'Twas then a bitter wind swept byAnd whirled the clouds about the skyAnd rattled him about the kneesAnd whistled in the grave-yard trees.It struck him with a chattering chill;I heard his spinal column trill."Ha, ha" and "Ha, ha, ha!" he cried,And struck his digits side by side;He played the castanets and sang,And I, the rambling chord twing twang.He shook the bones a rattle whang,A jiggy tune of dancing tang—"O pretty moon! O pretty moon!" he sang;I struck the rambling chord twing twang.
He played the bones and I the fiddle scraped,And true it is that there escapedFrom all the graves and clattered outA mess of bones, and flung aboutAnd danced a merry fling, the whileIn idiotic, antic styleMy fool did sing.I struck the gibbering string,For he was bedlam glad, forsooth!To have an audience in truth.
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