 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
183
GLEE—THE GHOSTS.
In life three ghostly friars were we,
And now three friarly ghosts we be.
Around our shadowy table placed,
The spectral bowl before us floats:
With wine that none but ghosts can taste,
We wash our unsubstantial throats.
Three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts are we:
Let the ocean be Port, and we'll think it good sport
To be laid in that Red Sea.
And now three friarly ghosts we be.
Around our shadowy table placed,
The spectral bowl before us floats:
With wine that none but ghosts can taste,
We wash our unsubstantial throats.
Three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts are we:
Let the ocean be Port, and we'll think it good sport
To be laid in that Red Sea.
With songs that jovial spectres chaunt,
Our old refectory still we haunt.
The traveller hears our midnight mirth:
“O list!” he cries, “the haunted choir!
“The merriest ghost that walks the earth,
“Is sure the ghost of a ghostly friar.”
Three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts are we:
Let the ocean be Port, and we'll think it good sport
To be laid in that Red Sea.
Our old refectory still we haunt.
The traveller hears our midnight mirth:
184
“The merriest ghost that walks the earth,
“Is sure the ghost of a ghostly friar.”
Three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts are we:
Let the ocean be Port, and we'll think it good sport
To be laid in that Red Sea.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |