Jack Hall

’Tis very hard when men forsakeThis melancholy world, and makeA bed of turf, they cannot takeA quiet doze,But certain rogues will come and breakTheir “bone” repose.

’Tis hard we can’t give up our breath,And to the earth our earth bequeath,Without Death-Fetches after death,Who thus exhume us;And snatch us from our homes beneath,And hearths posthumous.

The tender lover comes to rearThe mournful urn, and shed his tear--Her glorious dust, he cries, is here!Alack! alack!The while his Sacharissa dearIs in a sack!

’Tis hard one cannot lie amidThe mould, beneath a coffin-lid,But thus the Faculty will bidTheir rogues break through it,If they don’t want us there, why didThey send us to it?

One of these sacrilegious knaves,Who crave as hungry vulture craves,Behaving as the ghoul behaves,‘Neath church-yard wall--Mayhap because he fed on graves,Was named Jack Hall.

By day it was his trade to goTending the black coach to and fro;And sometimes at the door of woe,With emblems suitable,He stood with brother Mute, to showThat life is mutable.

But long before they pass’d the ferry,The dead that he had help’d to bury,He sack’d--(he had a sack to carryThe bodies off in)In fact, he let them have a veryShort fit of coffin.

Night after night, with crow and spade,He drove this dead but thriving trade,Meanwhile his conscience never weigh’dA single horsehair;On corses of all kinds he prey’d,A perfect corsair!

At last--it may be, Death took spite,Or, jesting only, meant to fright--He sought for Jack night after nightThe churchyards round;And soon they met, the man and sprite,In Pancras’ ground.

Jack, by the glimpses of the moon,Perceiv’d the bony knacker soon,An awful shape to meet at noonOf night and lonely;But Jack’s tough courage did but swoonA minute only.

Anon he gave his spade a swingAloft, and kept it brandishing,Ready for what mishaps might springFrom this conjunction;Funking indeed was quite a thingBeside his function.

“Hollo!” cried Death, “d’ye wish your sandsRun out? the stoutest never standsA chance with me,--to my commandsThe strongest truckles;But I’m your friend--so let’s shake hands,I should say--knuckles.”

Jack, glad to see th’ old sprite so sprightlyAnd meaning nothing but uprightly,Shook hands at once, and, bowing slightly,His mull did proffer:But Death, who had no nose, politelyDeclin’d the offer.

Then sitting down upon a bank,Leg over leg, shank over shank,Like friends for conversation frank,That had no check on:Quoth Jack unto the Lean and Lank,“You’re Death, I reckon.”

The Jaw-bone grinn’d:--“I am that same,You’ve hit exactly on my name;In truth it has some little fameWhere burial sod is.”Quoth Jack (and wink’d), “of course ye cameHere after bodies.”

Death grinn’d again and shook his head:--“I’ve little business with the dead;When they are fairly sent to bedI’ve done my turn:Whether or not the worms are fedIs your concern.

“My errand here, in meeting you,Is nothing but a ‘how-d’ye-do;’I’ve done what jobs I had--a fewAlong this way;If I can serve a crony too,I beg you’ll say.”

Quoth Jack, “Your Honour’s very kind:And now I call the thing to mind,This parish very strict I find;But in the next ‘unThere lives a very well-inclinedOld sort of sexton.”

Death took the hint, and gave a winkAs well as eyelet holes can blink;Then stretching out his arm to linkThe other’s arm,--“Suppose,” says he, “we have a drinkOf something warm.”

Jack nothing loth, with friendly easeSpoke up at once:--“Why, what ye please,Hard by there is the Cheshire Cheese,A famous tap.”But this suggestion seem’d to teaseThe bony chap.

“No, no--your mortal drinks are heady,And only make my hand unsteady;I do not even care for Deady,And loathe your rum;But I’ve some glorious brewage ready,My drink is--Mum!”

And off they set, each right content--Who knows the dreary way they went?But Jack felt rather faint and spent,And out of breath;At last he saw, quite evident,The Door of Death.

All other men had been unmann’dTo see a coffin on each hand,That served a skeleton to standBy way of sentry;In fact, Death has a very grandAnd awful entry.

Throughout his dismal sign prevails,His name is writ in coffin nails;The mortal darts make area rails;A skull that mocketh,Grins on the gloomy gate, and quailsWhoever knocketh.

And lo! on either side, ariseTwo monstrous pillars--bones of thighs;A monumental slab suppliesThe step of stone,Where waiting for his master liesA dog of bone.

The dog leapt up, but gave no yell,The wire was pull’d, but woke no bell,The ghastly knocker rose and fell,But caused no riot;The ways of Death, we all know well,Are very quiet.

Old Bones stept in; Jack stepp’d behind;Quoth Death, I really hope you’ll findThe entertainment to your mind,As I shall treat ye--A friend or two of goblin kind,I’ve asked to meet ye.

And lo! a crowd of spectres tall,Like jack-a-lanterns on a wall,Were standing--every ghastly ball--An eager watcher.“My friend,” says Death--“friends, Mr. Hall,The body-snatcher.”

Lord, what a tumult it produced,When Mr. Hall was introduced!Jack even, who had long been usedTo frightful things,Felt just as if his back was sluic’dWith freezing springs!

Each goblin face began to makeSome horrid mouth--ape--gorgon--snake;And then a spectre-hag would shakeAn airy thigh-bone;And cried, (or seem’d to cry,) I’ll breakYour bone, with my bone!

Some ground their teeth--some seem’d to spit--(Nothing, but nothing came of it,)A hundred awful brows were knitIn dreadful spite.Thought Jack--“I’m sure I’d better quitWithout good-night.”

One skip and hop and he was clear,And running like a hunted deer,As fleet as people run by fearWell spurr’d and whipp’d,Death, ghosts, and all in that careerWere quite outstripp’d.

But those who live by death must die;Jack’s soul at last prepared to fly;And when his latter end drew nigh,Oh! what a swarmOf doctors came,--but not to tryTo keep him warm.

No ravens ever scented preySo early where a dead horse lay,Nor vulture sniff’d so far awayA last convulse:A dozen “guests” day after dayWere “at his pulse.”

’Twas strange, altho’ they got no fees,How still they watch’d by twos and threes,But Jack a very little easeObtain’d from them;In fact he did not find M. D.’sWorth one D----M.

The passing bell with hollow tollWas in his thought--the dreary hole!Jack gave his eyes a horrid roll,And then a cough:--“There’s something weighing on my soulI wish was off;

“All night it roves about my brains,All day it adds to all my pains,It is concerning my remainsWhen I am dead:”Twelve wigs and twelve gold-headed canesDrew near his bed.

“Alas!” he sigh’d, “I’m sore afraidA dozen pangs my heart invade;But when I drove a certain tradeIn flesh and bone,There was a little bargain madeAbout my own.”

Twelve suits of black began to close,Twelve pair of sleek and sable hose,Twelve flowing cambric frills in rows,At once drew round;Twelve noses turn’d against his nose,Twelve snubs profound.

“Ten guineas did not quite suffice,And so I sold my body twice;Twice did not do--I sold it thrice,Forgive my crimes!In short I have received its priceA dozen times!”

Twelve brows got very grim and black,Twelve wishes stretched him on the rack,Twelve pair of hands for fierce attackTook up position,Ready to share the dying JackBy long division.

Twelve angry doctors wrangled so,That twelve had struck an hour ago,Before they had an eye to throwOn the departed;Twelve heads turn’d round at once, and lo!Twelve doctors started.

Whether some comrade of the dead,Or Satan took it in his headTo steal the corpse--the corpse had fled!’Tis only written,That “there was nothing in the bed,But twelve were bitten!”