THE CURSE.
A Fragment à la Ingoldsby.
The Spectre arose with a menacing look,
He called not for candle, for bell, or for book,
But in terrible tones, growing gruffer and gruffer,
He solemnly cursed that deluded Old Buffer!
He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed,
From his buniony feet to his shiny bald head;
He cursed him in sleeping, that every night
He should dream about burglars and wake in a fright;
He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,
With troubles dyspeptic and feelings of "sinking";
He cursed him in walking, in running, in flying,
In puffing and panting, in freezing and frying,
With horror of living and longing for dying.
He banished him harshly from home, couch, and cook,
His favourite chair, and his best-beloved book;
From afternoon snooze, and from snug evening smoke,
From old-fashioned "rubber," and elderly joke;
From pottering round in his trim-bedded garden,
From down-at-heel slippers, old coat, and churchwarden;
Condemned him to dress in swell togs void of ease,
To hurry and scurry, to crowd and to squeeze;
To horrible burdens and journeys of length,
Exceedingly trying to temper and strength;
To puff like a porpoise, to pant and perspire,
To doing—whatever he didn't desire!
Never was heard such a horrible curse!
But what may give rise
To some little surprise,
This curse, at which courage may shiver and shake,
It only condemned the Old Buffer to take
His Annual Holiday!! What can be worse?