That female fiend, Surratt, strung up
With Payne has drunk death’s bitter cup;
A warning to the desperate band
Of vixens who infest our land.
Harold and Atzeroth must share
The feast of death and “dance on air!”
And Davis trembling for his fate
His turn to swing is forced to wait;
His soul by conscious guilt consumed
Feels all the pangs that gnaw the doomed: