from the unpublished remains of Edgar Allan Poe <br /> <br />It was many and many a year ago, <br />In a city by the sea, <br />That a man there lived whom I happened to know <br />By the name of Andrew M'Crie; <br />And this man he slept in another room, <br />But ground and had meals with me. <br /> <br />I was an ass and he was an ass, <br />In this city by the sea; <br />But we ground in a way which was more than a grind, <br />I and Andrew M'Crie; <br />In a way that the idle semis next door <br />Declared was shameful to see. <br /> <br />And this was the reason that, one dark night, <br />In this city by the sea, <br />A stone flew in at the window, hitting <br />The milk-jug and Andrew M'Crie. <br />And once some low-bred tertians came, <br />And bore him away from me, <br />And shoved him into a private house <br />Where the people were having tea. <br /> <br />Professors, not half so well up in their work, <br />Went envying him and me— <br />Yes!—that was the reason, I always thought <br />(And Andrew agreed with me), <br />Why they ploughed us both at the end of the year, <br />Chilling and killing poor Andrew M'Crie. <br /> <br />But his ghost is more terrible far than the ghosts <br />Of many more famous than he— <br />Of many more gory than he— <br />And neither visits to foreign coasts, <br />Nor tonics, can ever set free <br />Two well-known Profs from the haunting wraith <br />Of the injured Andrew M'Crie. <br /> <br />For at night, as they dream, they frequently scream, <br />'Have mercy, Mr. M'Crie!' <br />And at morn they will rise with bloodshot eyes, <br />And the very first thing they will see, <br />When they dare to descend to their coffee and rolls, <br />Sitting down by the scuttle, the scuttle of coals, <br />With a volume of notes on its knee, <br />Is the spectre of Andrew M'Crie.<br /><br />Robert Fuller Murray<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/andrew-m-crie/
