Shanghais, Bucks-counties, Dominiques,
Malays (that didn’t lay for weeks),
  Polanders, Bantams, Dorkings,
(Waiving the cost, no trifling ill,
Since each brought in his little bill,) 271
By day or night were never still,
But every thought of rest would kill
  With cacklings and with quorkings;
Henry the Eighth of wives got free
  By a way he had of axing;
But poor Knott’s Tudor henery
Was not so fortunate, and he
  Still found his trouble waxing;
As for the dogs, the rows they made, 280
And how they howled, snarled, barked and bayed,
  Beyond all human knowledge is;
All night, as wide awake as gnats,
The terriers rumpused after rats,
Or, just for practice, taught their brats
To worry cast-off shoes and hats,
The bull-dogs settled private spats,
All chased imaginary cats,
Or raved behind the fence’s slats
At real ones, or, from their mats,
With friends, miles off, held pleasant chats, 291
Or, like some folks in white cravats,
Contemptuous of sharps and flats,
  Sat up and sang dogsologies. 
Meanwhile the cats set up a squall,
And, safe upon the garden-wall,
  All night kept cat-a-walling,
As if the feline race were all. 
In one wild cataleptic sprawl,
  Into love’s tortures falling. 300

PART II

SHOWING WHAT IS MEANT BY A FLOW OF SPIRITS

At first the ghosts were somewhat shy,
Coming when none but Knott was nigh,
And people said ’twas all their eye,
(Or rather his) a flam, the sly
  Digestion’s machination: 
Some recommended a wet sheet,
Some a nice broth of pounded peat,
Some a cold flat-iron to the feet,
Some a decoction of lamb’s-bleat,
Some a southwesterly grain of wheat; 310
Meat was by some pronounced unmeet,
Others thought fish most indiscreet,
And that ’twas worse than all to eat
Of vegetables, sour or sweet,
(Except, perhaps, the skin of beet,)
  In such a concatenation: 
One quack his button gently plucks
And murmurs, ‘Biliary ducks!’
  Says Knott, ‘I never ate one;’
But all, though brimming full of wrath, 320
Homoeo, Allo, Hydropath,
Concurred in this—­that t’other’s path
  To death’s door was the straight one. 
Still, spite of medical advice,
The ghosts came thicker, and a spice
  Of mischief grew apparent;
Nor did they only come at night,
But seemed to fancy broad daylight,
Till Knott, in horror and affright,
  His unoffending hair rent; 330
Whene’er with handkerchief on lap,
He made his elbow-chair a trap,
To catch an after-dinner nap,
The spirits, always on the tap,
Would make a sudden rap, rap, rap,
The half-spun cord of sleep to snap,
(And what is life without its nap
But threadbareness and mere mishap?) 338