All of these dead were stirringEach unto each did call,"A witch, a witch is sleepingUnder the churchyard wall."
All of these dead were stirringEach unto each did call,"A witch, a witch is sleepingUnder the churchyard wall."
Dollard, Father. Ballad of the Banshee. (In J. W. Garvin's Canadian Poets and Poetry.)
Mother of mercy! there she sat,A woman clad in a snow-white shroud,Streamed her hair to the damp moss-mat,White the face on her bosom bowed!
Mother of mercy! there she sat,A woman clad in a snow-white shroud,Streamed her hair to the damp moss-mat,White the face on her bosom bowed!
Fletcher, John Gould. The Ghosts of an Old House. (In his Goblins and Pagodas.)
Yet I often wonderIf these things are really dead.If the old trunks never openLetting out grey flapping things at twilight.If it is all as safe and dullAs it seems?
Yet I often wonderIf these things are really dead.If the old trunks never openLetting out grey flapping things at twilight.If it is all as safe and dullAs it seems?
Furlong, Alice. The Warnings. (In Padric Gregory's Modern Anglo-Irish Verse.)
I was weaving by the door-post, when I heard the Death-Watch beating;And I signed the Cross upon me, and I spoke the Name of Three.High and fair, through cloud and air, a silver moon was fleeting,But the night began to darken as the Death-Watch beat for me.
I was weaving by the door-post, when I heard the Death-Watch beating;And I signed the Cross upon me, and I spoke the Name of Three.High and fair, through cloud and air, a silver moon was fleeting,But the night began to darken as the Death-Watch beat for me.
Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson. The Blind Rower. (In his Collected Poems. 1917.)
Some say they saw the dead man steer—The dead man steer the blind man home—Though, when they found him dead,His hand was cold as lead.
Some say they saw the dead man steer—The dead man steer the blind man home—Though, when they found him dead,His hand was cold as lead.
—— Comrades.
As I was marching in FlandersA ghost kept step with me—Kept step with me and chuckled,And muttered ceaselessly.
As I was marching in FlandersA ghost kept step with me—Kept step with me and chuckled,And muttered ceaselessly.
—— The Lodging House.
And when at last I stand outsideMy garret door I hardly dareTo open it,Lest when I fling it wideWith candle litAnd reading in my only chairI find myself already there.
And when at last I stand outsideMy garret door I hardly dareTo open it,Lest when I fling it wideWith candle litAnd reading in my only chairI find myself already there.
Hagedorn, Hermann. The Last Faring. (In Poems and Ballads.)
The FatherInto the storm he drives! Full is the sail;But the wind blows wilder and shriller!The Son'Tis the ghost of a Sea-King, my father, rigid and pale,That holds so firm the tiller!
The FatherInto the storm he drives! Full is the sail;But the wind blows wilder and shriller!
The Son'Tis the ghost of a Sea-King, my father, rigid and pale,That holds so firm the tiller!
—— The Cobbler of Glamorgan.
He coughed, he turned; and crystal-eyedHe stared, for the bolted door stood wide,And on the threshold, faint and grand,He saw the awful Gray Man stand.His flesh was a thousand snails that crept,But his face was calm though his pulses leapt.
He coughed, he turned; and crystal-eyedHe stared, for the bolted door stood wide,And on the threshold, faint and grand,He saw the awful Gray Man stand.His flesh was a thousand snails that crept,But his face was calm though his pulses leapt.
Herford, Oliver. Ye Knyghte-mare. (In The Bashful Earthquake.)
Ye log burns dimme, and eke more dimme,Loud groans each knyghtlie gueste,As ye ghost of his grandmother, gaunt and grimme,Sits on each knyghte hys cheste.
Ye log burns dimme, and eke more dimme,Loud groans each knyghtlie gueste,As ye ghost of his grandmother, gaunt and grimme,Sits on each knyghte hys cheste.
Kilmer, Joyce. The White Ships and the Red. (In W. S. Braithwaite's Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1915.)
The red ship is the Lusitania. "She goes to the bottom all in red to join all the other dead ships, which are in white."
The red ship is the Lusitania. "She goes to the bottom all in red to join all the other dead ships, which are in white."
Le Gallienne, Richard. Ballad of the Dead Lover. (In his New Poems. 1910.)
She took his head upon her kneeAnd called him love and very fair.And with a golden comb she combedThe grave-dust from his hair.
She took his head upon her kneeAnd called him love and very fair.And with a golden comb she combedThe grave-dust from his hair.
Lowell, Amy. The Crossroads. (In her Men, Women, and Ghosts.)
In polyphonic prose. The body buried at the crossroads struggles for twenty years to free itself of the stake driven through its heart and wreak vengeance on its enemy. It is finally successful as the funeral cortège of this enemy comes down the road."He wavers like smoke in the buffeting wind. His fingers blow out like smoke, his head ripples in the gale. Under the sign post, in the pouring rain, he stands, and watches another quavering figure drifting down the Wayfleet road. Then swiftly he streams after it. . ."
In polyphonic prose. The body buried at the crossroads struggles for twenty years to free itself of the stake driven through its heart and wreak vengeance on its enemy. It is finally successful as the funeral cortège of this enemy comes down the road.
"He wavers like smoke in the buffeting wind. His fingers blow out like smoke, his head ripples in the gale. Under the sign post, in the pouring rain, he stands, and watches another quavering figure drifting down the Wayfleet road. Then swiftly he streams after it. . ."
Marquis, Don. Haunted. (In his Dreams and Dust.)
Drink and forget, make merry and boast,But the boast rings false and the jest is thin.In the hour that I meet ye ghost to ghost,Stripped of the flesh that ye skulk within,Stripped to the coward soul 'ware of its sin,Ye shall learn, ye shall learn, whether dead men hate!
Drink and forget, make merry and boast,But the boast rings false and the jest is thin.In the hour that I meet ye ghost to ghost,Stripped of the flesh that ye skulk within,Stripped to the coward soul 'ware of its sin,Ye shall learn, ye shall learn, whether dead men hate!
Masefield, John. Cape Horn Gospel. (In his Collected Poems. 1918.)
"I'm a-weary of them there mermaids,"Says old Bill's ghost to me,"It ain't no place for Christians,Below there, under sea.For it's all blown sands and shipwrecksAnd old bones eaten bare,And them cold fishy femalesWith long green weeds for hair."
"I'm a-weary of them there mermaids,"Says old Bill's ghost to me,"It ain't no place for Christians,Below there, under sea.For it's all blown sands and shipwrecksAnd old bones eaten bare,And them cold fishy femalesWith long green weeds for hair."
—— Mother Carey.
She lives upon an iceberg to the norred'N' her man is Davy Jones,'N' she combs the weeds upon her forredWith poor drowned sailors' bones.
She lives upon an iceberg to the norred'N' her man is Davy Jones,'N' she combs the weeds upon her forredWith poor drowned sailors' bones.
Maynard, Winifred. Saint Catherine. (In The Book of Winifred Maynard.)
. . . "Saint Catherine," in which the spotless virginity of the saint is made ashamed by the pitiful ghosts, who whisper their humanity to her in a dream.—William Stanley Braithwaite.
. . . "Saint Catherine," in which the spotless virginity of the saint is made ashamed by the pitiful ghosts, who whisper their humanity to her in a dream.—William Stanley Braithwaite.
Middleton, Jesse Edgar. Off Heligoland. (In his Seadogs and Men-at-arms.)
Ghostly ships in a ghostly sea. . .
Ghostly ships in a ghostly sea. . .
Millay, Edna St. Vincent. The Little Ghost. (In her Renascence.)
I knew her for a little ghostThat in my garden walked;The wall is high—higher than most—And the green gate was locked.
I knew her for a little ghostThat in my garden walked;The wall is high—higher than most—And the green gate was locked.
Monroe, Harriet. The Legend of Pass Christian. (In her You and I.)
Now we, who wait one night a yearUnder these branches long,May see a flaming ship, and hearThe echo of a song.
Now we, who wait one night a yearUnder these branches long,May see a flaming ship, and hearThe echo of a song.
Noyes, Alfred. The Admiral's Ghost. (In his Collected Poems. 1913.)
—— A Song of Sherwood.
The dead are coming back again, the years are rolled away,In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
The dead are coming back again, the years are rolled away,In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
Scollard, Clinton. A Ballad of Hallowmass. (In his Ballads Patriotic and Romantic.)
It happed at the time of Hallowmass, when the dead may walk abroad,That the wraith of Ralph of the Peaceful Heart went forth from the courts of God.
It happed at the time of Hallowmass, when the dead may walk abroad,That the wraith of Ralph of the Peaceful Heart went forth from the courts of God.
Seeger, Alan. Broceliande. (In his Poems. 1917.)
Untroubled, untouched by the woes of this world are the moon-marshalled hosts that invadeBroceliande.
Untroubled, untouched by the woes of this world are the moon-marshalled hosts that invadeBroceliande.
Shorter, Dora Sigerson. All Souls' Night. (In Stedman's Victorian Anthology.)
. . . Deelish! Deelish! My woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear.I called his name and the pale ghost came; but I was afraid to meet my dear.
. . . Deelish! Deelish! My woe forever that I could not sever coward flesh from fear.I called his name and the pale ghost came; but I was afraid to meet my dear.
Sterling, George. A Wine of Wizardry. (In A Wine of Wizardry and Other Poems. 1909.)
And, ere the tomb-thrown mutterings have ceased,The blue-eyed vampire, sated at her feast,Smiles bloodily against the leprous moon.
And, ere the tomb-thrown mutterings have ceased,The blue-eyed vampire, sated at her feast,Smiles bloodily against the leprous moon.
Widdemer, Margaret. The Forgotten Soul. (In her The Factories.)
'Twas I that stood to greet you on the churchyard pave—(O fire o' my heart's grief, how could you never see?)You smiled in pleasant dreaming as you crossed my graveAnd crooned a little love-song where they buried me!
'Twas I that stood to greet you on the churchyard pave—(O fire o' my heart's grief, how could you never see?)You smiled in pleasant dreaming as you crossed my graveAnd crooned a little love-song where they buried me!
—— The House of Ghosts.
Out from the House of Ghosts I fledLest I should turn and seeThe child I had been lift her headAnd stare aghast at me.
Out from the House of Ghosts I fledLest I should turn and seeThe child I had been lift her headAnd stare aghast at me.
Yeats, William Butler. The Ballad of Father Gilligan. (In Burton Stevenson's The Home Book of Verse.)
How an angel obligingly took upon itself the form and performed the duties of Father Gilligan while the father was asleep at his post.
How an angel obligingly took upon itself the form and performed the duties of Father Gilligan while the father was asleep at his post.
—— The Host of the Air.
Based upon a scrap of folklore in "The Celtic Twilight" and apparently among the simplest of his poems, nothing he has ever done shows a greater mastery of atmosphere, or a greater metrical mastery.—Forrest Reid.
Based upon a scrap of folklore in "The Celtic Twilight" and apparently among the simplest of his poems, nothing he has ever done shows a greater mastery of atmosphere, or a greater metrical mastery.—Forrest Reid.
He heard, while he sang and dreamed,A piper piping away,And never was piping so sad,And never was piping so gay.
He heard, while he sang and dreamed,A piper piping away,And never was piping so sad,And never was piping so gay.
"From Ghaisties, Ghoulies, and long-leggity Beastiesand Things that go Bump in the night—Good Lord, deliver us."
The ballads that follow have all been selected from The Oxford Book of Ballads, edited by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch. Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1910.
Alison Gross.
She's turned me into an ugly wormAnd gar'd me toddle about the tree.
She's turned me into an ugly wormAnd gar'd me toddle about the tree.
Clerk Saunders.
The most notable of the ballads of the supernatural, from the dramatic quality of its story and a certain wild pathos in its expression.
The most notable of the ballads of the supernatural, from the dramatic quality of its story and a certain wild pathos in its expression.
"Is there ony room at your head, Saunders,Is there ony room at your feet?Or ony room at your side, Saunders,Where fain, fain I wad sleep?"
"Is there ony room at your head, Saunders,Is there ony room at your feet?Or ony room at your side, Saunders,Where fain, fain I wad sleep?"
The Daemon Lover.
And aye as she turned her round about,Aye taller he seemed to be;Until that the tops o' that gallant shipNae taller were than he.
And aye as she turned her round about,Aye taller he seemed to be;Until that the tops o' that gallant shipNae taller were than he.
King Henry.
O he has doen him to his ha'To make him bierly cheer,An' in it came a griesly ghostSteed stappin' i' the fleer.
O he has doen him to his ha'To make him bierly cheer,An' in it came a griesly ghostSteed stappin' i' the fleer.
The Laily Worm.
For she has made me the laily worm,That lies at the fit o' the tree,And my sister Masery she's madeThe machrel of the sea.
For she has made me the laily worm,That lies at the fit o' the tree,And my sister Masery she's madeThe machrel of the sea.
A Lyke-wake Dirge.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,—Every nighte and alle,Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,And Christ receive thy saule.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,—Every nighte and alle,Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,And Christ receive thy saule.
Tam Lin.
And pleasant is the fairy landFor those that in it dwell,But ay at end of seven yearsThey pay a teind to hell;I am sae fair and fu' of fleshI'm fear'd 'twill be mysell.
And pleasant is the fairy landFor those that in it dwell,But ay at end of seven yearsThey pay a teind to hell;I am sae fair and fu' of fleshI'm fear'd 'twill be mysell.