Not long since, in a certain year of Grace,
She met a lady spectre, face to face.
The lady was a chatty wisp of fog,
Who straightaway launched a breezy monologue.
“Sorry if I’ve caused you all those chills and prickles —
I am the ghost of Mrs. Brewster Nichols.
You see it was no mouse in the partition,
For I am an authentic apparition.
Now by and large I am a kindly spectre,
And please believe I do not mean to hector;
But every time I come on my release,
I’ll rub my finger on the mantlepiece!”
This dreadful warning uttered, she was gone,
And left Grace all trembling, pale and wan.
Since then, she scrubs o’er window frame and door,
And keeps things even cleaner than before.
But Mervin says t’aint worth a nervous spasm
To satisfy a swirl of ectoplasm.
However that may be, we lift the bay
And crown her with it on her natal day.*
*Gently, of course