STREAK THE SECOND.
The clock is ticking onward,
It nears the hour of doom,
And no one yet hath entered
Into that ghastly room.
The jailer and the sheriff,
They are walking to and fro:
And the hangman sits upon the steps,
And smokes his pipe below.
In grisly expectation
The prison all is bound,
And, save expectoration,
You cannot hear a sound.
The turnkey stands and ponders,—,
His hand upon the bolt,—
"In twenty minutes more, I guess,
'Twill all be up with Colt!"
But see, the door is opened!
Forth comes the weeping bride;
The courteous sheriff lifts his hat,
And saunters to her side,—
"I beg your pardon, Mrs C.,
But is your husband ready?"
"I guess you'd better ask himself,"
Replied the woeful lady.
The clock is ticking onward,
The minutes almost run,
The hangman's pipe is nearly out,
'Tis on the stroke of one.
At every grated window,
Unshaven faces glare;
There's Puke, the judge of Tennessee,
And Lynch, of Delaware;