He hid his gold,
As has been told,
He remembered that he did it;
But sad to say,
On the very next day,
He forgot just where he hid it:
To find his gold he tried and tried
Till he grew faint and sick, and died.
Then on each dark and gloomy
A form in phosphorescent white,
A genuine hair-raising sight,
Would wander through the town.
And as it slowly roamed around,
With a spade it dug each foot of ground;
So the folks about
Said there was no doubt
’Twas the ghost of Deacon Brown.
Around the church
This Ghost would search,
And whenever it would see
Take wings and fly
It would laugh in ghostly glee,
Hee, hee!—it would laugh in ghostly glee.
And so the town
Went quickly down,
For they said that it was haunted;
And doors and gates,
So the story states,
Bore a notice, “Tenants wanted.”
And the town is now for let,
But the ghost is digging yet.
Some men enjoy the constant
Of days with work and worry rife,
But that is not my dream of life:
I think such men are crazy.
For me, a life with worries few,
A job of nothing much to do,
Just pelf enough to see me through:
I fear that I am lazy.
On winter mornings cold and
When six o’clock alarms I hear,
’Tis then I love to shift my ear,
And hug my downy pillows.
When in the shade it’s ninety-three,
No job in town looks good to me,
I’d rather loaf down by the sea,
And watch the foaming billows.
Some people think the world’s
Where labor is the only rule;
But I’ll not make myself a mule,
And don’t you ever doubt it.
I know that work may have its use,
But still I feel that’s no excuse
For turning it into abuse;
What do you think about it?
Let others fume and sweat
And scratch and dig for golden spoil,
And live the life of work and toil,
Their lives to labor giving.
But what is gold when life is sped,
And life is short, as has been said,
And we are such a long time dead,
I’ll spend my life in living.
Old Omar, jolly sceptic, it
That, after all, you found the magic key
To life and all its mystery, and I
Must own you have almost persuaded me.
DEEP IN THE QUIET WOOD