132
THE BAD SQUIRE.
She watched a long tuft of clover,
Where rabbit or hare never ran;
For its black sour haulm covered over
The blood of a murdered man.
Where rabbit or hare never ran;
For its black sour haulm covered over
The blood of a murdered man.
She thought of the dark plantation,
And the hares, and her husband's blood,
And the voice of her indignation
Rose up to the throne of God.
And the hares, and her husband's blood,
And the voice of her indignation
Rose up to the throne of God.
'I am long past wailing and whining—
I have wept too much in my life:
I've had twenty years of pining
As an English labourer's wife.
I have wept too much in my life:
I've had twenty years of pining
As an English labourer's wife.
'A labourer in Christian England,
Where they cant of a Saviour's name,
And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's
For a few more brace of game.
Where they cant of a Saviour's name,
And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's
For a few more brace of game.
