At The Eleventh Hour

As through the blue expanse he skims On joyous wings, the late Frank Hutchings overtakes Miss Sims, Both bound for Heaven's high gate. In life they loved and (God knows why A lover so should sue) He slew her, on the gallows high Died pious-and they flew. Her pinions were bedraggled, soiled And torn as by a gale, While his were bright-all freshly oiled The feathers of his tail. Her visage, too, was stained and worn And menacing and grim; His sweet and mild-you would have sworn That _she_ had murdered _him_. When they'd arrived before the gate He said to her: 'My dear, 'Tis hard once more to separate, But _you_ can't enter here. 'For you, unluckily, were sent So quickly to the grave You had no notice to repent, Nor time your soul to save.' ''Tis true,' said she, 'and I should wail In Hell even now, but I Have lingered round the county jail To see a Christian die.'