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The Spectre Pig - A Ballad

by Oliver Wendell Holmes

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 it 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 sullenly 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.