Portknockie's Porter

The train came early in to-night,The sullen guard was soon awake,And threw my luggage down, for spite,To where the platform seemed a lake;And did his best my box to break.When sidled up a porter; straight,He mopped the platform with a broom,And, kneeling, made the well-filled grateBlaze up within the waiting-room,And so dispelled the usual gloom.Which done, he came and took his seatBeside me, doffed his coat, untiedHis bootlaces, and let his feetPeep coyly out on either side;Then called me. When no voice replied,He rolled his shirt-sleeve up, and rose,And laid his brawny biceps bare,And, where my eyebrows meet my nose,He slowly shook his fist, just there,And seized me by my yellow hair.Then roughly asked me, had I gotA head as empty as a bubble?Bidding me sternly, did I notDesire henceforth to see things double,To give him something for his trouble.Nor could my arguments prevail;Entreaties, threats were all in vain!Returned he to the twice-told taleOf how, from out the midnight train,He bore my luggage through the rain.I fixed him with my cold grey eye,But all in vain; at last I knewThat porter hated me; (though whyI cannot understand, can you?)And what on earth was I to do!Next moment, though I still perspireTo think of it, I quickly foundA thing to do; and on the fireI pushed him backwards with a bound,And piled the coal up all around.Cremated him. No pain he felt.As a shut coop that holds a hen,I oped the register and smeltAn odour as of burnt quill-pen.My laughter bubbled over then.I seized him lightly, with the tongsAbout his waist; and through the doorI bore him, burning with my wrongs,And laid him on the line. What's more,The down express was due at four.

The mark is on the metals still,A gruesome stain, I must confess,And, when I pass, it makes me illTo note the somewhat painful messConcocted by the down express.Portknockie's porter; so he died.The date of inquest is deferred.'Tis thought a case of suicide;And he who might have seen or heard,--The guard,--has never said a word.