AT THE ELEVENTH HOURAs through the blue expanse he skimsOn joyous wings, the lateFrank Hutchings overtakes Miss Sims,Both bound for Heaven's high gate.In life they loved and (God knows whyA lover so should sue)He slew her, on the gallows highDied pious—and they flew.Her pinions were bedraggled, soiledAnd torn as by a gale,While his were bright—all freshly oiledThe feathers of his tail.Her visage, too, was stained and wornAnd menacing and grim;His sweet and mild—you would have swornThatshehad murderedhim.When they'd arrived before the gateHe said to her: "My dear,'Tis hard once more to separate,Butyoucan't enter here."For you, unluckily, were sentSo quickly to the graveYou had no notice to repent,Nor time your soul to save.""'Tis true," said she, "and I should wailIn Hell even now, but IHave lingered round the county jailTo see a Christian die."
As through the blue expanse he skimsOn joyous wings, the lateFrank Hutchings overtakes Miss Sims,Both bound for Heaven's high gate.In life they loved and (God knows whyA lover so should sue)He slew her, on the gallows highDied pious—and they flew.Her pinions were bedraggled, soiledAnd torn as by a gale,While his were bright—all freshly oiledThe feathers of his tail.Her visage, too, was stained and wornAnd menacing and grim;His sweet and mild—you would have swornThatshehad murderedhim.When they'd arrived before the gateHe said to her: "My dear,'Tis hard once more to separate,Butyoucan't enter here."For you, unluckily, were sentSo quickly to the graveYou had no notice to repent,Nor time your soul to save.""'Tis true," said she, "and I should wailIn Hell even now, but IHave lingered round the county jailTo see a Christian die."