w that a Banshee always howled, whilst a Goblin might but yawn,
I also knew that a Poltergeist was _not_ a Leprechaun,
But the Psychicals, I'm bound to say, had me on "buttered toastes"
With the wonderful changes which they rang on the good old Churchyard
"Ghostes."

_CHORUS._

Some of their Ghosts were sages, some of them seemed sheer noddies;
Some of the same like a "Wandering Flame," and others as "Astral
Bodies."
Some of theirs croaked "Ha! ha!" some of them chuckled "Ho! ho!"
And I got so sad, I was heartily glad when I found it was time to go.

I dropped into the "Rose and Crown," a highly respectable tavern,
For Ghosts are dry, and my thirst was high, my throat like a chalky
cavern.
I didn't have much, only four of cold Scotch, which is good to moisten
chalk.
The night was fine, it was twelve twenty-nine, so I thought I might
just as well walk.
But when I entered Trafalgar Square, I heard a mysterious sound;
There was not even a Bobby in sight as I stole a glance around;
But seated on NELSON's lions four, and perched on the neighbouring
"posteses,"
I saw, as we said in our Nursery Rhyme, a dozen or so of "Ghosteses"!

_CHORUS._

Some of the Ghosts were short, some of the Ghosts were tall,
Some of them had most preposterous noddles, and some of them none at all,
They all gave a shrill "Ha! ha!" they all gave a hushed "Ho! ho!"
I turned in a fright and I wished 'em good night--but they would not let
me go!

Then one of the Ghosts began to speak; down on my knees I sank,
"I am a Nobleman's Ghost," said he, "and mine offence is Rank!
I never cared for the Common Herd, the People I loved to crush;
My only remark on the Poor was 'Pooh!' my retort to the Toilers 'Tush!'
And if they dared to grumble, why, I used to raise my rents,
For I always held that the Mob were made to keep up the Cent-per-cents,
And now in this Square I hear BURNS's blare, see the Red Banner wave,
And Society swished by the Socialist; so I cannot rest in my grave."

_CHORUS._

Another Ghost commenced. He said: "I was a great R.A.
(I remember the time when we used to meet in "the pepper-pots," over
the way),
My daubs were always hung on the line, for ourselves we used to judge,
Our sole Ideal conventional cant, our _technique_ broad brown smudge.
And now BURNE JONES's pictures _sell_!!!"--here he writhed with a
spectra