First published in 1869.

Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task,
   Eager she wields her spade: yet loves as well
Rest on the friendly knee, intent to ask
         The tale one loves to tell.

Rude scoffer of the seething outer strife,
   Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright,
Deem, if thou wilt, such hours a waste of life,
         Empty of all delight!

Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy
   Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguilded.
Ah, happy he who owns the tenderest joy,
         The heart-love of a child!

Away, fond thoughts, and vex my soul no more!
   Work claims my wakeful nights, my busy days,
Albeit bright memories of the sunlit shore
         Yet haunt my dreaming gaze.

CANTO I
The Trystyng

One winter night, at half-past nine,
      Cold, tired, and cross, and muddy,
I had come home, too late to dine,
And supper, with cigars and wine,
      Was waiting in the study.

There was a strangeness in the room,
      And Something white and wavy
Was standing near me in the gloom—
I took it for the carpet-broom
      Left by that careless slavey.

He trembled when he caught my eye,
      And got behind a chair.
“How came you here,” I said, “and why?
I never saw a thing so shy.
      Come out!  Don’t shiver there!”

He said “I’d gladly tell you how,
      And also tell you why;
But” (here he gave a little bow)
“You’re in so bad a temper now,
      You’d think it all a lie.

“And as to being in a fright,
      Allow me to remark
That Ghosts have just as good a right
In every way, to fear the light,
      As Men to fear the dark.”

He said “A flutter of alarm
      Is not unnatural, is it?
I really feared you meant some harm:
But, now I see that you are calm,
      Let me explain my visit.

“Houses are classed, I beg to state,
      According to the number
Of Ghosts that they accommodate:
(The Tenant merely counts as weight,
      With Coals and other lumber).

“This is a ‘one-ghost’ house, and you
      When you arrived last summer,
May have remarked a Spectre who
Was doing all that Ghosts can do
      To welcome the new-comer.

“That Spectre left you on the Third—
      Since then you’ve not been haunted:
For, as he never sent us word,
’Twas quite by accident we heard
      That any one was wanted.

“A Spectre has first choice, by right,
      In filling up a vacancy;
Then Phantom, Goblin, Elf, and Sprite—
If all these fail them, they invite
      The nicest Ghoul that they can see.

“The Spectres said the place was low,
      And that you kept bad wine:
So, as a Phantom had to go,
And I was first, of course, you know,
      I couldn’t well decline.”

“I’m not so young, Sir,” he replied,
      “As you might think.  The fact is,
In caverns by the water-side,
And other places that I’ve tried,
      I’ve had a lot of practice:

“But I have never taken yet
      A strict domestic part,
And in my flurry I forget
The Five Good Rules of Etiquette
      We have to know by heart.”

My sympathies were warming fast
      Towards the little fellow:
He was so utterly aghast
At having found a Man at last,
      And looked so scared and yellow.

“Though, certainly, you don’t appear
      A thing to offer food to!
And then I shall be glad to hear—
If you will say them loud and clear—
      The Rules that you allude to.”

“Thanks!  You shall hear them by and by.
      This is a piece of luck!”
“What may I offer you?” said I.
“Well, since you are so kind, I’ll try
      A little bit of duck.

“One slice!  And may I ask you for
      Another drop of gravy?”
I sat and looked at him in awe,
For certainly I never saw
      A thing so white and wavy.

“My First—but don’t suppose,” he said,
      “I’m setting you a riddle—
Is—if your Victim be in bed,
Don’t touch the curtains at his head,
      But take them in the middle,

“And wave them slowly in and out,
      While drawing them asunder;
And in a minute’s time, no doubt,
He’ll raise his head and look about
      With eyes of wrath and wonder.

“And here you must on no pretence
      Make the first observation.
Wait for the Victim to commence:
No Ghost of any common sense
      Begins a conversation.

“By day, if he should be alone—
      At home or on a walk—
You merely give a hollow groan,
To indicate the kind of tone
      In which you mean to talk.

“But if you find him with his friends,
      The thing is rather harder.
In such a case success depends
On picking up some candle-ends,
      Or butter, in the larder.

“With this you make a kind of slide
      (It answers best with suet),
On which you must contrive to glide,
And swing yourself from side to side—
      One soon learns how to do it.

I said “You’ll visit here no more,
      If you attempt the Guy.
I’ll have no bonfires on my floor—
And, as for scratching at the door,
      I’d like to see you try!”

“The Third was written to protect
      The interests of the Victim,
And tells us, as I recollect,
To treat him with a grave respect,
      And not to contradict him.”

“That’s plain,” said I, “as Tare and Tret,
      To any comprehension:
I only wish some Ghosts I’ve met
Would not so constantly forget
      The maxim that you mention!”

“The Fourth prohibits trespassing
      Where other Ghosts are quartered:
And those convicted of the thing
(Unless when pardoned by the King)
      Must instantly be slaughtered.

“That simply means ‘be cut up small’:
      Ghosts soon unite anew.
The process scarcely hurts at all—
Not more than when you ’re what you call
      ‘Cut up’ by a Review.

“The Fifth is one you may prefer
      That I should quote entire:—
The King must be addressed as ‘Sir.’
This, from a simple courtier,
      Is all the Laws require:

“I’m getting rather hoarse, I fear,
      After so much reciting:
So, if you don’t object, my dear,
We’ll try a glass of bitter beer—
      I think it looks inviting.”

“And did you really walk,” said I,
      “On such a wretched night?
I always fancied Ghosts could fly—
If not exactly in the sky,
      Yet at a fairish height.”

“It’s very well,” said he, “for Kings
      To soar above the earth:
But Phantoms often find that wings—
Like many other pleasant things—
      Cost more than they are worth.

“Spectres of course are rich, and so
      Can buy them from the Elves:
But we prefer to keep below—
They’re stupid company, you know,
      For any but themselves:

“Inspector Kobold came to you—”
      The little Ghost began.
Here I broke in—“Inspector who?
Inspecting Ghosts is something new!
      Explain yourself, my man!”

“His name is Kobold,” said my guest:
      “One of the Spectre order:
You’ll very often see him dressed
In a yellow gown, a crimson vest,
      And a night-cap with a border.

“He tried the Brocken business first,
      But caught a sort of chill;
So came to England to be nursed,
And here it took the form of thirst,
      Which he complains of still.

I bore it—bore it like a man—
      This agonizing witticism!
And nothing could be sweeter than
My temper, till the Ghost began
      Some most provoking criticism.

“Cooks need not be indulged in waste;
      Yet still you’d better teach them
Dishes should have some sort of taste.
Pray, why are all the cruets placed
      Where nobody can reach them?

“That man of yours will never earn
      His living as a waiter!
Is that queer thing supposed to burn?
(It’s far too dismal a concern
      To call a Moderator).

“You’d find the bread improved, I think,
      By getting better flour:
And have you anything to drink
That looks a little less like ink,
      And isn’t quite so sour?”

Then, peering round with curious eyes,
      He muttered “Goodness gracious!”
And so went on to criticise—
“Your room’s an inconvenient size:
      It’s neither snug nor spacious.

“That narrow window, I expect,
      Serves but to let the dusk in—”
“But please,” said I, “to recollect
’Twas fashioned by an architect
      Who pinned his faith on Ruskin!”

“What a re-markable cigar!
      How much are they a dozen?”
I growled “No matter what they are!
You’re getting as familiar
      As if you were my cousin!

“Now that’s a thing I will not stand,
      And so I tell you flat.”
“Aha,” said he, “we’re getting grand!”
(Taking a bottle in his hand)
      “I’ll soon arrange for that!”

And here he took a careful aim,
      And gaily cried “Here goes!”
I tried to dodge it as it came,
But somehow caught it, all the same,
      Exactly on my nose.

What really passed I never learned,
      Nor guessed: I only know
That, when at last my sense returned,
The lamp, neglected, dimly burned—
      The fire was getting low—

Through driving mists I seemed to see
      A Thing that smirked and smiled:
And found that he was giving me
A lesson in Biography,
      As if I were a child.

“Oh, when I was a little Ghost,
      A merry time had we!
Each seated on his favourite post,
We chumped and chawed the buttered toast
      They gave us for our tea.”

“It’s not in Nursery Rhymes?  And yet
      I almost think it is—
‘Three little Ghosteses’ were set
‘On posteses,’ you know, and ate
      Their ‘buttered toasteses.’

“I have the book; so if you doubt it—”
      I turned to search the shelf.
“Don’t stir!” he cried.  “We’ll do without it:
I now remember all about it;
      I wrote the thing myself.

“It came out in a ‘Monthly,’ or
      At least my agent said it did:
Some literary swell, who saw
It, thought it seemed adapted for
      The Magazine he edited.

“The notion soon became a craze;
      And, when it once began, she
Brought us all out in different ways—
One was a Pixy, two were Fays,
      Another was a Banshee;

“The Fetch and Kelpie went to school
      And gave a lot of trouble;
Next came a Poltergeist and Ghoul,
And then two Trolls (which broke the rule),
      A Goblin, and a Double—

“(If that’s a snuff-box on the shelf,”
      He added with a yawn,
“I’ll take a pinch)—next came an Elf,
And then a Phantom (that’s myself),
      And last, a Leprechaun.

“My phantom-life was soon begun:
      When I was barely six,
I went out with an older one—
And just at first I thought it fun,
      And learned a lot of tricks.

“I’ve haunted dungeons, castles, towers—
      Wherever I was sent:
I’ve often sat and howled for hours,
Drenched to the skin with driving showers,
      Upon a battlement.

“It’s quite old-fashioned now to groan
      When you begin to speak:
This is the newest thing in tone—”
And here (it chilled me to the bone)
      He gave an awful squeak.

“And when you’ve learned to squeak, my man,
      And caught the double sob,
You’re pretty much where you began:
Just try and gibber if you can!
      That’s something like a job!

“I’ve tried it, and can only say
      I’m sure you couldn’t do it, e-
ven if you practised night and day,
Unless you have a turn that way,
      And natural ingenuity.

“Shakspeare I think it is who treats
      Of Ghosts, in days of old,
Who ‘gibbered in the Roman streets,’
Dressed, if you recollect, in sheets—
      They must have found it cold.

“What with the things you have to hire—
      The fitting on the robe—
And testing all the coloured fire—
The outfit of itself would tire
      The patience of a Job!

“And then they’re so fastidious,
      The Haunted-House Committee:
I’ve often known them make a fuss
Because a Ghost was French, or Russ,
      Or even from the City!

“Some dialects are objected to—
      For one, the Irish brogue is:
And then, for all you have to do,
One pound a week they offer you,
      And find yourself in Bogies!”

“Don’t they consult the ‘Victims,’ though?”
      I said.  “They should, by rights,
Give them a chance—because, you know,
The tastes of people differ so,
      Especially in Sprites.”

The Phantom shook his head and smiled.
      “Consult them?  Not a bit!
’Twould be a job to drive one wild,
To satisfy one single child—
      There’d be no end to it!”

“Of course you can’t leave children free,”
      Said I, “to pick and choose:
But, in the case of men like me,
I think ‘Mine Host’ might fairly be
      Allowed to state his views.”

“And, though we don’t consult ‘Mine Host’
      Before the thing’s arranged,
Still, if he often quits his post,
Or is not a well-mannered Ghost,
      Then you can have him changed.

“But if the host’s a man like you—
      I mean a man of sense;
And if the house is not too new—”
“Why, what has that,” said I, “to do
      With Ghost’s convenience?”

“A new house does not suit, you know—
      It’s such a job to trim it:
But, after twenty years or so,
The wainscotings begin to go,
      So twenty is the limit.”

“If I’d been rather later, I’ll
      Be bound,” I added, trying
(Most unsuccessfully) to smile,
“You’d have been busy all this while,
      Trimming and beautifying?”

“Why, no,” said he; “perhaps I should
      Have stayed another minute—
But still no Ghost, that’s any good,
Without an introduction would
      Have ventured to begin it.

“The proper thing, as you were late,
      Was certainly to go:
But, with the roads in such a state,
I got the Knight-Mayor’s leave to wait
      For half an hour or so.”

“He goes about and sits on folk
      That eat too much at night:
His duties are to pinch, and poke,
And squeeze them till they nearly choke.”
      (I said “It serves them right!”)

“And folk who sup on things like these—”
      He muttered, “eggs and bacon—
Lobster—and duck—and toasted cheese—
If they don’t get an awful squeeze,
      I’m very much mistaken!

“He is immensely fat, and so
      Well suits the occupation:
In point of fact, if you must know,
We used to call him years ago,
      The Mayor and Corporation!

“So, to reward him for his run
      (As it was baking hot,
And he was over twenty stone),
The King proceeded, half in fun,
      To knight him on the spot.”

“’Twas a great liberty to take!”
      (I fired up like a rocket).
“He did it just for punning’s sake:
‘The man,’ says Johnson, ‘that would make
      A pun, would pick a pocket!’”

“A man,” said he, “is not a King.”
      I argued for a while,
And did my best to prove the thing—
The Phantom merely listening
      With a contemptuous smile.

As one who strives a hill to climb,
      Who never climbed before:
Who finds it, in a little time,
Grow every moment less sublime,
      And votes the thing a bore:

Yet, having once begun to try,
      Dares not desert his quest,
But, climbing, ever keeps his eye
On one small hut against the sky
      Wherein he hopes to rest:

Who climbs till nerve and force are spent,
      With many a puff and pant:
Who still, as rises the ascent,
In language grows more violent,
      Although in breath more scant:

Commencing every single phrase
      With ‘therefore’ or ‘because,’
I blindly reeled, a hundred ways,
About the syllogistic maze,
      Unconscious where I was.

Quoth he “That’s regular clap-trap:
      Don’t bluster any more.
Now do be cool and take a nap!
Such a ridiculous old chap
      Was never seen before!

“You’re like a man I used to meet,
      Who got one day so furious
In arguing, the simple heat
Scorched both his slippers off his feet!”
      I said “That’s very curious!”

“Not Tibbs!” he cried—his tone became
      A shade or two less hearty—
“Why, no,” said I.  “My proper name
Is Tibbets—”  “Tibbets?”  “Aye, the same.”
      “Why, then YOU’RE NOT THE PARTY!”

With that he struck the board a blow
      That shivered half the glasses.
“Why couldn’t you have told me so
Three quarters of an hour ago,
      You prince of all the asses?

“To walk four miles through mud and rain,
      To spend the night in smoking,
And then to find that it’s in vain—
And I’ve to do it all again—
      It’s really too provoking!

“’Twas my fault after all, I find—
      Shake hands, old Turnip-top!”
The name was hardly to my mind,
But, as no doubt he meant it kind,
      I let the matter drop.

“Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!
      When I am gone, perhaps
They’ll send you some inferior Sprite,
Who’ll keep you in a constant fright
      And spoil your soundest naps.

“Tell him you’ll stand no sort of trick;
      Then, if he leers and chuckles,
You just be handy with a stick
(Mind that it’s pretty hard and thick)
      And rap him on the knuckles!

“That’s the right way to cure a Sprite
      Of such like goings-on—
But gracious me!  It’s getting light!
Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!”
      A nod, and he was gone.

“If Tibbs is anything like me,
      It’s possible,” I said,
“He won’t be over-pleased to be
Dropped in upon at half-past three,
      After he’s snug in bed.

“And if Bones plagues him anyhow—
      Squeaking and all the rest of it,
As he was doing here just now—
I prophesy there’ll be a row,
      And Tibbs will have the best of it!”

The hues of life are dull and gray,
      The sweets of life insipid,
When thou, my charmer, art away—
Old Brick, or rather, let me say,
      Old Parallelepiped!’

Instead of singing Verse the Third,
      I ceased—abruptly, rather:
But, after such a splendid word
I felt that it would be absurd
      To try it any farther.

So with a yawn I went my way
      To seek the welcome downy,
And slept, and dreamed till break of day
Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay
      And Leprechaun and Brownie!

      Lady Clara Vere de Vere
      Was eight years old, she said:
Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.

      She took her little porringer:
      Of me she shall not win renown:
For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her down.

      “Sisters and brothers, little Maid?
      There stands the Inspector at thy door:
Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four.”

      “Kind words are more than coronets,”
      She said, and wondering looked at me:
“It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea.”

Beat a dog till it howls outright—
   Cruel, but all very well for a spree:
Suppose that he did so day and night,
   That would be like the Sea.

I had a vision of nursery-maids;
   Tens of thousands passed by me—
All leading children with wooden spades,
   And this was by the Sea.

Who invented those spades of wood?
   Who was it cut them out of the tree?
None, I think, but an idiot could—
   Or one that loved the Sea.

It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float
   With ‘thoughts as boundless, and souls as free’:
But, suppose you are very unwell in the boat,
   How do you like the Sea?

If you like your coffee with sand for dregs,
   A decided hint of salt in your tea,
And a fishy taste in the very eggs—
   By all means choose the Sea.

And if, with these dainties to drink and eat,
   You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree,
And a chronic state of wet in your feet,
   Then—I recommend the Sea.

For I have friends who dwell by the coast—
   Pleasant friends they are to me!
It is when I am with them I wonder most
   That anyone likes the Sea.

They take me a walk: though tired and stiff,
   To climb the heights I madly agree;
And, after a tumble or so from the cliff,
   They kindly suggest the Sea.

I have a horse—a ryghte good horse—
   Ne doe Y envye those
Who scoure ye playne yn headye course
   Tyll soddayne on theyre nose
They lyghte wyth unexpected force
   Yt ys—a horse of clothes.

I have a saddel—“Say’st thou soe?
   Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote?”
I sayde not that—I answere “Noe”—
   Yt lacketh such, I woote:
Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe!
   Parte of ye fleecye brute.

I have a bytte—a ryghte good bytte—
   As shall bee seene yn tyme.
Ye jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte;
   Yts use ys more sublyme.
Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt?
   Yt ys—thys bytte of rhyme.

[In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy.  Any fairly practised writer, with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in the easy running metre of ‘The Song of Hiawatha.’  Having, then, distinctly stated that I challenge no attention in the following little poem to its merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader to confine his criticism to its treatment of the subject.]