And the never a stir, stirred he,
As he saw them compass the deed of blood,
To its end with a ghastly glee,
And O 'twas pity to hear the tones,
Of the suppliant's voice in pain,
As he sought to fly from the sticks and stones,
And the yells of "Hit, hit him again!"
A drayman flourished the butt of his whip,
I am sure it was loaded with lead,
And his laugh was wild, as a terrible clip,