As he came to himself, thinks he, "I'm in bed;"
But very soon after thinks he, "No, I'm dead:
Oh, I feel so uncommonly queer!
I can move neither leg nor an arm,
And my tongue's unaccountably calm,—
There is something wrong, certainly, here.
Where's the Abbot?—He's gone—'tis most like for assistance.
They will bury me, p'rhaps, and I can't make resistance:
Oh, my doom is now sealed I see clear!"
As thus he thought, for lips refused to speak,