My Aunt’s Spectre

THEY tell me (but I really can’t

Imagine such a rum thing),

It is the phantom of my Aunt,

Who ran away—or something.

It is the very worst of bores:

(My Aunt was most delightful).

It prowls about the corridors,

And utters noises frightful.

At midnight through the rooms It glides,

Behaving very coolly,

Our hearts all throb against our sides—

The lights are burning bluely.

The lady, in her living hours,

Was the most charming vixen

That ever this poor sex of ours

Delighted to play tricks on.

Yes, that’s her portrait on the wall,

In quaint old-fashioned bodice:

Her eyes are blue—her waist is small—

A ghost! Pooh, pooh,—a goddess!

A fine patrician shape, to suit

My dear old father’s sister—

Lips softly curved, a dainty foot;

Happy the man that kissed her!

Light hair of crisp irregular curl

Over fair shoulders scattered—

Egad, she was a pretty girl,

Unless Sir Thomas flattered!

And who the deuce, in these bright days,

Could possibly expect her

To take to dissipated ways,

And plague us as a spectre?