I shot poor Tom.—The worse for me;
It brought his ghost,—as you shall see.
Says he, 'I'm Tom Track's ghost, that's flat.'
Says I, 'Now only think on that.'
Says he, 'I'm come to torment you now;'
Which was hard lines,—as you'll allow.
'So, Master Ghost, belay your jaw;
For if on me you claps a claw,
My locker yonder will reveal,
A tight rope's end, which you shall feel.'