The Spook Ballads. William Theodore Parkes

PIANO

       CANTICRANK.

       CAUGHT IN THE BREACH.

       A KLEPTOMANIAC'S DOOM.

       AN ILL WIND BLEW HIM GOOD!

       THE GHOST OF HIRAM SMIKE.

       WHY DID YE DIE?

       A PRETTY LITTLE LAND I KNOW

       HOW THEY ENLIST

       THE KINDERGARTEN WAY.

       OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON THE BARNEY BRADEY BROCHURES BY WM. THEODORE PARKES.

BOHEMIANS, HAIL!

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      The daylight dreams of many a time,

      When song, and rhythmic story,

      Were tuned, and voiced for Bigot, and in gay Bohemian ears,

      Bring welcome wraiths of joyous nights, thro' whirling clouds of glory;

      The incense of the social weed, o'er spirit cup that cheers.

      With hail! to Cycle speedmen, and the boaters of Dunleary,

      Clontarf, and the Harmonic, where we sang with midnight chimes,

      The smokers of Conservatives, and Liberal Unions cheery,

      I weave regretful tribute to their jovial social times;

      For autumn gales of life have blown those festal hours asunder,

      And scattered far by land and sea, the steps of many a one,

      And some alas! beneath the sod, for evermore gone under,

      Have left a rainbow thro' the mist of grief that they have won.

      But slantha! to the hearts, and hands, of those who yet remaining,

      Do carry down traditions of that bright Bohemian throng,

      And slantha! to the soulful sheen, of life-light never waning

      From Old Eblana's heaven of her social art, and song.

      And here's to all Bohemians, of whatever rank, or station,

      Whatever tint, or black or tan, or creed you are by birth,

      Sweet voices of the earth's romance, of every land, or nation,

      Hail! brothers, in the carnival of music, song, and mirth:

      So fill we tankards, or the glass, for draught with lusty cheering,

      Of honor to a crowning toast, with greeting heart and hand,

      As everlasting goal, for letters, art, and song, and beering,

      Hip, hip, hurrah! vive! hoc! and skoal! to Fleet Street and the Strand!

THE GHOSTS OF HAMPTON COURT

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THE following verses, a remarkable supernatural interview is narrated. It is now for the first time launched into publicity, on the authority, and with the approbation of a quaint old friend of mine, Professor Simon Chuffkrust, a savant who has daringly groped his way through certain gloomy mysteries of occult science.

      The confidential and impressive manner of Chuffkrust, is jewelled with eyes of sparkling jet, semitoned behind a screen of moonblue spectacles.

      His voice is of such convincing suasion, that it is a novel and interesting experience to hear him relate with circumstantial enthusiasm, the ghostly interview afforded him by a fortuitous chance within the interesting grounds of Hampton Court. His is a testimony most reliable, and calculated to establish as a fact the actual presence of supernatural shadows in that historic locality.

      It also hints at the necessity, and use, of making the ghost a more familiar study, whereby the belated world would rid itself of much unnecessary fright, consequent on the invariable habit of spasmodically avoiding the familiar advances of the common or bedroom spook.

      I

       N Hampton Court I wandered on a twilight evening grey,

      Amidst its mazy precincts I had lost my tourist way,

      And while I cogitated, on a seat of carven stone,

      I heard beneath an orange tree, an elongated groan!

      I crinkled with astonishment, 'twas not a fit of fright,

      For loud elastic wailings, I have heard at twelve at night,

      The midnight peace disturbing in the lamplit streets below,

      But this was uttered in an unfamiliar groan of woe,

      And Hampton Court I wot had got some questionable nooks,

      In which it harboured spectres, and disreputable spooks,

      In which it shrouded headless Queens, and shades of evil Kings

      With ill-conditioned titled knaves, in lemans leading strings.

      I listened! 'twas a voice that cried as 'twere from out the dust

      Of time, that clogged its music, with a husk of mould and rust,

      A voice that once as tenor, might have won a slight repute,

      But combination now of asthma, whooping cough, and flute.

      I sauntered towards the orange tree, and lo! the gloaming thro'

      I saw a man in trunk and hose, and silver buckled shoe,

      With ruffles and embroidered vest, in wig without a hat,

      Inclining to the contour, which is designated fat.

      Just then the waxing moonlight bloomed behind, and lifed the stain

      Of color thro' him, like a Saint upon a window pane,

      I could not spare such noted chance; so stepping from the gloom,

      I bowed politely and exclaimed

      "A Spectre I presume?"

      With