When passion nerves the warrior’s arm
For deeds of hate and wrong,
Though heeded not the fearful sound,
The knell is deep and strong.
Such is the clock that measures life,
Of flesh and spirit blended,
And thus ’twill run within the breast
Till that strange life is ended.
The voice of the singer was singularly sweet and sympathetic. The ditty was simple, but the words were set to a flowing melody, and the young, fresh voice of the little maiden entranced the ears of her audience.
“My word, Charlie, but she is most charming,” cried the owner of a public-house in the immediate neighbourhood. “You must bring her with you when you next come.”