When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the <br />moonlight flies, <br />And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies - <br />When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs <br />bay the moon, <br />Then is the spectres' holiday - then is the ghosts' high noon! <br /> <br />As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie <br />low on the fen, <br />From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women <br />and men, <br />And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too <br />soon, <br />For cockcrow limits our holiday - the dead of the night's high <br />noon! <br /> <br />And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds <br />take flight, <br />With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim "good <br />night"; <br />Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its <br />jolliest tune, <br />And ushers our next high holiday - the dead of the night's high <br />noon!<br /><br />WS Gilbert<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ghosts-high-noon-2/
