SONG OF THE CARRION CROW.
I have seen the soldier, millions adored,
Do other than deed of the brave;
When he wore a mask as well as a sword,
And dug a midnight grave.
Do other than deed of the brave;
When he wore a mask as well as a sword,
And dug a midnight grave.
I have flutter'd where secret work has been done,
Wrought with a trusty blade;
But what did I care, whether foul or fair,
If I shared the feast it made?
Wrought with a trusty blade;
But what did I care, whether foul or fair,
If I shared the feast it made?
A struggle, a cry, a hasty gash;
A short and heavy groan!
Revenge was sweet—its work was complete—
The dead and I were alone!
A short and heavy groan!
Revenge was sweet—its work was complete—
The dead and I were alone!
I plunged my beak in the marbling cheek,
I perch'd on the clammy brow;
And a dainty treat was that fresh meat
To the greedy Carrion Crow.
I perch'd on the clammy brow;
And a dainty treat was that fresh meat
To the greedy Carrion Crow.
I have follow'd the traveller, dragging on
O'er the mountains long and cold;
For I knew at last he must sink in the blast,
Though spirit was never so bold.
O'er the mountains long and cold;
For I knew at last he must sink in the blast,
Though spirit was never so bold.
I hover'd close; his limbs grew stark—
His life-stream stood to congeal;
And I whetted my claw, for I plainly saw
I should soon have another meal.
His life-stream stood to congeal;
And I whetted my claw, for I plainly saw
I should soon have another meal.
He fell, and slept like a fair young bride,
In his winding-sheet of snow;
And quickly his breast had a table guest
In the hungry Carrion Crow.
In his winding-sheet of snow;
And quickly his breast had a table guest
In the hungry Carrion Crow.
If my pinions ache in the journey I take,
No resting-place will do
Till I light alone on a churchyard stone,
Or a branch of the gloomy yew.
No resting-place will do
Till I light alone on a churchyard stone,
Or a branch of the gloomy yew.
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