Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire, The lovely Molly Dumpling sat; Much did she fear, and much admire What Thomas Gard'ner could be at.
List'ning, her hand supports her chin; But, ah! no foot is heard to stir: He comes not, from the garden, in; Nor he, nor little bobtail cur.
They cannot come, sweet maid! to thee; Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass! And what's impossible can't be; And never, never, comes to pass!
She paces thro' the hall antique, To call her Thomas from his toil; Opes the huge door;--the hinges creak; Because the hinges wanted oil.
Thrice, on the threshold of the hall, She "Thomas!" cried, with many a sob; And thrice on Bobtail did she call, Exclaiming, sweetly,--"Bob! Bob! Bob!"
Vain maid! a Gard'ner's corpse, 'tis said, In answers can but ill succeed; And dogs that hear when they are dead, Are very cunning Dogs indeed!
Back thro' the hall she bent her way; All, all was solitude around! The candle shed a feeble ray,---- Tho' a large mould of four to th' pound.
Full closely to the fire she drew; Adown her cheek a salt tear stole; When, lo! a coffin out there flew, And in her apron burnt a hole!
Spiders their busy death-watch tick'd; A certain sign that Fate will frown; The clumsy kitchen clock, too, click'd, A certain sign it was not down.
More strong and strong her terrors rose;-- Her shadow did the maid appal;-- She tremble'd at her lovely nose,-- It look'd so long against the wall.
Up to her chamber, damp and cold, She climb'd Lord Hoppergollop's stair;-- Three stories high--long, dull, and old,-- As great Lords' stories often are.
All Nature now appear'd to pause: And "o'er the one half world seem'd dead;" No "curtain'd sleep" had she;----because She had no curtains to her bed.
List'ning she lay;--with iron din, The clock struck _Twelve_; the door flew wide; When Thomas, grimly, glided in, With little Bobtail by his side.
Tall, like the poplar, was his size, Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks; Red, red as beet-root, were his eyes; Pale, pale as turnips, were his cheeks!
Soon as the Spectre she espied, The fear-struck damsel faintly said, "What wou'd my Thomas?"--he replied, "Oh! Molly Dumpling! I am dead.
"All in the flower of youth I fell, Cut off with health's full blossom crown'd; I was not ill--but in a well I tumble'd backwards, and was drown'd.