The Holbeach Card Players

In the black noxious Fens that to Lincoln pertain,

Where ague assert their fell sway,

Where the Bittern hoarse moans, and the Seamew complains

As she flits o’er the watery way;

Amid scenes that the senses annoy and appal,

Sad and sullen old Holbeach appears,

As if doom’d to bewail her hard fate from the fall,

Like a Niobe wash’d with her tears

From fogs pestilence that hover’d around,

To ward off despair and disease

The juice of the grape was most generous found,

Source of comfort, of joy, and of ease.

At the Chequers long fam’d to quaff their delight,

The Burghers both ancient and young

With smoaking and cards pass’d the dull winter’s night;

They jok’d, and they laugh’d, and they sung.

Three Revellers left when the midnight was come:

One, willing their game to pursue,

Repair’d, most unhallow’d, to visit the tomb

Where enshrouded lay one of their crew.

For  he late departed renown’d was at Whist,

The Marshmen still tell of his game.

Dark and damp was the night: thro’ the Church-yard they prowl’d,

As Wolves by fierce hunger subdu’d:

‘Gainst the door they huge gravestones impetuous roll’d,

Which recoil’d at such violence

From the sepulchre’s jaws their old comrade uncas’d,

How chilling the tale to relate,

Uprear’d ‘gainst the wall on the table was plac’d,

A corpse in funereal state,

By a taper’s faint blaze, and with Luna’s pale light

That would sometimes emit then a ray,

The cards were produc’d, and they cut with delight

To know who with Dumbey should play.

Exalted on basses the bravoes kneel’d round,

Exulting and proud of the deed:

To Dumbey they bent with respect most profound,

And said, “’Tis your turn, Sir, to lead.”

The game then commenc’d, when one offer’d him aid

And affected to guide his cold hand,

While another cried out “Brave Dumbey, well play’d,

I see you’ve the cards at command.”

Thus impious they jok’d, devoid of all grace.

Dread sounds shook the walls of the church;

When lo! Dumbey sank down, and a ghost in his place

Shrieked dismal, “Haste, haste, save your lurch.”

Astounded they star’d; the fiend disappear’d,

And Dumbey again took his seat:

They deem’d ‘twas but fancy, nor longer they fear’d,

But swore that old Dumbey should beat.

Eight to nine was the game:

Dumbey’s partner called loud

“Speak once, my old friend, or we’re done:

Remember our stake; ‘tis my coat and your shroud;

Now answer and win – Can you one?”

Dame fortune our wishes has cross’d

When a voice from beneath howl’d

“Your fate is decreed,

The game and the gamesters are lost.”

Then, strange! Most terrific, and horrid to view,

Three Spectres thro’ earth burst their way;

Each one chose his partner, his arms round him threw,

And vanish’d in smoke with his prey.

No wretch sacrilegious, since that fatal hour,

The Chancel has dar’d to draw near,

Lest the Spectres again should exert their fell power,

And drag him to punishment drear.

‘Tis said oftentimes in the dark foggy night,

When carders and drunkards reel home,

The Travellers three with old Dumbey unite

To beckon the sots to the tomb.

Then busy they seem as intent on their game,

While the gazers affrighted stand by:

On a sudden the Spectres appear clad in flame.

And shrieking , away they all fly.