It was many and many a year ago, In a city by the sea, That a man there lived whom I happened to know By the name of Andrew M’Crie; And this man he slept in another room, But ground and had meals with me. I was an ass and he was an ass, In this city by the sea; But we ground in a way which was more than a grind, I and Andrew M’Crie; In a way that the idle semis next door Declared was shameful to see. p. 68And this was the reason that, one dark night, In this city by the sea, A stone flew in at the window, hitting The milk-jug and Andrew M’Crie. And once some low-bred tertians came, And bore him away from me, And shoved him into a private house Where the people were having tea. p. 68 Professors, not half so well up in their work, Went envying him and me— Yes!—that was the reason, I always thought (And Andrew agreed with me), Why they ploughed us both at the end of the year, Chilling and killing poor Andrew M’Crie. But his ghost is more terrible far than the ghosts Of many more famous than he— Of many more gory than he— And neither visits to foreign coasts, p. 69Nor tonics, can ever set free Two well-known Profs from the haunting wraith Of the injured Andrew M’Crie. p. 69 For at night, as they dream, they frequently scream, ‘Have mercy, Mr. M’Crie!’ And at morn they will rise with bloodshot eyes, And the very first thing they will see, When they dare to descend to their coffee and rolls, Sitting down by the scuttle, the scuttle of coals, With a volume of notes on its knee, Is the spectre of Andrew M’Crie. p. 70AN INTERVIEW p. 70 I met him down upon the pier; His eyes were wild and sad, And something in them made me fear That he was going mad. So, being of a prudent sort, I stood some distance off, And before speaking gave a short Conciliatory cough. I then observed, ‘What makes you look So singularly glum?’ No notice of my words he took. I said, ‘Pray, are you dumb?’ p. 71‘Oh no!’ he said, ‘I do not think My power of speech is lost, But when one’s hopes are black as ink, Why, talking is a frost. p. 71
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