He did not wear his scarlet coat, 
For blood and wine are red, 
And blood and wine were on his hands 
When they found him with the dead, 
The poor dead woman whom he loved, 
And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men 
In a suit of shabby grey; 
A cricket cap was on his head, 
And his step seemed light and gay; 
But I never saw a man who looked 
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked 
With such a wistful eye 
Upon that little tent of blue 
Which prisoners call the sky, 
And at every drifting cloud that went 
With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain, 
Within another ring, 
And was wondering if the man had done 
A great or little thing, 
When a voice behind me whispered low, 
"That fellow's got to swing."

Dear Christ! the very prison walls 
Suddenly seemed to reel, 
And the sky above my head became 
Like a casque of scorching steel; 
And, though I was a soul in pain, 
My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought 
Quickened his step, and why 
He looked upon the garish day 
With such a wistful eye; 
The man had killed the thing he loved 
And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves 
By each let this be heard, 
Some do it with a bitter look, 
Some with a flattering word, 
The coward does it with a kiss, 
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young, 
And some when they are old; 
Some strangle with the hands of Lust, 
Some with the hands of Gold: 
The kindest use a knife, because 
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long, 
Some sell, and others buy; 
Some do the deed with many tears, 
And some without a sigh: 
For each man kills the thing he loves, 
Yet each man does not die.