In a backwoods town <br />Lived Deacon Brown, <br />And he was a miser old; <br />He would trust no bank, <br />So he dug, and sank <br />In the ground a box of gold, <br />Down deep in the ground a box of gold. <br /> <br />He hid his gold, <br />As has been told, <br />He remembered that he did it; <br />But sad to say, <br />On the very next day, <br />He forgot just where he hid it: <br />To find his gold he tried and tried <br />Till he grew faint and sick, and died. <br /> <br />Then on each dark and gloomy night <br />A form in phosphorescent white, <br />A genuine hair-raising sight, <br />Would wander through the town. <br />And as it slowly roamed around, <br />With a spade it dug each foot of ground; <br />So the folks about <br />Said there was no doubt <br />'Twas the ghost of Deacon Brown. <br /> <br />Around the church <br />This Ghost would search, <br />And whenever it would see <br />The passers-by <br />Take wings and fly <br />It would laugh in ghostly glee, <br />Hee, hee!—it would laugh in ghostly glee. <br /> <br />And so the town <br />Went quickly down, <br />For they said that it was haunted; <br />And doors and gates, <br />So the story states, <br />Bore a notice, 'Tenants wanted.' <br /> <br />And the town is now for let, <br />But the ghost is digging yet.<br /><br />James Weldon Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ghost-of-deacon-brown/
