But with a laugh that surely must have spawned a jest in hell,Said he, "Go speak her ladyship if she her lord can tellThat any lips beside my own have kissed her mouth so well."
My lord grew purple in the face; he stamped and raved and swore;And to the open, wind-blown heath the highwayman they bore,And hanged him on a common tree where footpads hanged before.
But oh, he had a princely air, and many a blue-eyed maidCrept to the ingle fire that night, of wandering afraidBecause the wind among the chains like ghostly fingers played;
And, shriven of another's sin, my lady rides to town.My lord has bought her golden shoes and many a costly gown,My lady to St. James's goes, to live the gossip down.
But on this merry Summer's morn, across the budding leas,With absent fingers she has drawn the lap-dog to her knees,Remembering traitor lips that left such memories.
