  The day was long sped, The stars overhead For three hours or longer their glimmer had shed, Since the sun had retired remarkably red, As if the Atlantic had flown to his head, When Timothy Tadpole turned into his bed. It was Christmas night, And a beautiful sight Was each little star with his modest light, As if half afraid Of lending his aid To the glorious canopy heaven displayed. Mr. Timothy Tadpole had dined that day In the ancient and orthodox Christmas way, Turkey and sausages, roast beef and ham, Plum-pudding and mince-pies, he’d managed to cram, With custards and syllabubs, jellies and jam; And claret and sherry, And champagne in very Large glasses, which every one voted the right tap; And port which they dish up, And call it a “bishop,” With lemons and nutmegs From the health of the host To the health of the fair one each tippler loved most, He had drunk, with a swallow few mortals can boast— And “Hip, hip, hooray!” He had shouted that day In a highly excited convivial way, ’Mid Bacchanal ditties, and protests of scorning To think of retiring to rest before morning. So when Timothy Tadpole turned into his bed An ill-natured chronicler might p’r’aps have said That he carried a little too much in his head— An uncommon event, too, since Timothy’s brains Were computed to weigh such a very few grains That in Timothy’s head you’d have found them as soon As a pair of dried peas in the Nassau Balloon. And while Timothy lay, In a restless way, Turning, and twisting, and kicking, and rolling, That you couldn’t suppose He’d a bit of repose, The bell of St. George’s was grimly tolling! Slowly, deeply, boomed the bell— Midnight hour! it seemed the knell Of hopes, joys, griefs, pains, pleasures dead, Gone with the short-lived day that was fled; Another day from the tiny span That makes the weal and woe of man! That hour of fright When ghosts pop out of their graves in white, And glide and slink Through keyhole or chink, Or up the chimney or down the sink; And frighten poor sinners, who quake as they tell Of the terrible sight—and the brimstone smell! As Timothy snored, and kicked, and rolled, And the bell of St. George’s grimly tolled, Just as the last stroke died on the air The candle emitted a bluish glare, (For gentlemen coming home late at night Often forget to extinguish the light;) It flickered, and spluttered, and out it went With a pop, and a hiss, and a nasty scent. And as it went out a ghost walked in! An orthodox ghost, with a churchyard grin; From the head to the feet Wrapped in a sheet As white as pure snow—so that, if a man can guess, You’d fancy the ghost had a capital laundress. Yet the ghost, though pale, wasn’t lanky or lean, Like all ghosts that I’ve ever yet heard of or seen, But had rather a corpulent, greasy, fat look, Like an alderman’s ghost, or the ghost of a cook. As the ghost walked in poor Timothy woke, And the ghostly vision on Timothy broke; And up on end goes Timothy’s hair, And Timothy shivers with agitation, And his body’s quite damp with perspiration— A common effect of consternation. But as he lies quaking and shivering, still, With a resolute air, He cries, “Who’s there?” And the vision solemnly answers “Bill!” Bill! Bill who? Bill Smith? Bill Jones? For Bill’s a prÆnomen each family owns; So Timothy tries with might and main To guess which Bill, but all in vain; Till, shaking with horror through and through, He faintly stammers out “Bill who?” The ghostly accents seem to fill The room as they answer, “Christmas Bill! I’m the ghost of the butcher’s bill! nothing can lay me: I’ll haunt you by day and by night till you pay me!” Timothy Tadpole groans with fright, And tries to shut out the horrid sight, When lo! a new ghost pops into light; And the ghost that now burst on the wretched sinner Was very much paler and very much thinner (Though afterwards Tadpole remarked it as “rum,” he Spoke in a voice that was husky and crummy). As solemn and grave as an undertaker He stalked forth and said, “I’m the bill of the baker; I’ll dog you by night—I’ll settle your hash— I’ll never be still till you hand out the cash.” And turns and wriggles his weary bones, Trying to shut out the dreadful vision— When, alas and alack! there’s a new apparition! This ghost had an air so dapper and nice, he Looked for a spirit uncommo MORAL.[Image of decorative bar not available.] |
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