Their pennons pale yellow, their steeds were night mares;
And their leader’s grim visage a darksome smile wore
As he gave the word “Halt” at the Mansion-house door.
The vision dismounted, and peering within,
’Midst a rattle of glasses and knife and fork din,
His victims beheld, tucking in calipash,
While they hob-nobb’d and toasted in Burgundy wash.
Then he straightway amongst them his grisly form cast,
And breathed on each puffing red face as he pass’d;
And the eyes of the feasters wax’d deadly and chill,