Poetry Archives

They’re hanging Bill at eight o’ clock,
          And millions will applaud.
He killed, and so they have to kill,
          Such is the will of God.
His brother Tom is on my bed
          To keep me comforted.

I see his bleary, blotchy face,
          I hear his sodden snore.
He plans that he can take Bill’s place;
          I felt worse than a whore
As in his arms I cried all night,
          Thinking of poor Bill’s plight.

I keep my eyes upon the clock;
          It nears the stroke of eight.
I think how bravely Bill will walk
          To meet his gallows fate . . .
His loaded gun is in the tent,—
          I know now what he meant.

Though Tom is boastful he will wed
          With me, no more to part,
I’ll put a bullet through his head,
          Another through my heart:
At eight, stone-dead we three will be,
          —Bill, Tom and me.