And I could “rise” his “Rising of the Moon,”
If I could sing in prison cell—or sing at all.
He’d walk the “eeriest” place a moonlight night,
He’d whistle in the dark—even in bed.
In fairy fort or graveyard, Thade was quite
As fearless of a ghost as any ghost of Thade.
Now in the dark churchyard we work away,
The shovel in his hand, in mine the spade,
And seeing Thade cry, I cried, myself, that day,
For Thade was fond of me, and I was fond of Thade.