Major Ponsonby’s Ghost

There’s a ghost in the house at the top of the hill,

It’s been there since Good Bess was the Queen.

And old Major Ponsonby-Chavalier de Ville

Bought the mansion as is, sight unseen.

He fancied an ancient historical pad

For the weekends, and parties and such.

He wanted to drive his rich city friends mad

With envy at his Midas touch.

The first weekend in June he invited them down,

To a barbie with Champagne and twiglets.

The men all wore tailcoats, their wives, evening gowns,

And they roasted a deer and three piglets.

There were hors d’oeuvres of caviar, olives and squid,

And everyone there was entranced,

Till the terrible phantom of William Kidd

Interrupted the afternoon dance.

He shot out of the tower, he shrieked and he wailed,

And rattled his chains at the guests.

And blood dripped from the holes where his hands had been nailed,

And a death rattle rose from his chest.

But the city folks loved Major Ponsonby’s show,

And those special effects were “divine”.

“But where did you find him?” They wanted to know,

“That’s the best party piece of all time!

So the Major adopted his bravest expression,

Just trembling the tiniest touch,

And explained that he’d promised the greatest discretion,

And this really was rather hush-hush.

Just then a great din filled the air all around,

As the spectre despaired of the scene.

His howls were horrific; a terrible sound,

As he vented his frightening spleen

But his efforts were vain; all the guests were enchanted,

They applauded and called out for more.

Though the Major grew pale, he sweated and panted,

And trembling, sat down on the floor.

Still the party-goers cheered, they whooped and they hollered,

While the ghost just felt shame and disgrace.

So desperate, he lifted his head from his collar,

In one last attempt to save face.

But for city sophisticates out in the country,

The spiritual world is not real.

And they showed William Kidd not respect, but effrontery,

With effusive applause, and their zeal.

For the ghoul, ignominious dishonour was lasting,

And the phantom world shunned him in shame,

For the price of failed haunting is social outcasting.

A tame spook doesn’t merit the name.

So the ghost is still there, in the house on the hill,

And the Major’s an object of pity.

He’s referred to as Ponsonby-Shivery de Chill

By the smart folks who live in the city.