A curtain for her weary eyes,
A muffling-cloth to stop her sighs ...
And she was gone—and a red thing lay
Silent, on the trampled clay.
Beneath my horse my feet are bound,
My hands are bound behind my back,
I feel the sinews start and crack—
And ever to the hoof-beats’ sound,
As we draw near the gallows-tree,
Where I shall hang right speedily,