Its memory of a Wrong;
And though you are dead and laid in your grave
And the evil you wrought is done,
Though your lips are cold in the covering mould,
Yet your dastard Lie lives on!
Forgive? Yes,—but I cannot forget
The merciless, murderous thrust
Of your treacherous hand with its backward blow
When you killed my whole life’s trust;
Craving my pity, you broke my heart