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Works in the Gadfly 1907
WRAITHS
Last night I strolled far afield,
Out by an oozy marsh;
The moon shone with a strange, weird light,
The wind blew cold and harsh;
I looked around uneasily,
And grew now chill, now hot;
For, sooth, I found myself upon
A most uncanny spot.
"Now, here," quoth I, "stark dead men lie,
Unshriven, like as not."
I scarce had quoth my quoth, when up
From out the oozy ground;
From here, from there, from ev'rywhere,
About and all around
Came weird, uncanny, mystic things
That shrieked, and wept, and wailed,
And cried, and moaned, and sobbed, and groaned,
Until my spirit quailed;
And though I am both brave and strong,
I know my visage paled.
They had no shape or form or size,
No hue or tint had they,
Yet they were there before mine eyes,
In some strange, mystic way.
I cleared my throat and strove to speak,
But words refused to come;
I drew long breaths and tried again,
But I seeemd stricken dumb;
I felt my hair rise in the air,
I felt my limbs go numb.
I caught my breath, and thought on death,
And felt inclined to screech,
Until, with one great effort,
At length regained my speech.
"I charge ye, now, grim denizens
Of this unhallowed spot,
Say, be ye fantods, myths or sprites,
Or phantasies, or what?"
"We are the Ma State's Wrongs!" was all
The answer that I got.
"Nay, creatures of a muddle brain,"
I cried, "depart in peace!"
But still their shrieking rent the sky,
Their moaning did not cease.
And then it seemed that in their pain
They craved a boon of me.
So, sitting down, I took one howling
Fantod on my knee,
And stroked its head, or, should I say,
Stroked where its head should be.
"Now, say, unhappy wraith," quoth I,
"Why do you so complain,
Then in a voice surcharged with grief,
It answered once again,
"We are the Ma State's Wrongs, and Joe
Carruthers' bonded slaves,
And not one fantod of us all
May have the rest he craves,
For Joseph will not let us lie
At peace within our graves.
"For when oblivion threatens him,
He calls us to his side,
And bids us help him moan and wail,
A thing we can't abide;
And never shall we rest in peace,
While he is in the swim.
Oh! please, sir, please, for pity's sake,
Go forth and finish him!"
I spoke no word, but gazed in pain.
And felt my eyes grow dim.
"Den"
The Gadfly, 26 June 1907, p1317
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