We spectres are a jollier crew
Than you, perhaps, suppose!
Chorus.
Yes! yes!
We spectres are a jollier crew
Than you, perhaps, suppose!
Ha! ha!
Song—Sir Roderic
When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight flies,
And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies—
When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs bay at the moon,
Then is the spectres' holiday—then is the ghosts' high-noon!
Chorus
Ha! ha!
Then is the ghosts' high-noon!
Sir Roderic
As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees and the mists lie low on the fen,
From gray tomb-stones are gathered the bones that once were women and men,
And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too soon,
For cockcrow limits our holiday—the dead of the night's high-noon!
Chorus
Ha! ha!
The dead of the night's high-noon!
Sir Roderic
And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds takes flight,
With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly, grim "good-night";
Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest tune,
And ushers in our next high holiday—the dead of the night's high-noon!
