Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations.
And not in vain he listen'd;—Hush! what 's that?
I see—I see—Ah, no!—'t is not—yet 't is—
Ye powers! it is the—the—the—Pooh! the cat!
The devil may take that stealthy pace of his!
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat,
Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss,
Gliding the firs time to a rendezvous,
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe.
Again—what is 't? The wind? No, no—this time
It is the sable friar as before,
With awful footsteps regular as rhyme,