WHENEVER ON A GRAVE I SIT
Whenever on a grave I sitSome fool thing rises out of it;If I but twang a fiddle string,Forsooth! I can rouse anything.In other days I've heard them tellOf one who twanged his wife from Hell.Between me and my fiddle string,—I have no need for such a thing;But for a cheerful ghost to shoutAnd dance the steps I fling about—Yes, for a cheerful ghost to singAnd dance I'd do 'most anything.I'd scrape my fiddle to the deuceIf I could but a ghost enthuseWith merriment; 'twould be worth whileTo twang a skull grin to a smile,—Or make the cross-bones pat the beatWhen pigeon wings are cut complete.
I put my fiddle to my chinAs I would scrape the devil in,The while my blithering heart did swellTo twang a jolly ghost from Hell.
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