But as he lies quaking and shivering, still,
With a resolute air,
He cries, “Who’s there?”
And the vision solemnly answers “Bill!”
Bill! Bill who? Bill Smith? Bill Jones?
For Bill’s a prænomen each family owns;
So Timothy tries with might and main
To guess which Bill, but all in vain;
Till, shaking with horror through and through,
He faintly stammers out “Bill who?”
The ghostly accents seem to fill
The room as they answer, “Christmas Bill!
I’m the ghost of the butcher’s bill! nothing can lay me:
I’ll haunt you by day and by night till you pay me!”
Timothy Tadpole groans with fright,
And tries to shut out the horrid sight,
When lo! a new ghost pops into light;
And the ghost that now burst on the wretched sinner
Was very much paler and very much thinner
(Though afterwards Tadpole remarked it as “rum,” he
Spoke in a voice that was husky and crummy).
As solemn and grave as an undertaker
He stalked forth and said, “I’m the bill of the baker;
I’ll dog you by night—I’ll settle your hash—
I’ll never be still till you hand out the cash.”
Again poor Timothy Tadpole groans,
And turns and wriggles his weary bones,
Trying to shut out the dreadful vision—
When, alas and alack! there’s a new apparition!
This ghost had an air so dapper and nice, he
Looked for a spirit uncommonly spicy;
But he turned a pitiless glance on Tim,
As if with a look he’d annihilate him,
And in accents severe cried, “I’d have you to know, sir,
That I am the Christmas bill of the grocer!
You’ve eaten and stuffed, and you’ve had your fill,
And now let us see what you’ve got in the till:
I’ll polish you off in a manner that I know
If you don’t pretty speedily fork out the rhino!”
But alas and alack! a new one appears,
The tailor’s bill, armed with the goose and the shears,
And the bill of the bootmaker, gliding together;
The latter quite “larking,”
And pertly remarking,
“Come, dub up, old fellow, there’s nothing like leather.”
And the bill of the wine merchant, troubled with hiccups,
And the bill of the hosier for collars called “stick-ups.”
And round about his bed they flew
Hand in hand, this ghostly crew;
And they tweaked his nose,
And tickled his toes,
And rained on his cheeks hard pinches and blows;
And seemed to suppose it a capital lark, as
They stamped and jumped on his aching carcase.
And aye as they went,
The air was rent
With their shouting and yelling, and thus they gave vent:—
“Pay us you must,
Down with the dust;
None of your “kites,”
We will have our rights;
We’ll plague you and pinch you by days and by nights;
We’ll grind you, and bind you, and force you to settle:
None of your promises—out with the metal!”
And Timothy vows that he ne’er heard before as
Awful a noise as this terrible chorus!
He writhed and he wriggled, he twisted and turned;
His tongue was on fire—his head, how it burned!
He struggled and kicked, gave a desperate roar
And a plunge—and came heels over head on the floor.
The chorus is done:
One by one
The ghosts have slipped off, having finished their fun.
And Timothy creeps into bed again,
Free from his terror, but not free from pain.
The shades of the night like the spirits are flitting,
Grey dawn on the tops of the mountains is sitting,
And under the window a small bantam cock
Is crowing—in fact, it is just four o’clock,
As Timothy, spite of his terrors and bruises,
Yawns, shakes up his pillow, and placidly snoozes!