The Ghosts' High Noon

When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the

moonlight flies,

And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies -

When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs

bay the moon,

Then is the spectres' holiday - then is the ghosts' high noon!

As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie

low on the fen,

From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women

and men,

And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too

soon,

For cockcrow limits our holiday - the dead of the night's high

noon!

And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds

take flight,

With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim "good

night";

Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its

jolliest tune,

And ushers our next high holiday - the dead of the night's high

noon!