He tripped up the steps with a bow and a smile, Offering snuff to the chaplain the while, A rose at his button-hole that afternoon— ’T was the tenth of the month, and the month it was June. Then shrugging his shoulders, he looked at the man With the mask and the axe, and a murmuring ran Through the crowd, who below, were all pushing to see The gaoler kneel down, and receiving his fee. He looked at the mob, as they roared, with a stare, And took snuff again with a cynical air. “I ’m happy to give but a moment’s delight To the flower of my country agog for a sight.” Then he looked at the block, and with scented cravat Dusted room for his neck, gayly doffing his hat, Kissed his hand to a lady, bent low to the crowd, Then smiling, turned round to the headsman and bowed. “God save King James!” he cried bravely and shrill, And the cry reached the houses at foot of the hill, “My friend with the axe, à votre service,” he said; And ran his white thumb ’long the edge of the blade. When the multitude hissed he stood firm as a rock; Then kneeling, laid down his gay head on the block; He kissed a white rose,—in a moment ’t was red With the life of the bravest of any that bled.
The Jacobite on Tower Hill
More from Poet
-
He tripped up the steps with a bow and a smile, Offering snuff to the chaplain the while, A rose at his button-hole that afternoon— ’T was the tenth of the month, and the month it was June. Then shrugging his shoulders, he looked at the man With the mask and the axe, and a murmuring ran Through...
-
This I got on the day that Goring Fought through York, like a wild beast roaring— The roofs were black, and the streets were full, The doors built up with packs of wool; But our pikes made way through a storm of shot, Barrel to barrel till locks grew hot; Frere fell dead, and Lucas was gone, But...
-
The Jester shook his hood and bells, and leaped upon a chair; The pages laughed, the women screamed, and tossed their scented hair; The falcon whistled, staghounds bayed, the lapdog barked without, The scullion dropped the pitcher brown, the cook railed at the lout; The steward, counting out his...