The Ghosts’ High Noon
WHEN the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in themoonlight 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 baythe 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 lowon the fen,From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women andmen,And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends toosoon,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 takeflight,With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim “goodnight”;Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliesttune,And ushers our next high holiday—the dead of the night’s high noon!