A brilliantly whimsical body snatcher poem

"Mary's Ghost. A Pathetic Ballad"
by Thomas Hood (1799-1845)

'Twas in the middle of the night,
To sleep young William tried,
When Mary's ghost came stealing in,
And stood at his bed-side.

O William dear ! O William dear !
My rest eternal ceases;
Alas ! my everlasting peace
Is broken into pieces.

I thought the last of all my cares
Would end with my last minute;
But tho' I went to my long home,
I didn't stay long in it.

The body-snatchers they have come,
And made a snatch at me;
It's very hard them kind of men
Won't let a body be !

You thought that I was buried deep,
Quite decent like and chary,
But from her grave in Mary-bone
They've come and boned your Mary.

The arm that used to take your arm
Is took to Dr. Vyse;
And both my legs are gone to walk
The hospital at Guy's.

I vow'd that you should have my hand,
But fate gives us denial;
You'll find it there, at Doctor Bell's,
In spirits and a phial.

As for my feet, the little feet
You used to call so pretty,
There's one, I know, in Bedford Row,
The t'other's in the city.

I can't tell where my head is gone,
But Doctor Carpue can:
As for my trunk, it's all pack'd up
To go by Pickford's van.

I wish'd you'd go to Mr. P.
And save me such a ride:
I don't half like the outside place,
They've took for my inside.

The cock it crows—I must be gone !
My William, we must part !
But I'll be yours in death, altho'
Sir Astley has my heart.

Don't go to weep upon my grave,
And think that there I be;
They haven't left an atom there
Of my anatomie.

From "The Garden of Proserpine"
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Here life has death for neighbor,
And far from eye or ear,
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer.

I use Spirits of the Dead by Poe:

Thy soul shall find itself alone
’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone—
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

II

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness—for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again
In death around thee—and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.

III

The night, tho’ clear, shall frown—
And the stars shall look not down
From their high thrones in the heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given—
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.

IV

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne’er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more—like dew-drop from the grass.

V

The breeze—the breath of God—is still—
And the mist upon the hill,
Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token—
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!



It’s not too hard to remember because it’s short. I’ve also memorized the Ballad of the Harpweaver. I can recite it in my sleep. It took me a long time to fully memorize it but it was well worth doing. I have others I’m working on as well. The brain is an amazing thing. I can remember these but forget what I did yesterday…

The Cremation of Sam McGee
BY ROBERT W. SERVICE

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Crossing the Bar
by Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

The Banshee
by Alice Guerin Crist (1876-1941)

As we came down the old boreen,
Rose and I – Rose and I,
At vesper time on Sunday e’en,
We heard a banshee cry!
Beyond the churchyard dim and dark,
‘Neath whispering elms, and yew-trees stark,
Where our star shone-a corpse-like spark-
Against the wintry sky.

We heard and shuddered sick with dread,
Rose and I- Rose and I,
As the shrill keening rang o’erhead
Where cloud-wrack floated high.
Our two young hearts long, sorely tried,
By poverty and love denied
Still waiting for some favouring tide,
And now! Death come so nigh.

‘Which of us two is called away
You or I-You or I?”
I heard my patient poor love say,
With bitter plaintive sigh.
‘Neither, dear girl,” I bravely said,
‘To Mary Mother bow your head,
And cry for help to Her instead,
Nor heed the Banshee’s cry’.

We raised our hearts in fervent prayer,
Rose and I-Rose and I,
Nor knew our troubles ended there,
Our happiness came nigh.
For ‘twas the grim old farmer, he-
My only kin, rich, miserly,
Who, dying left his wealth to me-
For whom the banshee cried.

From memory from long ago, source unknown--sorry, can't remember punctuation....

The river lies in flower and fern
In flower and fern it breathes a song
It breathes a song of your return
Of your return in years too long

In years too long its murmurs bring
Its murmurs bring their vain replies
Their vain replies the flowers sing
The flowers sing, "The river lies."

Very nice.
Thanks to google I found the source for you. It is from the short story "Pygmalion’s Spectacles" by Stanley G. Weinbaum (1902-1935)
https://standardebooks.org/ebooks/stanle......ectacles

Intrepid -- I do not recollect the short story at all, but the verses stuck in my memory somehow--probably due to the very tight rhyme scheme and overall recursive structure. And, of course, it is a sad little lyric, and those have always seemed to 'get to' me. Thanks so much for tracking down the source! (big smile)

... And here's another, from a sci-fi fan newsletter from 1930. With a tip of the hat to Intrepid, who once again tracked down the source online. (smile)

THE MONARCH OF MARS

He sits alone, on a crimson throne,
The last of a dying race;
And his ruby crown seems to weigh him down,
As he stares into empty space.

He thinks once more of the years before,
When he ruled o'er a planet proud;
And he hears again the acclaim of men
Who are now but dust in the shroud.

He, too, must pass on, where the rest have gone,
To that sphere from which none come back;
And a lifeless globe, in a blood-red robe,
Shall career on its destined track.
--ALLEN GLASSER.

https://www.fanac.org/fanzines/Planet/Planet04.pdf (page three)

Sea Calm
By James Langston Hughes (1902-1967)

How still,
How strangely still
The water is today,
It is not good
For water
To be so still that way.

The Seance
by Robert Service (1874-1958)

"The spirits do not like the light,"
The medium said, and turned the switch;
The little lady on my right
Clutched at my hand with nervous twitch.
(She seemed to be a pretty !@#$%.)

The moustached woman on my left,
With spirits on her heavy breath,
Lasciviously leaned her heft
On me as one who languisheth.
The sordid room was still as death.

"A shape I see," the medium cried,
"Whose face and name I do not know . . ."
"'Tis Robert Service," soft replied
A voice -- "I passed a month ago,
And I've come back to let you know.

"The Other Side is gay and bright;
We are so happy there and free,
And Dan McGrew I oft recite,
And follow up with Sam McGee . . .
But now excuse me, I must flee."

The fat dame leaned to get my ear,
(Her breast was soft as feather bed.)
"I love his verses; oh dear, dear,
I didn't know that he was dead!"
"No more did I," I sourly said.

The little lady grabbed me hard;
(She looked to me a "yesful" dear.)
Said she: "Don't you adore the Bard?"
Said I: "Before he fades, I fear
I'd like to kick his astral rear."

So then I bravely broke away
From spooks and ectoplasmic gauze.
Yet in the brazen light of day
I had to pinch myself because
Really! I wondered if I was.

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading - treading - till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum -
Kept beating - beating - till I thought
My mind was going numb -

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space - began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here -

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down -
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing - then -

Why a poem at a seance?

"In a galaxy far, far away ... "

Séance for space aliens.

Thanks, I wasn't aware aliens or spirits liked poetry.

Write out several copies & everyone reads it together, like a congregation:

And we speak with the tongues of serpents,
For we thirst the taste of darkness
And the light of truth it will bring
The truth of creation
And yearn for destruction
The door to shadow opens,
And we may meet our king.

Those who wander the earthen realm
Journey to no end
For they wander without purpose
Without guidance, ever helpless
Without destruction there can be no creation
They themselves have condemned.

Eternally lost
Forever to yearn
Eternally lost
Forever to burn

He, who reigns in the dark,
to oppose the light.
This blackness,
The gate of the open void.

Hail him, in black flame
Hail him, bringer of light
Hail him, in black flame

Hail him. Praise him. Call him.

My apologies, the resurrection of this thread coincided with my own research into macabre poems. And I mistakenly thought others might also appreciate a little inspiration from some classic dark poems. Especially since bizarre magic is a story telling art form. Plus it seems like Spooky has been dying its own slow death over the past few years and I thought a little creative inspiration wouldn't hurt. It wasn't intended to irritate anyones sensibilities. Please accept my apologies.

No offense taken and no apologies necessary. Please continue on. My reply was not a criticism but a serious question. I have never known of a seance using long poems and was curious as to why they should be used. One thought I had was more audience participation but I didn't want to bias the response.

Ask for mine and Al's banter, that was tongue and cheek on my part. My apologies if you took that bit of humor the wrong way.

You are correct, the bizarre postings have seemed to fall away in the past couple years and need some new ideas. Looks like this thread has had good response.

Here is a poem I will share that I wrote to my beloved cadaver. Most people don't realize that undertakers can have great affection for some of their clients, even the dead ones. Sometimes it is hard to put them away. Perhaps you would like to recite this poem to your significant other this coming year. I guarantee of all the gifts you gave that she/he doesn't remember they will remember this one.

Take Me Out
A valentine love poem (Could be used for seasonal seance')

Take me out! Take me out!
I heard my valentine cry.
Take me out! Take me out!
Or I will surely die.

I'll take you out! I'll take you out!
That was the answer I said.
But I can't take you out before you die,
My Dear, because you're already dead!

I slid her out of the coffin,
And she dribbled toward the door.
If it hadn't been for the anal cork,
She'd probably dribble more.

We sat at the kitchen table,
At her old familiar place.
I took a moment to brush the mold,
From her nose and the rest of her face.

We laughed, and cried for an hour or two,
My love for her was a sin.
I could tell she was getting tired,
'cause the drool ran down her chin.

I took her back to the crypt,
And stowed her safely away.
Promising to take her out again,
The next Saint Valentine Day!

PS. Love you to death, and back.