HAUNTED!
The quarter where I linger,
My square, is Fashion's acme;
I'm conscious that the finger
Of scorn may well attack me;
At number six a Viscount
Resides, in proper season;
No wonder, then, that I count
As vulgar now, with reason.
To stay in London, here too!—
This neighbourhood majestic!
Oh! what must it appear to
A nobleman's domestic?
I feel, I can't help stating,
Each morn I feel (it tries me),
His Lordship's lords-in-waiting
Both pity and despise me.
His blinds are drawn sedately;
Mine blazon low disaster;
How desolate, how stately,
That mansion mourns its master!
His Lordship is at Como—
At least so folks are saying;
His Lordship's Major-Domo
Reproaches me for staying.
But, prowling, like a Polar
Bear, up and down the pavement
Last eve, and grinding molar
Teeth over forced enslavement,
A miracle I noted,
A "spook," deserving quires
Of commentaries quoted
By "psychic" Mr. Myers.
Upon his Lordship's hinges
Revolved his Lordship's portal,
Till thence, with stealthy twinges,
Emerged what seemed a mortal;
A lamp was nigh to show him,—
I'd not been quaffing toddy,—
I'm privileged to know him,—
It was—His Lordship's Body.
Now if his Major-Domo
Told truth—and who can doubt him?
His Lordship was at Como,
And number six without him.
His Lordship, I reflected,
Can earthly trammels o'erstep,
And, "astrally projected"
From Como, reach his doorstep.
'Twas very odd—I know that;
But then the "spook"-deriding
Must undertake to show that
His Lordship was in hiding;
That London still detained him—
Him one of Britain's leaders!
And frank avowal pained him.—
Well, you must judge, my readers.