En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Goblin Under the Stair

When I was seven, or maybe eight
My father left when my mother died,
He said he'd take me when he came back,
He said he would, but my father lied!

I went to live in the Bailiwick
Of Nether Dearth, in a Castle there,
And every night as the clock did tick
I heard the Goblin, under the stair.

He'd rasp his nails on the old stone wall
And make the stairs in the passage creak,
And then he'd let out a tiny moan
While I lay trembling under the sheet!

I'd gone to live with a maiden Aunt
Who kept a dwarf as a servant there,
His name was Hob, and he'd say: ‘I can't! '
Whatever we asked; ‘It's just not fair! '

‘It wasn't fair' that he chopped the wood
To feed the fire in the ancient hall,
‘It wasn't fair' that he made the tea
Whenever my Aunt put on her shawl!

‘I'm much too small for the heavy jobs, '
He'd say, and handed the axe to me,
Then wandered down to the orchard, where
He'd sit in the shade of an apple tree.

‘My Aunt said, ‘God, you're a lazy Hob,
Get back to work or you're gone from here! '
He'd pull a face, and he'd try to sob,
But she'd go in, and she'd pack his gear!

One day I mentioned the Goblin there,
He shook all over, his face was white,
‘You lie! There isn't a Goblin here! '
‘I think you're wrong - but I hope you're right! '

‘He comes at night when the moon is dim
And sits right under the castle stair,
Then moans and mutters, he sounds quite grim,
And sometimes shrieks as he claws the air! '

‘I've heard him tearing that tapestry,
The one that hangs in the cobweb room,
The one that no-one's supposed to see,
It's always shuttered, and filled with gloom.'

‘You mean, ' said Hob, and his face collapsed
His eyes bugged out in a fit of fear,
‘The picture sewn on that mouldy rag
Is a portrait of Edward Glastonbury! '

And then he snivelled, and then he cried:
‘That Goblin's coming on after me!
My grandfather was three foot four,
That same, that Edward Glastonbury! '

He waged a war on the Faery Folk
And the Goblins in the neighbourhood,
He rode abroad and he practiced spells,
And chased them all to the Underwood! '

‘I thought they'd all died out by now,
But if you're right, there's one abroad,
I'll have to tackle the stairs tonight
And slay the Goblin, with my sword! '

That night, the muttering started late,
The moon was hidden behind a cloud,
The moaning kept me alert, awake,
But then the shrieks, and the cries were loud!

I ventured out to the passage stair
And there was Hob by the old hall stand,
The Goblin clung to his throat and back
And waved Hob's sword in his other hand!

Then Hob ran shrieking, into the night
With the Goblin stuck to his back for good,
The screams they faded, and then they died,
They seemed to come from the Underwood!

I stayed a couple of years or more,
The mutters and moans were gone for good,
And Hob, wherever he toils and groans
Is down with the Goblins, chopping wood!

14 May 2012

poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Nine Little Goblins

They all climbed up on a high board-fence--
Nine little Goblins, with green-glass eyes--
Nine little Goblins that had no sense,
And couldn't tell coppers from cold mince pies;
And they all climbed up on the fence, and sat--
And I asked them what they were staring at.

And the first one said, as he scratched his head
With a queer little arm that reached out of his ear
And rasped its claws in his hair so red--
'This is what this little arm is fer!'
And he scratched and stared, and the next one said,
'How on earth do _you_ scratch your head?'

And he laughed like the screech of a rusty hinge--
Laughed and laughed till his face grew black;
And when he choked, with a final twinge
Of his stifling laughter, he thumped his back
With a fist that grew on the end of his tail
Till the breath came back to his lips so pale.

And the third little Goblin leered round at me--
And there were no lids on his eyes at all--
And he clucked one eye, and he says, says he,
'What is the style of your socks this fall?'
And he clapped his heels--and I sighed to see
That he had hands where his feet should be.

Then a bald-faced Goblin, gray and grim,
Bowed his head, and I saw him slip
His eyebrows off, as I looked at him,
And paste them over his upper lip;
And then he moaned in remorseful pain--
'Would--Ah, would I'd me brows again!'

And then the whole of the Goblin band
Rocked on the fence-top to and fro,
And clung, in a long row, hand in hand,
Singing the songs that they used to know--
Singing the songs that their grandsires sung
In the goo-goo days of the Goblin-tongue.

And ever they kept their green-glass eyes
Fixed on me with a stony stare--
Till my own grew glazed with a dread surmise,
And my hat whooped up on my lifted hair,
And I felt the heart in my breast snap to
As you've heard the lid of a snuff-box do.

And they sang 'You're asleep! There is no board-fence,
And never a Goblin with green-glass eyes!--
'Tis only a vision the mind invents
After a supper of cold mince-pies,--
And you're doomed to dream this way,' they said,--
'_And you sha'n't wake up till you're clean plum dead!_'

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Overheard on a Salmarsh

Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?
Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?
Give them me.
No.
Give them me. Give them me.
No.
Then I will howl all night in the reeds,
Lie in the mud and howl for them.

Goblin, why do you love them so?

They are better than stars or water,
Better than voices of winds that sing,
Better than any man's fair daughter,
Your green glass beads on a silver ring.

Hush, I stole them out of the moon.
Give me your beads, I want them.
No.

I will howl in the deep lagoon
For your green glass beads, I love them so.
Give thme me. Give them.
No.

poem by Harold Monro
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She and Drugs

Freshly spawned,
Brain dumps
Bleeding grey:

Reflections of a mind
That wavers thin
Along the line
That savours pain -

A pond of skin
Devoid of breast -
The pad a feign:
The nothing
Underneath your bra
At best
Is your imagination

Spread across a narcoleptic world
Suchlike survival
In and out
Of haunted woods;
In and out -
You're in and out
As blood transfused -
Pumping on
To ooze at pace
Upon another haemorrhage

And there! a goblin
Here! a goblin
Care to entertain a goblin
In the lair
That is a mind
Of drugs? -

We know it's you -
It's you we know.

We know you're through.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011

Life repeats itself as

life life life life life life life life
life life life life life life life life
life life life life life life life life
life life life life life life life life
life life life life life life life life

so draining life

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Epilogue II

When dusk falls cool as a rained-on rose,
And a tawny tower the twilight shows,
With the crescent moon, the silver moon, the curved new moon in a space that glows,
A turret window that grows a-light;
There is a path that my Fancy knows,
A glimmering, shimmering path of night,
That far as the Land of Faery goes.

II.

And I follow the path, as Fancy leads,
Over the mountains, into the meads,
Where the firefly cities, the glowworm cities, the fairy cities are strung like beads,
Each city a twinkling star:
And I live a life of valorous deeds,
And march with the Fairy King to war,
And ride with his knights on milk-white steeds.

III.

Or it's there in the whirl of their life I sit,
Or dance in their houses with starlight lit,
Their blossom houses, their flower houses, their elfin houses, of fern-leaves knit,
With fronded spires and domes:
And there it is that my lost dreams flit,
And the ghost of my childhood, smiling, roams
With the fairy children so dear to it.

IV.

And it's there I hear that they all come true,
The fairy-stories, whatever they do
Elf and goblin, dear elf and goblin, loved elf and goblin and all the crew
Of witch and wizard and gnome and fay,
And prince and princess, that wander through
The storybooks we have put away,
The fairytales that we loved and knew.

V.

The face of Adventure lures you there,
And the eyes of Danger bid you dare,
While ever the bugles, the silver bugles, the far-off bugles of Elfland blare,
The fairy trumpets to battle blow;
And you feel their thrill in your heart and hair,
And you fain would follow and mount and go
And march with the Fairies anywhere.

VI.

And she she rides at your side again,
Your little sweetheart whose age is ten:
She is the princess, the fairy princess, the princess fair that you worshipped when
You were a prince in a fairytale;
And you do great deeds as you did them then,
With your magic spear, and enchanted mail,
Braving the dragon in his den.

VII.

And you ask again, 'Oh, where shall we ride,
Now that the monster is slain, my bride?'
'Back to the cities, the firefly cities, the glowworm cities where we can hide,
The beautiful cities of Faeryland.
And the light of my eyes shall be your guide,
The light of my eyes and my snow-white hand
And there forever we two will abide.'

poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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The War Against the Tide.

The brave kingdom of blood and swords,
Was doomed to fail,
Goblins marched,
Cavalry vibrating the land with its mere walk,
The giant Xerxes was on his way to enslave Sparta,

Spartans.........

300 greatest warriors led by our King Leonidas marched up the Hell's Gate,
Swords shined, shields were ready for engraving the assaults, and the spears ready to Majesty Sparta,
Persians came far and wide,
Our King, the bravest knight,
Led the wall of Phalanx with spear and shield,
The freedom; from the paradoxical God was the yield,

The 300s fought till their corpses fell down,
They still never did knelt for the Xerxes clown,
King Leonidas and his 300 died in glory,
Shattering and quelling the mighty Goblin's story,

Now again that wolf did pick his eye upon,
Every Spartan was prepared for battle on the brutal dawn,
Xerxes feared his end was near,
He new how 300 lethal swords did the talking,
Hell awaited Xerxes...
As the Goblin Destruction was accomplishing.

poem by Vikrant Jog
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House 155

Once upon a midnight dreary
Where light was
Weak and weary

Ghost and goblins Run to
House 155 in Mary
Trick or treat
Was there story

Until their
End was gory

The thunder clapped, lightening flashed.
they heard an evil cackle
A ruby liquid filled the house of 155

House 155
Go in but
not out alive
say trick our treat
a sure way to not survive

on all hollows eve
the house Zombies revive

A diabolical plan
They will contrive

To wait for the
Ghost and goblins to connive

Parent of ghost asking
'What happens to my seeds
tell me all me more'

Will the goblins live?
Qouth the physician nevermore

On Halloween
The goblins perish
And nothing more

Goblin that real name
Is john smith
Is now gone
For evermore

A trick or treater of
House 155
Is no more

Do you dare go to
House 155 on Halloween
I hope no one nevermore!

poem by Jose Duran
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The Bellman

From noise of scare-fires rest ye free,
From murders Benedicite.
From all mischances that may fright
Your pleasing slumbers in the night :
Mercy secure ye all, and keep
The goblin from ye while ye sleep.
Past one o'clock, and almost two,
My masters all, good-day to you.

poem by Robert Herrick
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The Bell-man

From noise of scare-fires rest ye free
From murders, Benedicite;
From all mischances that may fright
Your pleasing slumbers in the night
Mercy secure ye all, and keep
The goblin from ye, while ye sleep.
--Past one a clock, and almost two,--
My masters all, 'Good day to you.'

poem by Robert Herrick
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Hobblin Goblin

Please forgive me for my hobblin
I turned my ankle late last night
A dumb stunt for a tough old goblin
My hair’s a wreck n’ I look a fright

(For Eva)

ROTMS

poem by Ray Lucero
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A Goblin Christmas

The little Man, and tiny Maid,
Who love the Fairies in the glade,
Who see them in the tangled grass
The Gnomes and Brownies, as they pass,
Who hear the Sprites from Elf-land call
Go, frolic with these Brownies small,
And join these merry sporting Elves,
But ever be your own sweet selves.

The big bright Moon hung high and round,
In a densely darkened sky;
The tall pines swayed, and mocked, and groaned;
The mountains grew so high
That the Man-in-the-Moon came out and said,
'Ho! Spooks, for a merry dance.'
The winds blow hard, the caverns roar,
While o'er the earth they prance.

A Witch and a Goblin led the sprites;
Out from the sky they sprung;
And down the milky way they slid,
And over a chasm swung.
The streams around ran witches' broth,
The fumes were strong and rank.
These Elfin creatures all were wroth,
While of the stuff they drank.

The cunning Moon looked on and laughed
With a shrill and sneering jibe;
Her soul grew fat to see them chaffed,
This mad and elfish tribe.
The big black caldron boiled so high
With food for these queer mites,
That it lit the world throughout the sky,
And down came all the Sprites.

Their mad career upset a star,
As through the air they flew:
It cringed in fear, and shot afar,
And fell where no one knew.
Orion's sword was broke in bits,
Corona's crown was gone,
Capella seemed to lose her wits,
While all so longed for dawn.

Then from the night there came a sound
Of sleigh-bells ringing sweet;
Out of the chaos came a man—
Kris Kringle—for his Christmas treat.
'Ho! Kris!' they cried, 'We'll have some fun,
We'll bind the old man down,
We'll tie him up, and toss him o'er
Into our Goblin-town.'

They climbed the sleigh with shout and din,
To bind his hands and feet;
A hundred strong they clambered in
Our good old Kris to meet.
He sat quite still, with twinkling eyes,
Then seized his mystic wand,
He raised it up, and waved it round
Stilled was this chattering band.

Stiffly stark and still they stood,
Clad in elfish clothes;
Some were wax, and some were wood,
One had crushed his nose.
'Playthings rare,' he said and smiled,
'For children rich and poor;
Some I'll leave the crippled child,
And some at the orphan's door.'

He shook his reins, and called his steed
To bear him swiftly on.
Full well it knew its Master's need
To hurry e'er the dawn.
From house to house they scampered down,
Their sleigh-bells ringing clear,
Through chimneys in the sleepy town—
Good Kris and his reindeer.

The windows rattled, the moonbeams tattled
A tale so strange and queer.
They told how at night, in dire affright
The Moon had hid in fear.

That he'd called in sport his elfish court
Of spooks and witches gay,
Each Elfin child, by glee beguiled,
Brought scores of others, they say.
Then a man appeared, with flowing beard,
In a sled with a reindeer fleet;
They gathered about with din and shout,
To bind him hands and feet.

Then the Moon laughed loud at the gathering crowd,
While he held his sides in mirth,
To see old Kris in a plight like this,
Toiling o'er the earth.

But alas for the Moon, he had laughed like a loon,
For Kris is a hero of old,
Yes, Kris is a seer; with his small reindeer,
He captured the Goblins bold.
And he changed them, they say in a wonderful way,
To toys, for his Christmas cheer.
The big dolls stare with a goblin air,

While the moonbeams prattle, I hear a rattle
Of hoofs on the chimney side;
Then out on the snow I gaze below,
'Hurrah! it's Kris Kringle,' I cried.
Then, sly as a mouse, he entered the house,
And hung up his treasures so gay.
Then out with a dash, he sped like a flash,
Into the night, and away.

poem by Anonymous Americas
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Sonnets of the boy who drew cats

I

A long time ago
when soldiers still carried spears and swords
a Japanese farmer and his wife,
had a string of children
and everyone got a task.

They milked cows, cared after pigs,
gathered chicken eggs
and ploughed the soil,
planted rice, wheat and oats,
but the youngest was too weak and small
to do any work
and time and again he neglected his duties
and disappeared
and drew cats.

II

The farmer scratched his head
and did not know what to do
with a child that disappears
and couldn’t complete a task and drew
big and small, white, black, ginger and pied cats
of each size and type.

So the farmer and his wife reckoned
to take the child to the nearest temple
to become a priest
and the farmer tied his sword around his side,
loaded the child on a horse
saddled his own horse
and maybe the men of God
would learn the child about duties.

III

The child studied well
but nobody could stop him
from drawing cats everywhere
and it happened
that the priest thought
that he couldn’t
become a priest and rather
be an artist.

The child was sent
to a temple farther away
and the priest instructed him
to avoid big places at night
and to find a sleeping place
in a small place.

IV

The temple was abandoned
because a evil goblin
coming from the dark earth,
expelled the priests
and the soldiers
that went to face him
had all disappeared.

At night a light burned
in the temple
and when the boy arrived
he went in and everywhere
that he found a white screen he painted a cat
and he remembered the words of the old priest
and went to sleep in a small cabinet.

V

That night he heard a big noise
of a great fight
and cats roaring like lions
growling angrily
while something tried to
smash and pierce them
and he heard them
ripping something to pieces.

The next morning
a goblin
with the head of a rat,
with a pronged whip and sword in his hands
was dead in the middle of the temple
where he lost the fight.

VI

l’Envoi
There was still wet blood
on the mouths of the cats
painted
on the screens
and they looked innocent
and vulnerable.

When the priests returned
they immediately saw
what happened
and they declared
boy a hero
and later he was renown
as a painter
that only paints cats.

[Reference: With thanks to “Japanese Fairy Tales, The boy who drew cats” by Lafcadio Hearn that gave me the idea of this poem.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Marches Of The River

Marches of the river are like serpents,
And dragons are somewhat of the huger serpent.
These gigantic monsters share the skies
With the darker human, who lifts his face at them.
Through the swamp we have the moon and stars,
Allowing fugitives, patrolling goblins shall cry.
They have daggers, explaining the shouting,
Talking to a girl is not a river march,
Talking and conversing makes you a goblin,
You are not a superhuman.
Dragons attract them faster than the skies,
Hugest serpents walk the face of this farcical
Planet, so plane and ordinary, maybe delightful.

poem by Naveed Akram
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On Anne Allen

The wind blew keenly from the Western sea,
And drove the dead leaves slanting from the tree--
Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith--
Heaping them up before her Father's door
When I saw her whom I shall see no more--
We cannot bribe thee, Death.

She went abroad the falling leaves among,
She saw the merry season fade, and sung--
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith--
Freely she wandered in the leafless wood,
And said that all was fresh, and fair, and good--
She knew thee not, O Death.

She bound her shining hair across her brow,
She went into the garden fading now;
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith--
And if one sighed to think that it was sere,
She smiled to think that it would bloom next year!
She feared thee not, O Death.

Blooming she came back to the cheerful room
With all the fairer flowers yet in bloom--
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith--
A fragrant knot for each of us she tied,
And placed the fairest at her Father's side--
She cannot charm thee, Death.

Her pleasant smile spread sunshine upon all;
We heard her sweet clear laughter in the Hall--
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith--
We heard her sometimes after evening prayer,
As she went singing softly up the stair--
No voice can charm thee, Death.

Where is the pleasant smile, the laughter kind,
That made sweet music of the winter wind?
Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith--
Idly they gaze upon her empty place,
Her kiss hath faded from her Father's face--
She is with thee, O Death.

poem by Edward Fitzgerald
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Drug dealers

In flashy cars they came,
merchants of a deadly thing
some delivering, some advertising
as if they had captured
the true essence of life

streaming in from all over
the continent, as news
of their prosperity went
to the ends of Africa

and unafraid of the law
controlled women on the street
always eager to meet
one more, trying to create
the ultimate gangster’s paradise.

At clubs they danced, bedazzled little girls
and boys, coming with very clever ploys
even at schools everywhere were ensnaring
children to buy their wares

and some even were addicted
to their own poison
smoking, sniffing, taking
and injecting
the catalyst of death.

Under their disguises and lies
about eternal fun not even one
could hide
the filth of the moor
could really get the goblin
and the marsh and bush out of them
and the wicked merchantmen
made every city their haunted glen.

[Reference: Goblin market by Christina Rossetti.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Man Who Sold The World

We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when
Although I wasn't there, he said I was his friend
Which came as some surprise I spoke into his eyes
I thought you died alone, a long long time ago
Oh no, not me
I never lost control
You're face to face
With The Man Who Sold The World
I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home
I searched for form and land, for years and years I roamed
I gazed a gazely stare at all the millions here
We must have died alone, a long, long time ago
Who knows? Not me
We never lost control
You're face to face
With the Man who Sold the World

song performed by by Simple Minds
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We

we build the stairs first
stair upon stair
wood and nail
and hammer
and hands
and some
determined thoughts
dreams to reach the skies
focus
and look what have be done

we have reached the door
of the room

it is here where we shall hatch
all our dreams

like eggs to our warm
hands
like chicks to our cheeks

time and stairs and hopes and dreams and nails and hammers
and hands
and eyes

be awake and always be vigilant
for dreams that do not die like night
stars
are we

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Man Who Sold The World

Written by David Bowie
We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when
Although I wasn't there, he said I was his friend
Which came as some surprise I spoke into his eyes
I thought you died alone, a long long time ago
Oh no, not me
I never lost control
You're face to face
With The Man Who Sold The World
I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home
I searched for form and land, for years and years I roamed
I gazed a gazely stare, at all the millions here
We must have died along, a long long time ago
Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You're face to face
With the Man who Sold the World
(repeat)

song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Man Who Sold The World (live, 1979-12-15: Saturday Night Live)

We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when
Although I wasn't there, he said I was his friend
Which came as some surprise I spoke into his eyes
I thought you died alone, a long long time ago
Oh no, not me
I never lost control
You're face to face
With The Man Who Sold The World
I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home
I searched for form and land, for years and years I roamed
I gazed a gazely stare at all the millions here
We must have died along, a long long time ago
Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You're face to face
With the Man who Sold the World
Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You're face to face
With the Man who Sold the World

song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old Aunt Mary's

Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine,
In those old days of the lost sunshine
Of youth-- when the Saturday's chores were through,
And the 'Sunday's wood' in the kitchen too,
And we went visiting, 'me and you,'
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?

It all comes back so clear to-day!
Though I am as bald as you are gray--
Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane,
We patter along in the dust again,
As light as the tips of the drops of the rain,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!

We cross the pasture, and through the wood
Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood,
Where the hammering 'red-heads' hopped awry,
And the buzzard 'raised' in the 'clearing' sky
And lolled and circled, as we went by
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

And then in the dust of the road again;
And the teams we met, and the countrymen;
And the long highway, with sunshine spread
As thick as butter on country bread,
Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

Why, I see her now in the open door,
Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er
The clapboard roof--! And her face-- ah, me!
Wasn't it good for a boy to see--
And wasn't it good for a boy to be
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?

The jelly-- the Jam and the marmalade,
And the cherry and quince 'preserves'' she made!
And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear,
With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare--!
And the more we ate was the more to spare,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!

And the old spring-house in the cool green gloom
Of the willow-trees--, and the cooler room
Where the swinging-shelves and the crocks were kept--
Where the cream in a golden languor slept
While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept--
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

And O my brother, so far away,
This is to tell you she waits to-day
To welcome us--: Aunt Mary fell
Asleep this morning, whispering-- 'Tell
The boys to come!' And all is well
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Ghost, the Gallant, the Gael, and the Goblin

O'er unreclaimed suburban clays
Some years ago were hobblin'
An elderly ghost of easy ways,
And an influential goblin.
The ghost was a sombre spectral shape,
A fine old five-act fogy,
The goblin imp, a lithe young ape,
A fine low-comedy bogy.

And as they exercised their joints,
Promoting quick digestion,
They talked on several curious points,
And raised this delicate question:
"Which of us two is Number One -
The ghostie, or the goblin?"
And o'er the point they raised in fun
They fairly fell a-squabblin'.

They'd barely speak, and each, in fine,
Grew more and more reflective:
Each thought his own particular line
By chalks the more effective.
At length they settled some one should
By each of them be haunted,
And so arrange that either could
Exert his prowess vaunted.

"The Quaint against the Statuesque" -
By competition lawful -
The goblin backed the Quaint Grotesque,
The ghost the Grandly Awful.
"Now," said the goblin, "here's my plan -
In attitude commanding,
I see a stalwart Englishman
By yonder tailor's standing.

"The very fittest man on earth
My influence to try on -
Of gentle, p'r'aps of noble birth,
And dauntless as a lion!
Now wrap yourself within your shroud -
Remain in easy hearing -
Observe - you'll hear him scream aloud
When I begin appearing!

The imp with yell unearthly - wild -
Threw off his dark enclosure:
His dauntless victim looked and smiled
With singular composure.
For hours he tried to daunt the youth,
For days, indeed, but vainly -
The stripling smiled! - to tell the truth,
The stripling smiled inanely.

For weeks the goblin weird and wild,
That noble stripling haunted;
For weeks the stripling stood and smiled,
Unmoved and all undaunted.
The sombre ghost exclaimed, "Your plan
Has failed you, goblin, plainly:
Now watch yon hardy Hieland man,
So stalwart and ungainly.

"These are the men who chase the roe,
Whose footsteps never falter,
Who bring with them, where'er they go,
A smack of old SIR WALTER.
Of such as he, the men sublime
Who lead their troops victorious,
Whose deeds go down to after-time,
Enshrined in annals glorious!

"Of such as he the bard has said
'Hech thrawfu' raltie rorkie!
Wi' thecht ta' croonie clapperhead
And fash' wi' unco pawkie!'
He'll faint away when I appear,
Upon his native heather;
Or p'r'aps he'll only scream with fear,
Or p'r'aps the two together."

The spectre showed himself, alone,
To do his ghostly battling,
With curdling groan and dismal moan,
And lots of chains a-rattling!
But no - the chiel's stout Gaelic stuff
Withstood all ghostly harrying;
His fingers closed upon the snuff
Which upwards he was carrying.

For days that ghost declined to stir,
A foggy shapeless giant -
For weeks that splendid officer
Stared back again defiant.
Just as the Englishman returned
The goblin's vulgar staring,
Just so the Scotchman boldly spurned
The ghost's unmannered scaring.

For several years the ghostly twain
These Britons bold have haunted,
But all their efforts are in vain -
Their victims stand undaunted.
This very day the imp, and ghost,
Whose powers the imp derided,
Stand each at his allotted post -
The bet is undecided.

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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