Sung at a Private Dinner

One dusk, under the burying-ground tree,

I met a ghost-or the ghost met me.

We stopped, we shivered; the night was cold.

When we saw we were both scared, we grew more bold.

Neither of us dared to cut and run,

For each of us saw each had a gun;

Mine was of iron, and loaded as well;

What his was made of, no mortal could tell.

I feared ghost-bullets could kill twofold:

Would blast my body and sink my soul,

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While he was shaking in conniption fits

Lest my gun-shot blow his fog-frame to bits.

We made a friendship of our two fears,

On the same grave we squatted our rears.

From his canteen he pulled the stopple,

I did the same with my own bottle.

Oh, cobweb foggy was my breath

As Death toasted Life, and Life toasted Death.

T sang; then he sang back; and then

We alternated songs again.

Well may you ask what he sang of!

Love! (call it love); yes, he sang of love.

I asked him about it (I tell you true),

But those were the only songs he knew.

Ghosts are fleshly, ghosts are pallid-

Why should a ghost sing a bawdy ballad?

"We sing of life, for we are dead:

There's nothing new in the grave," he said.