When the night wind howls In the chimney cowls And the bat in the moonlight flies And the 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 spectre’s holiday Then is the ghost’s high noon
The ghost’s 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 cock crow limits our holiday The dead of the night’s high noon
And then each ghost With his ladye-toast To their church yard 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
With a kiss, perhaps On her lantern chaps And a grisly grim, “good night"
When the night wind howls In the chimney cowls And the bat in the moonlight flies And the inky clouds Like funeral shrouds Sail over the midnight skies