I’ll tell you where we think of going;
To ‘swate and far o’er cliff and scar,
Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing;
Blow Snowdon! there’s a hundred lakes to try in,
And fresh-caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying.
Ghosts
That ghosts now and then on this globe would appear,
Dick denied with his tongue, but confessed by his fear:
And passing a church-yard in darkness, with fright,
He met and thus questioned a guardian of night: