The Spectre Pig - A Ballad

Author: 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.

Type of Poem: Narrative Poem

Date Written:

Date Published:

Language: English

Keywords: Public Domain

Source: Public Domain Collection

Publisher:

Rights/Permissions: Public Domain

Comments/Notes: This lengthy narrative poem employs a blend of the macabre, humor, and moral commentary to tell the tale of a butcher and the pig he slaughters. The poem's primary themes include the disregard for life, the potential for innocence to endure in harsh circumstances, and the consequences of one's actions.

The butcher, who is repeatedly described with words like "stalwart," "swarthy," and "bloody," serves as the embodiment of cruelty and indifference. His lack of empathy is contrasted starkly with the innocence of the pig and the butcher's children, who react with sadness and horror to the pig's death. This contrast is effectively captured through the poem's tone, which alternates between somber and satirical.

The poem's structure, a series of rhymed quatrains, helps to propel the narrative forward, while also providing a rhythmic regularity that contrasts with the chaotic and violent events it describes. The use of repetition, particularly in the refrain-like lines that begin with "It was," serves to underscore the inevitability of the story's progression.

The poem also makes effective use of several literary devices, including personification, simile, and dramatic irony. The pig, for instance, is personified throughout, adding a layer of pathos to the narrative and highlighting the callousness of the butcher. The description of the pig's swinging corpse as "like a mighty pendulum" serves as a chilling simile, while the butcher's naive belief that he can escape the consequences of his actions is a classic example of dramatic irony.

In conclusion, the poem is a complex and thought-provoking exploration of cruelty, innocence, and justice, employing a range of literary techniques to evoke a strong emotional response in the reader. Its blend of dark humor and moral commentary makes it a distinctive and memorable piece of poetry.

Exploring Narrative Poetry

Narrative poetry is a form of poetry that tells a story, often making use of the voices of a narrator and characters as well. Unlike lyric poetry, which focuses on emotions and thoughts, narrative poetry is dedicated to storytelling, weaving tales that captivate readers through plot and character development.


Narrative poems are unique in their ability to combine the depth of storytelling with the expressive qualities of poetry. Here are some defining characteristics:

  • Structured Plot: Narrative poems typically have a clear beginning, middle, and end, following a plot that might involve conflict, climax, and resolution, much like a short story or novel.
  • Character Development: Characters in narrative poems are often well-developed, with distinct voices and personalities that drive the story forward.
  • Descriptive Language: The language used in narrative poetry is vivid and descriptive, painting a clear picture of the scenes and events, while also conveying the emotions and atmosphere of the story.

From ancient epics like "The Iliad" and "The Odyssey" to more modern narrative poems, this form continues to engage readers by blending the art of storytelling with the beauty and rhythm of poetry.