HALLOWEEN
by William Howe Cuyler Hosmer

I.

I had a vision:—in my dream
I looked on Doon's enchanted stream, .
The moonlight glinted forth its beam
On hill, and cairn.
And one I saw who reigns supreme
Apollo's bairn.

II.

The bard, renowned in distant climes,
Sighed for the sports of other times
When bells rang out their merry chimes,
And lads were seen
With lassies singing quaint old rhymes
At Halloween.

III.

“These customs of an elder day,”
He said, " should never pass away,
Till flowers should wreath the pole in May,
And on the green Nymphs from the Doon, and Ayr and Tay
Should choose their Queen.

IV.

“Hearts, leal and warm, old manners hail !
Braw lads in Caledon will fail
When, as the evening shades prevail,
No more are seen Blythe lassie pulling plants of kail
At Halloween.

V.

“With them in soul, on sic a night,
Your minstrel, Burns, still takes delight,
And though unseen by mortal light,
His spirit glance Sees on the lawn, with moonshine bright,
The fairies dance.

VI.

“At ingle-neuks on every farm
Let witch and warlock wake alarm,
The burning nuts still work a charm
At Halloween,
So loved when arm I locked in arm
With Bonny Jean.

VII.

“By, on the wind while spirits pass,
Rustling the leaves and withered grass,
Still let the pale and trembling lass
Her apple eat,
And in the haunted looking glass
A husband greet.

VIII.

“Indeed will Scottish hearts be cold,
Her glory like a tale that's told
When ancient rites and customs old
Are loved no more,
And only worshippers of gold
Crowd Albyn's shore.”

IX.

Deep silence fell upon the place,
The poet's noble form and face,
Fled in my dream and left no trace,
Like vanished smoke ;
I heard Doon's waves each other chase,
And I awoke.

Mcpherson Lodge, Oct. 31, 1865

HAUNTED
by Don Marquis

A ghost is a freak of a sick man's brain?
Then why do you start and shiver so?
That's the sob and drip of a leaky drain?
But it sounds like another noise we know!
The heavy drops drummed red and slow,
The drops ran down as slow as fate—
Do ye hear them still?—it was long ago!—
But here in the shadows I wait, and wait!

Spirits there be that pass in peace;
Mine passed in a whirl of wrath and dole;
And the hour that your choking breath shall cease
I will get my grip on your naked soul—
Nor pity may stay nor prayer cajole—
I would drag ye whining from Hell's own gate:
To me, to me, ye must pay the toll!
And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!

The dead they are dead, they are out of the way?
And the ghost is a whim of an ailing mind?
Then why did ye whiten with fear to-day
When ye heard a voice in the calling wind?
Why did ye falter and look behind?
At the creeping mists when the hour grew late?
Ye would see my face were ye stricken blind!
And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!

Drink and forget, make merry and boast,
But the boast rings false and the jest is thin—
In the hour that I meet you ghost to ghost,
Stripped of the flesh that you skulk within,
Stripped to the coward soul 'ware of its sin,
Ye shall learn, ye shall learn, whether dead men hate!
Ah, a weary time has the waiting been,
But here in the shadows I wait, I wait!

HALLOWEEN
by Arthur Peterson

Out I went into the meadow,
Where the moon was shining brightly,
And the oak-tree's lengthening shadows
On the sloping sward did lean;
For I longed to see the goblins,
And the dainty-footed fairies,
And the gnomes, who dwell in caverns,
But come forth on Halloween.
"All the spirits, good and evil,
Fay and pixie, witch and wizard,
On this night will sure be stirring,"
Thought I, as I walked along;
"And if Puck, the merry wanderer,
Or her majesty, Titania,
Or that Mab who teases housewives
If their housewifery be wrong,

Should but condescend to meet me"—
But my thoughts took sudden parting,
For I saw, a few feet from me,
Standing in the moonlight there,
A quaint, roguish little figure,
And I knew 'twas Puck, the trickster,
By the twinkle of his bright eyes
Underneath his shaggy hair.
Yet I felt no fear of Robin,
Salutation brief he uttered,
Laughed and touched me on the shoulder,
And we lightly walked away;
And I found that I was smaller,
For the grasses brushed my elbows,
And the asters seemed like oak-trees,
With their trunks so tall and gray.

Swiftly as the wind we traveled,
Till we came unto a garden,
Bright within a gloomy forest,
Like a gem within the mine;
And I saw, as we grew nearer,
That the flowers so blue and golden
Were but little men and women,
Who amongst the green did shine.

But 'twas marvelous the resemblance
Their bright figures bore to blossoms,
As they smiled, and danced, and courtesied,
Clad in yellow, pink and blue;
That fair dame, my eyes were certain,
Who among them moved so proudly,
Was my moss-rose, while her ear-rings
Sparkled like the morning dew.

Here, too, danced my pinks and pansies,
Smiling, gayly, as they used to
When, like beaux bedecked and merry,
They disported in the sun;
There, with meek eyes, walked a lily,
While the violets and snow-drops
Tripped it with the lordly tulips:
Truant blossoms, every one.

Then spoke Robin to me, wondering:
"These blithe fairies are the spirits
Of the flowers which all the summer
Bloom beneath its tender sky;
When they feel the frosty fingers
Of the autumn closing round them,
They forsake their earthborn dwellings,
Which to earth return and die,

"As befits things which are mortal.
But these spirits, who are deathless,
Care not for the frosty autumn,
Nor the winter long and keen;
But, from field, and wood, and garden,
When their summer's tasks are finished,
Gather here for dance and music,
As of old, on Halloween."
Long, with Puck, I watched the revels,

Till the gray light of the morning
Dimmed the luster of Orion,
Starry sentry overhead;
And the fairies, at that warning,
Ceased their riot, and the brightness
Faded from the lonely forest,
And I knew that they had fled.

Ah, it ne'er can be forgotten,
This strange night I learned the secret
That within each flower a busy
Fairy lives and works unseen.
Seldom is 't to mortals granted
To behold the elves and pixies,
To behold the merry spirits,
Who come forth on Halloween.

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.