In this house by Hamlet haunted? Tell me truly, I implore,
Is there, is there hope of Macbeth? Tell me, tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Croaker, “Say no more!”
“Croaker,” said I, “cease to level those stern glances at the revel.
By the bust of Shakespeare o’er us—by the bard we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within thy distant Aidenn
Ever widow, wife, or maiden Lady Macbeth’s mantle wore
With a grace beyond Miss Bateman?” Still this croaking man of yore
Answered grimly, “Yes, a score.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, Croaker,” then I said, upstarting;