The next that falls is sure to be the same.
A chilly fear of death is stealing o’er me,
And all my peckadilloes flash before me.
It’s very sad to die—to die—to sleep—
To sleep, perchance to dream; I’ll take a peep—
Oh! that fair grove, and yon delicious pine,
Towering beyond the fatal boundary line.
And there he stands, the fatal swell of Hurlingham:
His little black moustaches, how he’s twirling ’em,’
Here comes his gun! If he forgets to cock it,