At this solemn warning trembling, some short time I stood dissembling,
Till again the iron knocker beat its summons ’gainst the door,
Then, the oak wide open throwing, stood I on the threshold bowing—
Bows such as, save motley tumbler, mortal never bowed before,—
Bows which even Mr. Flexmore never yet had tried before:
Said the echo, “Pay your score!”
Grasping then the light, upstanding, looked I round the dreary landing,
Looked at every wall, the ceiling, looked upon the very floor,
Nought I saw there but a Tankard, from the which that night I’d drank hard,—
Drank as drank our good forefathers in the merry days of yore,—