A Ghost Story. To The Air Of "Unfortunate Miss Bailey."

A poem by Thomas Moore

Not long in bed had Lyndhurst lain,
When, as his lamp burned dimly,
The ghosts of corporate bodies slain,[1]
Stood by his bedside grimly.
Dead aldermen who once could feast,
But now, themselves, are fed on,
And skeletons of mayors deceased,
This doleful chorus led on:--
Oh Lord Lyndhurst,
"Unmerciful Lord Lyndhurst,
"Corpses we,
"All burkt by thee,
"Unmerciful Lord Lyndhurst!"

"Avaunt, ye frights!" his Lordship cried,
"Ye look most glum and whitely."
"Ah, Lyndhurst dear!" the frights replied,
"You've used us unpolitely.
"And now, ungrateful man! to drive
"Dead bodies from your door so,
"Who quite corrupt enough, alive,
"You've made by death still more so.
"Oh, Ex-Chancellor,
"Destructive Ex-Chancellor,
"See thy work,
"Thou second Burke,
"Destructive Ex-Chancellor!"

Bold Lyndhurst then, whom naught could keep
Awake or surely that would,
Cried "Curse you all"--fell fast asleep--
And dreamt of "Small v. Attwood."
While, shockt, the bodies flew downstairs,
But courteous in their panic
Precedence gave to ghosts of mayors,
And corpses aldermanic,
Crying, "Oh, Lord Lyndhurst,
"That terrible Lord Lyndhurst,
"Not Old Scratch
"Himself could match
"That terrible Lord Lyndhurst."

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