Classic Poem

A streak of red, the weazel shot
Into the Gallows Wood:
I heard a dying rabbit squeal,
And for a moment stood

Uncertain—then, as by some spell,
Drawn in through briar and thorn,
I followed in the weazel's track,
By clutching brambles torn.

Blindly I followed till I came
To a clearing in the fir;
Then startled suddenly I stopped
As my glance lit on her—

The strapping red-haired tinker wench
Who stood with hands on hips,
And watched me with defiant eyes
And parted panting lips.

At first I only saw her eyes,
Her lips, her hair's fierce red:
And then I saw the huddled man
Who at her feet lay dead.

She saw I saw, yet never blenched,
But still looked straight at me
With parted lips and steady eyes,
And muttered quietly—

I'll go: no need to make a fuss,
Though you've come gey and quick:
You must have smelt the blood—and so
The hangman takes the trick!

But what care I, since I am free
Of him and all his lies,
Since I have stopped his dirty tongue
And shut his sneaky eyes.

What matter though I kick my heels
In air for settling Jim?
The vermin's dead: at least I'll make
A cleaner end than him.