OF A GHOST THAT APPEARED TO THE EDITOR.

New Zealand Spectator and Cook's Strait Guardian, Volume IV, Issue 291, 13 May 1848, Page 4

OF A GHOST THAT APPEARED TO THE EDITOR.

The toils of day had passed an ay, Our proofs had gone to press, All weary on our couch we lay, In virgin loneliness ; We had heard the chimes of vanish'd times Ring on our fancy's ear — And the lonely knell of the passing bell Which toll'd for the dying year. We thought of the breath — now quench'd in death — That welcom'd the last year in ; Of the garland chang'd to the cypress wreath, And of souls that had perished in sin ; We thought on the joy we had felt as a boy, In lollipops, feathers, and frills ; And we thought with a quake and a dubious shake Of our usual quarterly bills ! Oh ! terrible sight ; a ghastly sprite With a face that spoke of the tomb ; Array'd from the top to the bottom in white— Appear'd in the chamber's gloom. With awful amaze we mark'd its gaze, For remorse to its features clung — And woful and sore the expression they wore, like a thief coming out to be hung. We shiver'd all o'er, and from every pore Trickled the dews of fear — And we uttered betwixt a groan and a roar, " Why what are you up to here ?—? — Of murder fell have you come to tell ? I'll print your confession, don't doubt : Or if gold you have hid, wherever you bid, I'll oblige you by finding it out." In a dismal whine " That's all very fine," The sorrowful ghost replied : " I would'nt mind standing a dozen of wine, If I had so, happily died. But murder is fun to the deeds I have done ; I've fed on the brains of my kind — I've assisted the slave to his premature grave, And have pilfered the fruits of his mind. " Because in my heart pity bore not a part, Now wretched for aye is my shade." " Your'e a Yankee perhaps," we replied with a start, " And follow the bookselling trade ?" ' ' Ah, would that no more could be laid at my door ! — Your journal 1 took for a year— And nicely you're nick'd, for the bucket I've kick'd, Three quarters at least in arrear." Like a bullet that's sped, we sprung out of bed, But the spirit made off to the door ; Our ponderous ledger we flung at his head, And he sunk in the ground with a roar. The chamber we clear'd — in the press-room appear'd With horror and rage in our brain ; And contrived to get in this confession of sin, As a warning to those who remain. — Douglas Jerrold.