Porkopolis

The Spectre Pig
A Ballad

• IT was the stalwart butcher man,
• That knit his swarthy brow,
• And said the gentle Pig must die,
• And sealed it with a vow.
•  
• And oh! it was the gentle Pig
• Lay stretched upon the ground,
• And ah! it was the cruel knife
• His little heart that found.
•  
• They took him then, those wicked men,
• They trailed him all along:
• They put a stick between his lips,
• And through his heels a thong;
•  
• And round and round an oaken beam
• A hempen cord they flung,
• And, like a mighty pendulum,
• All solemnly he swung.
•  
• Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man,
• And think what thou hast done,
• And read thy catechism well,
• Thou bloody–minded one;
•  
• For if his sprite should walk by night,
• It better were for thee,
• That thou wert mouldering in the ground,
• Or bleaching in the sea.
•  
• It was the savage butcher then,
• That made a mock of sin,
• And swore a very wicked oath,
• He did not care a pin.
•  
• It was the butcher’s youngest son, —
• His voice was broke with sighs,
• And with his pocket–handkerchief
• He wiped his little eyes;
•  
• All young and ignorant was he,
• But innocent and mild,
• And, in his soft simplicity,
• Out spoke the tender child: —
•  
• “Oh, father, father, list to me
• The Pig is deadly sick,
• And men have hung him by his heels,
• And fed him with a stick.”
•  
• It was the bloody butcher then,
• That laughed as he would die,
• Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child,
• And bid him not to cry; —
•  
• “Oh, Nathan, Nathan, what’s a Pig,
• That thou shouldst weep and wail?
• Come, bear thee like a butcher’s child,
• And thou shalt have his tail!”
•  
• It was the butcher’s daughter then,
• So slender and so fair,
• That sobbed as if her heart would break,
• And tore her yellow hair;
•  
• And thus she spoke in thrilling tone, —
• Fast fell the tear–drops big: —
• “Ah! woe is me! Alas! Alas!
• The Pig! The Pig! The Pig!”
•  
• Then did her wicked father’s lips
• Make merry with her woe,
• And call her many a naughty name,
• Because she whimpered so.
•  
• Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones,
• In vain your tears are shed,
• Ye cannot wash his crimson hand,
• Ye cannot soothe the dead.
•  
• The bright sun folded on his breast
• His robes of rosy flame,
• And softly over all the west
• The shades of evening came.
•  
• He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs
• Were busy with his dreams;
• Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks,
• Wide yawned their mortal seams.
•  
• The clock struck twelve; the Dead hath heard;
• He opened both his eyes,
• And suddenly he shook his tail
• To lash the feeding flies.
•  
• One quiver of the hempen cord, —
• One struggle and one bound, —
• With stiffened limb and leaden eye,
• The Pig was on the ground!
•  
• And straight towards the sleeper’s house
• His fearful way he wended;
• And hooting owl and hovering bat
• On midnight wing attended.
•  
• Back flew the bolt, up rose the latch,
• And open swung the door,
• And little mincing feet were heard
• Pat, pat along the floor.
•  
• Two hoofs upon the sanded floor,
• And two upon the bed;
• And they are breathing side by side,
• The living and the dead!
•  
• “Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man!
• What makes thy cheek so pale?
• Take hold! take hold! thou dost not fear
• To clasp a spectre’s tail?”
•  
• Untwisted every winding coil;
• The shuddering wretch took hold,
• All like an icicle it seemed,
• So tapering and so cold.
•  
• “Thou com’st with me, thou butcher man!“ —
• He strives to loose his grasp,
• But, faster than the clinging vine,
• Those twining spirals clasp:
•  
• And open, open swung the door,
• And, fleeter than the wind,
• The shadowy spectre swept before,
• The butcher trailed behind.
•  
• Fast fled the darkness of the night,
• And morn rose faint and dim;
• They called full loud, they knocked full long,
• They did not waken him.
•  
• Straight, straight towards that oaken beam,
• A trampled pathway ran
• A ghastly shape was swinging there, —
• It was the butcher man.