Not a man but chilled to steel when the hated sounds he muttered—
“Jack, the Regular.”
Bloody in his work was he, in his purpose iron-hearted;
Gentle pity could not be when the pitiless had parted;
So the corse in wagon thrown with no decent cover o’er it—
Jeers its funeral rites alone—into Hackensack they bore it,
’Mid the clanging of the bells in the old Dutch church’s steeple,
And the hooting and the yells of the gladdened, maddened people.
Some they rode and some they ran by the wagon where it rumbled,
Scoffing at the lifeless man, all elate that Death had humbled