THE NINE LITTLE GOBLINS
by James Whitcomb Riley

They all climbed up on a high board-fence—
Nine little goblins, with green-glass eyes—
Nine little goblins that had no sense,
And couldn't tell coppers from cold mince pies;
And they all climbed up on the fence, and sat—
And I asked them what they were staring at.

And the first one said, as he scratched his head
With a queer little arm that reached out of his ear
And rasped its claws in his hair so red—
"This is what this little arm is fer!"
And he scratched and stared, and the next one said,
"How on earth do you scratch your head ?"

And he laughed like the screech of a rusty hinge—
Laughed and laughed till his face grew black;
And when he choked, with a final twinge
Of his stifling laughter, he thumped his back
With a fist that grew on the end of his tail
Till the breath came back to his lips so pale.

And the third little goblin leered round at me—
And there were no lids on his eyes at all,—
And he clucked one eye, and he says, says he,
"What is the style of your socks this fall?"
And he clapped his heels—and I sighed to see
That he had hands where his feet should be.

Then a bald-faced goblin, gray and grim,
Bowed his head, and I saw him slip
His eyebrows off, as I looked at him,
And paste them over his upper lip;
And then he moaned in remorseful pain—
"Would—Ah, would I'd me brows again!"

And then the whole of the goblin band
Rocked on the fence-top to and fro,
And clung, in a long row, hand in hand,
Singing the songs that they used to know—
Singing the songs that their grandsires sung
In the goo-goo days of the goblin-tongue.

And ever they kept their green-glass eyes
Fixed on me with a stony stare—
Till my own grew glazed with a dread surmise,
And my hat whooped up on my lifted hair,
And I felt the heart in my breast snap to,
As you've heard the lid of a snuff-box do.

And they sang: "You're asleep! There is no boardfence,
And never a goblin with green-glass eyes!—
'Tis only a vision the mind invents
After a supper of cold mince pies.—
And you're doomed to dream this way," they said, —
"And you sha'nt wake up till you're clean plum dead!"

THE SILENCE OF THE PUMPKINS

Re-posted by request.  I admit, I'm a little surprised someone remembered this.

HALLOWEEN
by Ignatius Brennan

To-night's the night the fairies dance;
Hobgoblins strut in classic style;
Weird banschees stoop to do their prance,
Though lying dormant, such a while.
We now keep watch upon the green;
In ghoulish costumes all are seen;
This happy night—“All Halloween.”

Old and young, (no old ones there,
The old are young this special night)
Play every prank—they're all so fair —
To keep the spooks in chill affright.
All cares are tossed to windward—they
Have no place this night to stay
When all's a merry-making way.

We'll make the windows all aglow
In brilliant splendor everywhere;
We'll burn the bonfires high and low,
To show the fairies we are there.
We'll bite the apple on the string;
We'll eat our taffy, nuts, and sing;
We'll make old pumpk' a hideous thing.

And why not celebrate this night?
To-morrow, and the saints are here;
To do them honor with our might
Is why we spend this night in cheer.
Then following the "All Saints" tread,
Next day "All Souls"—our cherished dead
Who ask that goodly prayers be said.

We'll sing the praise of Phocas, he
Who gave to Blessed Boniface
The Pantheon—(when Rome was free)—
To be a Christian playing-place.
We'll ever keep his memory green
And celebrate in proper mien—
He gave us place for Halloween. 

THE BELEAGUERED CITY
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I have read in some old marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral band was seen,
And with a sorrowful deep sound,
The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum nor sentry's pace,
The mist-like banners clasped the air
As clouds with clouds embrace.

And when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarméd air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled:
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.

And then the solemn and deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.

ALL-HALLOWS EVE
by Francis Ledwidge

The dreadful hour is sighing for a moon
To light old lovers to the place of tryst,
And old footsteps from blessed acres soon
On old known pathways will be lightly prest;
And winds that went to eavesdrop since the noon,
Kinking at some old tale told sweetly brief,
Will give a cowslick to the yarrow leaf,
And sling the round nut from the hazel down.
And there will be old yarn balls, and old spells
In broken lime-kilns, and old eyes will peer
For constant lovers in old spidery wells,
And old embraces will grow newly dear.
And some may meet old lovers in old dells,
And some in doors ajar in towns light-lorn ; —
But two will meet beneath a gnarly thorn
Deep in the bosom of the windy fells.
Then when the night slopes home and whitefaced day
Yawns in the east there will be sad farewells ;
And many feet will tap a lonely way
Back to the comfort of their chilly cells,
And eyes will backward turn and long to stay
Where love first found them in the clover bloom —
But one will never seek the lonely tomb,
And two will linger at the tryst alway.

THE GHOST
by Thomas Hood

A Very Serious Ballad

In Middle Row, some years ago,
There lived one Mr. Brown;
And many folks considered him
The stoutest man in town.

But Brown and stout will both wear out—
One Friday he died hard,
And left a widow'd wife to mourn
At twenty pence a yard.

Now widow B. in two short months
Thought mourning quite a tax;
And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce,
To manumit her blacks.

With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;
The thing came thus about:
She asked him in at home, and then
At church, he asked her out!

Assurance such as this the man
In ashes could not stand;
So like a Phoenix he rose up
Against the Hand in Hand!

One dreary night the angry sprite
Appeared before her view;
It came a little after one,
But she was after two!

"Oh, Mrs. B., O Mrs. B.,
Are these your sorrow's deeds,
Already getting up a flame
To burn your widows' weeds?

"It's not so long since I have left
For aye the mortal scene;
My memory—like Rogers's—
Should still be bound in green!

"Yet if my face you still retrace
I almost have a doubt—
I'm like an old Forget-Me-Not
With all the leaves torn out!

"To think that on that finger-joint
Another pledge should cling;
O Bess! upon my very soul
It struck like 'Knock and Ring.'

"A ton of marble on my breast
Can't hinder my return;
Your conduct, ma'am, has set my blood
A-boiling in its urn!

"Remember, oh, remember how
The marriage rite did run,—
If ever we one flesh should be
'Tis now—when I have none!

"And you, Sir—once a bosom friend—
Of perjured faith convict,
As ghostly toe can give no blow,
Consider yourself kicked.

"A hollow voice is all I have,
But this I tell you plain,
Marry come up! you marry, ma'am,
And I'll come up again."

More he had said, but chanticleer
The spritely shade did shock
With sudden crow—and off he went
Like fowling piece at cock!

THE BANSHEE
by John Todhunter

Green, in the wizard arms
Of the foam-bearded Atlantic,
An isle of old enchantment,
A melancholy isle,
Enchanted and dreaming lies:
And there, by Shannon's flowing.
In the moonlight, spectre-thin,
The spectre Erin sits.

An aged desolation.
She sits by old Shannon's flowing;
A mother of many children,
Of children exiled and dead,
In her home, with bent head, homeless,
Clasping her knees she sits,
Keening, keening!

And at her keene the fairy-grass
Trembles on dun and barrow;
Around the foot of her ancient crosses
The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swing
In haunted glens the meadow-sweet
Flings to the night wind
Her mystic mournful perfume;
The sad spearmint by holy wells
Breathes melancholy balm.
Sometimes she lifts her head,
With blue eyes tearless.
And gazes athwart the reek of night
Upon things long past,
Upon things to come:

And sometimes, when the moon
Brings tempest upon the deep,
And roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the west,
The wolfhound at her feet Springs up with a mighty bay,
And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side,
Strung from the heart of poets;
And she flies on the wings of tempest
Around her shuddering isle,
With grey hair streaming :
A meteor of evil omen,
The spectre of hope forlorn,
Keening, keening !

She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp shiver
On the gusts of night:
O'er the four waters she keenes—over Moyle she keenes,
O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow,
And the Ocean of Columbus,
And the Fianna hear, and the ghost of her cloudy hovering heroes;
And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail,
Chanting her song of destiny,
The rune of the weaving Fates.

And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night,
Sad unto dawning, dirges,
Solemn dirges,
And snatches Of bardic song ;

Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night,
And they dream of the weird of kings,
And tyrannies moulting, sick
In the dreadful wind of change.

Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles wail no more,
Banshee of the world—no more !
Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone;
Thy wrongs, the world's.

HALLOWE'EN
by Alexander McLachlan

Ev'rybody kens that spirits
Walk abroad on Hallowe'en,
And the little playful fairies
Hold their revels on the green;
Ev'rybody kens they're partial
To auld Scotland's bonnie glens—
No' a lintie o' the valley
Ilka green nook better kens.

Mony a shepherd at the gloamin'
Scarcely can believe his e'en,
Coming unawares upon them
Dancing in their doublets green;
Singing sangs, and drinking dew-drops
Out o' cowslip cups sae pale,
Or a' riding on the moonbeams
Doun the dingle and the dale.

Mony a chuffy-cheekit laddie
They hae wiled by birken-shaw,
Mony an' mony a bonnie bairnie
On that nicht they've charm'd awa';
Weel it's kent they watch o'er lovers,
A' their hearts to them are seen,
A' their quarrels and their matches
They mak' up on Hallowe'en.

Weel it's kent they're faithfu' ever
To the genius o' oor laun',
And in a' her cares and troubles
Send her aye a helping haun';
They it is, should Donald waver
'Mid the battle's loudest din,
That keep yelling thro' the bagpipes
Till he gars the foeman rin.

'Tis frae them the Scottish minstrels
Learn sae weel their melting art,
Get the magic words that open
A' the fountains o' the heart.
Nane can dance oor "Gillie Callum,"
Sing oor Scottish sangs, I ween,
Saving them wha've tippl't wi' them
On the dews o' Hallowe'en.

On that nicht, there's nae denyin't,
Mony a Scot, as weel's mysel',
Hae had munelicht dealings wi' them,
Gin the truth they like to tell.
Weel, ae Hallowe'en at gloaming,
Drowsy sleep bow'd doun mine e'e,
And to my surprise I wauken'd
Daundering on the midnicht lea.

There the big horn'd mune was glow'ring
Doun upon me frae the sky,
And the wee bit stars a' trembling
Like the tears in Beauty's eye.
Suddenly I heard a rustle
Doun beside the lonely spring;
Gliff't was I nae doubt to see there
Elves and fairies in a ring.

There they were a' sitting singing
Blithely on the velvet green,
And the owrecome o' the sang was
"Hey, for Scotland's Hallowe'en!"
Frae their lips ilk word was fa'ing
Sweet as ony dewy gem—
Kennedy himsel' ne'er warbled
Scotia's ballads like to them.

In the midst a hoary matron
Wi' auld Scotland's spinning-wheel—
"Scotland's auld, respected Mither,"
Oh, I kent her face fu' weel!
Gazing on her rugged features
What unutterable things
Stirr'd my spirit, while above me
Flapt innumerable wings.

Shades o' ancient Scottish worthies,
Heroes wi' the laurel crown'd,
Martyrs, patriots, and prophets,
Saints and sages, hover'd round;
A' the preachers and the poets,
A' the spirits great indeed,
Wha hae twin'd a wreath immortal
Round oor puir auld Mither's heid.

A' the stalwart chiels wha perish'd—
Perish'd ! no, they never dee !—
Scotland, 'neath thy bluidy banner
Wha lay down their lives for thee.
Lovingly she gazed upon them,
Proudly claimed them for her sons;
And wi' a' a mither's fondness
Ca'd them " her immortal ones."

Then she turned, as to her children
Exiled far across the sea, Saying,
"Lads and bonnie lasses
That I nurs'd upon my knee,
Tho' the ocean rolls between us
Distance canna hearts divide;
Still in spirit ye are with me
By the Forth, the Tweed, the Clyde.

"Tho' amid Canadian forests
Or on Ganges' banks ye be,
Or in Afric's wilds, ye ever
Turn wi' longing hearts to me;
Tho' in distant lands ye triumph,
Still for Scotia's hills ye pine—
Ever thinking o' oor ingles,
And the Hallowe'ens lang syne ;

"And the quiet o' oor Sabbaths,
And oor psalm-tunes' solemn tones,
And oor altars, old and hoary,
'Mid the grey memorial stones.
Weel I ken my early lessons
Deep in a' your hearts are set—
Ah ! the Bible and the ballads,
No, ye never can forget!

"Ne'er be Fenian fules amang ye ;
Stick to country, kirk, and Queen,
And wherever ye may wander,
Aye keep up auld Hallowe'en !"
Even while she spoke, the grey cock
Clapt aloud his wings and crew,
And, or e'er I wist, the pageant
Past awa' like morning dew.

EDWARD SCISSORHANDS : STATUE

At some point I need to try to replicate this for my haunt.

ALL HALLOWS EVE
by John Davidson

(from "fleet Street Eclogues"—2nd Series.)

BASIL, MENZIES, BRIAN, PERCY.

Bri. Tearfully sinks the pallid sun.

Men. Bring in the lamps : Autumn is done.

Per. Nay, twilight silvers the flashing drops;
And a whiter fall is behind.

Bri. And the wild east mouths the chimney-tops, 

The Pandean pipes of the wind.

Men. The dripping ivy drapes the walls;
The drenched red creepers flare ;
And the draggled chestnut plumage falls
In every park and square.

Per. Nay, golden garlands strew the way
For the old triumph of decay.

Bas. And I know, in a living land of spells—
In an excellent land of rest,
Where a crimson fount of sunset wells
Out of the darkling west—

That the poplar, the willow, the scented lime,
Full-leaved in the shining air
Tarry as if the enchanter time
Had fixed them deathless there.

In arbours and noble palaces
A gallant people live
With every manner of happiness
The amplest life can give.

Per. Where ? where ? In Elfland ?

Men. No; oh no !
In Elfland is no rest,
But rumour and stir and endless woe
Of the unfulfilled behest—
The doleful yoke of the Elfin folk
Since first the sun went west.

The cakes they eat, and the wine they drink,
Savourless nothings are;
The hopes they cherish, the thoughts they think
Are neither near nor far;
And well they know they cannot go
Even to a desert star :

One planet is all their poor estate,
Though a million systems roll;
They are dogged and worried, early and late,
As the demons nag a soul,
By the moon and the sun, for they never can shun
Time's tyrannous control.

The naughty delicate style they keep,
Only the blind can see ;
On holy nights in the forest deep,
When they make high revelry
Under the moon, the dancing tune
Is the wind in a cypress tree.

They burn the elfin midnight oil
Over their tedious lore;
They spin the sand, and still they toil
Though their inmost hearts are sore—
The doleful yoke of the restless folk
For ever and ever more.

But could you capture the elfin queen
Who once was Caesar's prize,
Daunt and gyve her with glances keen
Of unimpassioned eyes,
And hear unstirred her magic word,
And scorn her tears and sighs,

Lean would she seem at once, and old;
Her rosy mouth decayed;
Her heavy tresses of living gold,
All withered in the braid ;
In your very sight the dew and the light
Of her eyes would parch and fade;

And she, the immortal phantom dame,
Would vanish from your ken ;
For the fate of the elves is nearly the same
As the terrible fate of men:
To love; to rue: to be and pursue
A flickering wisp of the fen.

We must play the game with a careless smile,
Though there's nothing in the hand;
We must toil as if it were worth our while
Spinning our ropes of sand;
And laugh and cry, and live and die
As the waft of an unseen wand.

But the elves, besides the endless woe '
Of the unfulfilled behest,
Have only a phantom life, and so
They neither can die nor rest—
Have no real being at all, and know
That therefore they never can rest —
The doleful yoke of the deathless folk
Since first the sun went west.

Per. Then where is the wonderful land of spells,
Where a crimson fount of sunset wells,
And the poplar, the willow, the scented lime
Tarry, full-leaved, till the winter-time,
Where endless happiness life can give.
And only heroic people live!

Bos. We know, we know, we spinners of sand
In the heart of the world is that gracious land;
And it never can fade while the sap returns,
While the sun gives light and the red blood burns.