I judges by your brimstone smell,
That you’ve been making matches.
“‘And can you find no soul but me
To tease about your noggins—
Suppose you go, by vay of spree,
And vorry ould Jack Scroggins.’
“‘Cease,’ cried the ghost, ‘at once desist,
And hold your idle jaw,
Or straightway with my phantom fist
Your frosty face I’ll thaw.