"'Twas my fault after all, I find — Shake hands, old Turnip-top!" The name was hardly to my mind, But, as no doubt he meant it kind, I let the matter drop. "Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night! When I am gone, perhaps They'll send you some inferior Sprite, Who'll keep you in a constant fright And spoil your soundest naps. "Tell him you'll stand no sort of trick; Then, if he leers and chuckles, You just be handy with a stick (Mind that it's pretty hard and thick) And rap him on the knuckles! "Then carelessly remark 'Old coon! Perhaps you're not aware That, if you don't behave, you'll soon Be chuckling to another tune — And so you'd best take care!' "That's the right way to cure a Sprite Of such like goings-on — But gracious me! It's getting light! Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!" A nod, and he was gone.

Canto VII — Sad Souvenaunce

What's this?" I pondered. "Have I slept? Or can I have been drinking?" But soon a gentler feeling crept Upon me, and I sat and wept An hour or so, like winking. "No need for Bones to hurry so!" I sobbed. "In fact, I doubt If it was worth his while to go — And who is Tibbs, I'd like to know, To make such work about? "If Tibbs is anything like me, It's possible ," I said, "He won't be over-pleased to be