The rumbler jugg’d off from his feet,
And he died with his face to the city.
He kick’d too, but that was all pride,
For soon you might see ’twas all over;
And as soon as the noose was untied,
Then at darkey we waked him in clover,
And sent him to take a ground-sweat.
A French translation of this poem was written by the Rev. Francis Mahony, see “The Works of Father Prout.” London, George Routledge & Sons, 1881.
’Arry at a Political Pic-nic.