| |
| 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: | 5 |
| (My Aunt was most delightful). | |
| It prowls about the corridors, | |
| And utters noises frightful. | |
| |
| At midnight through the rooms It glides, | |
| Behaving very coolly, | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| Delighted to play tricks on. | |
| |
| Yes, that’s her portrait on the wall, | |
| In quaint old-fashioned bodice: | |
| Her eyes are blue—her waist is small— | |
| A ghost! Pooh, pooh,—a goddess! | 20 |
| |
| A fine patrician shape, to suit | |
| My dear old father’s sister— | |
| Lips softly curved, a dainty foot; | |
| Happy the man that kissed her! | |
| |
| Light hair of crisp irregular curl | 25 |
| 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 | 30 |
| To take to dissipated ways, | |
| And plague us as a spectre? | |
| |
