Dead! The random shot had struck, to the heart had pierced the Tory—
Vengeance seconded by luck! Lies there cold and stiff and gory
Jack, the Regular.
“Jack, the Regular, is dead! Honor to the man who slew him!”
So the Bergen farmers said as they crowded round to view him.
For the wretch that lay there slain had, with wickedness unbending,
To their roofs brought fiery rain, to their kinsfolk woful ending.
Not a mother but had prest, in a sudden pang of fearing,
Sobbing darlings to her breast when his name had smote her hearing;
Not a wife that did not feel terror when the words were uttered;