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The Witches' Joys.
A Rhapsody Most Pleasant and Merry.
When night winds rave
O'er the fresh scooped grave,
And the dead therein that lie,
Glare upward to the sky;
When gibbering imps sit down,
To feast on lord or clown,
And tear the shroud away
From their lithe and pallid prey;
Then clustering close, how grim
They munch each withered limb!
Or quarrel for dainty rare,
The lip of lady fair—
The tongue of high-born dame,
That never would defame,
And was of scandal free
As any mute could be!
Or suck the tintless cheek
Of maiden mild and meek;
And when in revel rout
They kick peeled skulls about,
