly vengeance dare, Pick up this fourteen stone of mine, and jock me down the stair Thou idiot spook, thou ill-conditioned cloud concocted sprite With the immortal bard I cry, Avaunt! and quit my sight!" So fiercely did I thus denounce, his evil midnight trick, The vigour of the vengeful scowl upon his brow grew sick With quail of deep abasement, to behold a mortal's blood On fire, to beard a felon spook, and ghosts were understood, A transposition of remorse, upon his features came, Until he shook before me, in an abject wreck of shame, And cried with tones of keen reproach, "Adzooks! Alack! Ah me! Oddsbodikins, well well! heigho! that I should die to see, My ghost derided, with contempt of scoffing stock from thee! But of thy clacking caustic tongue, I prithee give no more, I'll take my passage by a breeze, to-night for Singapore, Or anywhere the wind may blow, Japan! or Timbuctoo! To rid me of thy clapper jaw, a flout on thee! Adieu!" He then evaporated, and with some pride embued, I turned, for an expression of the butler's gratitude, But he was gone! and from his place, with india rubber shoe, A lamp was flashed upon my face, by number 90, Q, They're never where they're wanted, and that blue, belted elf, Did hail me up for trespass, and for shouting to myself! [Illustration] [Illustration: Ye Filial Sacrafice] HE was ye wrothful widowere, Unto his child spak he, "Thou art not wise in this my son, To court with Susan Lee, A Mayde, ye least that's prattled of, Ye safer for her fame, Bethink thee, thou art Jabez Gray, Respect thy Sire, his name! [Decoration]