And what I waited for I couldn’t tell—
At last there came a groaning deep and great—
St. Paul’s struck “eight”—
I screamed, and seemed to turn to fire and fell!
God bless him, alive or dead!
He never meant no wrong, was kind and true.
They’re wrought their fill of spite upon his head
Why didn’t they be kind, and take me too?
And there’s the dear old things he used to wear,
And there’s a lock of hair.