| |
| SHOT? so quick, so clean an ending? | |
| Oh that was right, lad, that was brave: | |
| Yours was not an ill for mending, | |
| ’Twas best to take it to the grave. | |
| |
| Oh you had forethought, you could reason, | 5 |
| And saw your road and where it led, | |
| And early wise and brave in season | |
| Put the pistol to your head. | |
| |
| Oh soon, and better so than later | |
| After long disgrace and scorn, | 10 |
| You shot dead the household traitor, | |
| The soul that should not have been born. | |
| |
| Right you guessed the rising morrow | |
| And scorned to tread the mire you must: | |
| Dust ’s your wages, son of sorrow, | 15 |
| But men may come to worse than dust. | |
| |
| Souls undone, undoing others,— | |
| Long time since the tale began. | |
| You would not live to wrong your brothers: | |
| Oh lad, you died as fits a man. | 20 |
| |
| Now to your grave shall friend and stranger | |
| With ruth and some with envy come: | |
| Undishonoured, clear of danger, | |
| Clean of guilt, pass hence and home. | |
| |
| Turn safe to rest, no dreams, no waking; | 25 |
| And here, man, here ’s the wreath I ’ve made | |
| ’Tis not a gift that ’s worth the taking, | |
| But wear it and it will not fade. | |
| |
