  THEY tell me (but I really can’t Imagine such a rum thing), It is the phantom of my Aunt, Who ran away—or something. It is the very worst of bores: (My Aunt was most delightful). It prowls about the corridors, And utters noises frightful. At midnight through the rooms It glides, Behaving very coolly, Our hearts all throb against our sides— The lights are burning bluely. The lady, in her living hours, Was the most charming vixen That ever this poor sex of ours Delighted to play tricks on. Yes, that’s her portrait on the wall, In quaint old-fangled bodice: Her eyes are blue—her waist is small— A ghost! Pooh, pooh,—a goddess! A fine patrician shape, to suit My dear old father’s sister— Lips softly curved, a dainty foot: Light hair of crisp irregular curl Over fair shoulders scattered— Egad, she was a pretty girl, Unless Sir Thomas flattered! And who the deuce, in these bright days, Could possibly expect her To take to dissipated ways And plague us as a spectre? Mortimer Collins. |
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