Followed ten little blessings, who looked very winning
In ten little nightgowns of Irish linen;
They’d just time to escape, when the flames, with a roar
Like thunder, burst forth from each window and door;
And there, with affright,
They perceive by the light
Maude Allinghame’s sprite—
Her real positive ghost—no fantastic illusion
Conceived by their brains from the smoke and confusion—
With a hot flaming brand