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I do not write for love of pelf, Nor lust for phantom fame;

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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
All Entries 1997 - 2002
All Entries 2002
Odds and Ends, Other Items Of Interest About Robert

Gypsy Jill

Published by Susan on 08/09/2003 (3224 reads)
They're hanging Bill at eight o' clock...

They're hanging Bill at eight o' clock,
        And millions will applaud.
He killed, and so they have to kill,
        Such is the will of God.
His brother Tom is on my bed
        To keep me comforted.

I see his bleary, blotchy face,
        I hear his sodden snore.
He plans that he can take Bill's place;
        I felt worse than a whore
As in his arms I cried all night,
        Thinking of poor Bill's plight.

I keep my eyes upon the clock;
        It nears the stroke of eight.
I think how bravely Bill will walk
        To meet his gallows fate . . .
His loaded gun is in the tent,--
        I know now what he meant.

Though Tom is boastful he will wed
        With me, no more to part,
I'll put a bullet through his head,
        Another through my heart:
At eight, stone-dead we three will be,
        --Bill, Tom and me.

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