shorter, He left no wise precaution incomplete; He doused the room in which they were to dine, And watered everything except the wine.
So when all preparations had been made, The jovial epicures sat down to table. The menus of that time I am afraid I don’t know much about—as well’s I’m able I’ll go through the account: They made a raid On every bird and beast in Aesop’s fable To fill out their repast, and pies and puddings, And jellies, pasties, cakes among the good things.
A mighty peacock standing on both legs With difficulty kept from toppling over, Next came a viand made of turtle eggs, And after that a great pie made of plover, And flagons which perhaps held several kegs Of ale, and cheese which they kept under cover. Last, a boar’s head, which to bring in took for pages, His mouth an apple held, his skull held sausages.
Over their Christmas wassail the monks dozed, A fine old drink, though now gone out of use— His feet upon the table superposed Each wisht he had not eaten so much goose. The Abbot with proposing every toast Had drank more than he ought t’ have of grape juice. The lights began to burn distinctly blue, As in ghost stories lights most always do.
The doors, though barred and bolted most securely, Gave way—my statement nobody can doubt, Who knows the well known fact, as you do surely— That ghosts are fellows whom you can’t keep out; It is a thing to be lamented sorely Such slippery folk should be allowed about, For often they drop in at awkward moments, As everybody’ll know who reads this romance.
The Abbot sat as pasted to his chair, His eye became the size of any dollar, The ghost then took him roughly by the hair And bade him come with him, in accents hollow. The friars could do nought but gape and stare, The spirit pulled him rudely by the collar, And before any one could say “O jiminy!” The pair had vanisht swiftly up the chimney.