Till you’re black in the face, good old clothesman, don’t yell,
Your fur-coat will nothing avail you in hell;
’Tis heated for nought all the year with odd things,—
’Stead of wood, with the bones of dead beggars and kings.
The girls with the flowers seem’d hunchback’d and bent,
Tumbling head over heels in the room as they went;
With your faces like owls, and a grasshopper’s leg,
That rattling of bones discontinue, I beg.
The squadrons of hell all appear in their shrouds,
And bustle and hustle in fast-swelling crowds;
The waltz of damnation resounds in the ear,—
Hush, hush! my sweet love is at length drawing near.
Now, rabble, be quiet, or get you away!
I scarcely can hear e’en one word that I say;
Hark! Is’t not the sound of a chariot at hand?
Quick, open the door! Why thus loitering stand?
Thou art welcome, my darling! how goes it, my sweet?
You’re welcome, good parson! stand up, I entreat!
Good parson, with hoof of a horse and with tail,
I’m your dutiful servant, and wish you all hail!
Dear bride, wherefore stand’st thou so pale and so dumb?
The parson to join us together has come;
Full dear, dear as blood, is the fee I must pay,
And yet to possess thee is merely child’s play.
Kneel down, my sweet bride, by my side prythee kneel
She kneels and she sinks,—O what rapture I feel!—
She sinks on my heart, on my fast-heaving breast;
With shuddering pleasure I hold her close press’d.
Like billows her golden locks circle the pair,
’Gainst my heart beats the heart of the maiden so fair
They beat with a union of sorrow and love,
And soar to the regions of heaven above.
While our hearts are thus floating in rapture’s wide sea,
In God’s holy realms, all untrammell’d and free,
On our heads, as a terrible sign and a brand,
Has hell in derision imposed her grim hand.
In propriâ personâ the dark son of night
As parson bestows the priest’s blessing to-night;
From a bloody book breathes he the formula terse,
Each prayer execration, each blessing a curse.