Poems (Katharine Elizabeth Howard)/Whenever on a grave I sit
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. I struck the rambling chord twing twang,—And on my blooming word,No sooner he the sound had heardThan standing the tall tomb besideA foolish fellow I espied.The tears fell from his socket eyesUpon his bosom, cross-bone-wise,And mingled with his boney sighs,The while his crater eyes he fixtUpon the clock that shone betwixtThe trees, high in the ivy-tower.
'Twas well upon the midnight hourWhen on the clock he fixt his eyeAnd shrilled in wailing tenor high,"An opera singer once was I;Always to painted moons I cry,O pretty moon! O pretty moon! For you I die!"—I struck the rambling chord twing twang,—"O pretty moon! O pretty moon!" he sang,"Always for you I die! I die!"His voice went slithering to a sigh;I struck the rambling chord twing twang,The while the pretty moon he sang. '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. And so they danced in capering cuts,—For favors using merry-thoughts,—And bones went zipping in and outAnd flipped and flappered all aboutTo whistling of the brumal wind,—A brumal niveous most unkind,And whistling rheumatizing wind.
The while he played the bones and sangThe rambling chord I struck twing twang.A merry time we had till break of day,—And then into their graves they crept away—A diddering clattering mess of bones,I heard them say in monotones,A snuggling down in their graves deep,"Come, fiddler man, come down and sleep."
'Tis true, whenever on a grave I sitSome fool thing rises out of it;I never twang my fiddle stringsBut that I see these foolish things.