But if it bloom at morning’s dawn,
The fruit’s so ripe and brown,
That when an hour has passed away,
We always cut it down,
Hurrah, boys!”
“Silence!” roared Britton, as the man was about to commence the second verse of his song. “What the devil’s song do you call that?”
“The Triple Tree.”
“And what may that be?”
“The gallows,” said the man, emphatically.
“Then who the devil are you?”