THE THREE FRIENDS 



Of thunder, and the far sea strife, 

 On beach and bar and shoal — 



I loved her better than my life, 

 And better than my soul. 



She fled ! I cannot prove her guilt, 



Nor would I an I could ; 

 See, life for life is fairly spilt ! 



And blood is shed for blood, 

 Her white hands neither touch'd the hilt, 



Nor yet the potion brew'd. 



Aye ! turn me from the sickly south. 



Towards the gusty north ; 

 The fruits of sin are dust and drouth, 



The end of crime is wrath — 

 The lips that press'd her rose-like mouth 



Are choked with blood-red froth. 



Then dig the grave-pit deep and wide. 

 Three graves thrown into one, 



And lay three corpses side by side, 

 And tell their tale to none ; 



But bring her back in all her pride. 



To see what she hath done. 



259 



