Rhymes with reason and without

O, a wicked man was 'Bimelech Jones,
A wickeder one was rare, was rare;
At lying and fibbing “he made no bones,”
And awfully bad he'd swear, he'd swear.

His voice was harsh as a north-west gale,
And hoarse and loud was his laugh, his laugh,
Libations oft, in the foaming ale,
To slake his thirst, he 'd quaff, he 'd quaff.

His step was a bold and sturdy tread,
That seemed to jar where it prest, it prest;
And those familiar, who heard it, said
They knew it o'er all the rest, the rest.

Now, rich grew 'Bimelech Jones apace,
Which softened his sins most strange, most strange;
Smiles greeted him from every face,
And his word was law upon 'change, on change.

179

And a haughty man was 'Bimelech Jones,
He bowed not to God or man, or man;
And once he swore, by his blood and bones,—
'T was thus his strange oath ran, it ran:—

That Death over him should ne'er prevail,
However hard he might try, might try;
From whatever quarter he chose to assail,
He, 'Bimelech Jones, would n't die, would n't die.

O, how the flesh crept of those who heard!
The blood in their veins ran cold, ran cold;
But spoken and writ was the awful word,
From the lips of the bad man bold, so bold!

Now, time flew by, and the fleet years shed
Upon 'Bimelech Jones their mark, their mark;
The snows of age rested upon his head,
And his vision grew dim and dark, and dark.

But still did he vow he would not die,
And laughed at counsel for good, for good;
He looked on high at the bright blue sky,
And scoffed at it there as he stood, as he stood.

But missed was he when the summer sun
In the heavens above rode high, rode high;
And missed was he when the day was done,
And night in its gloom drew nigh, drew nigh.

180

And people marvelled that he came not,
As was his wont, to mart, to mart;
That he should forsake that favorite spot,
Where to cash he 'd coined his heart, his heart.

They sought him at home in his chamber drear,
And they opened its door with dread, with dread,
And their hearts quaked then with an awful fear,
As they stood face to face with the dead, the dead.

Sate 'Bimelech Jones in his old arm-chair,
Death's seal on his brow was set, was set;
His open eyes glared with a stony stare,
As if life were biding there yet, there yet.

But death had triumphed,—the vow was broke,—
Old 'Bimelech Jones was dead, was dead;
But he fell not like others beneath the stroke,
For he died with his hat on his head, on his head.

Sitting there his table-side by,
Like life, his papers among, among;
But the fire had all gone out from his eye,
And silent and cold was his tongue, his tongue.

Then Coroner Smith some hard dollars took,
And jingled them well in his ear, his ear;
But he started not, though loudly they shook,
Which, living, he'd jump to hear, to hear.

181

They knew that the spirit had left the clay,
Not to wake at that musical chink, that chink;
His ear, so alive to its sound alway,
No longer its music would drink, would drink!

Now, each night 't is said that 'Bimelech Jones
Revisits the scene where he died, he died,
And with his loud knockings and piteous groans
The people are sore terrified, terrified.

University of Virginia Library

THE FEARFUL OATH;

OR, SOME ACCOUNT OF THE WICKED MR. JONES.