歌词
SONG– SIR RODERIC MURGATROYD
When the night wind howls
In the chimney cowls,
And the bat in the moonlight flies,
And inky clouds,
Like funeral shrouds,
Sail over the midnight skies –
When the footpads quail
At the night-bird's wail,
And black dogs bay at the moon,
Then is the spectres' holiday –
Then is the ghosts' high-noon!
Ha! ha!
Then is the ghosts' high-noon!
As the sob of the breeze
Sweeps over the trees,
And the mists lie low on the fen,
From grey tomb-stones
Are gathered the bones
That once were women and men,
And away they go,
With a mop and a mow,
To the revel that ends too soon,
For cockcrow limits our holiday –
The dead of the night's high-noon!
Ha! ha!
The dead of the night's high-noon!
And then each ghost
With his ladye-toast
To their churchyard beds take flight,
With a kiss, perhaps,
On her lantern chaps,
And a grisly grim "good-night";
Till the welcome knell
Of the midnight bell
Rings forth its jolliest tune,
And ushers in our next high holiday –
The dead of the night's high-noon!
Ha! ha!
The dead of the night's high-noon! Ha! ha! ha! ha!