|Baron Ethelred waxed wroth,
|Frothed he with a frothy froth.
|In the hospital bed she lay
|Cursing by night and cursing by day,
|The lupus is over her face and head,
|Filthy and foul and horrid and dread,
|And her shrieks they would almost wake the dead;
|In her horrible grave she lay,
|Rotting by night, and rotting by day,
|In the place of her face is a gory hole,
|And the worms are gnawing the tissues foul,
|And the devil is gloating over her soul,
|Put not thy trust in princes. Tis a speech
|Might thee, O Gordon-Cumming, something teach.
|Poor lady! whom a wicked jurys hate
|In face of facts as iron as the grave
|To which they would have doomed theebitter fate!
|Thee guiltless to the cruel hangman gave.
|Shame on the judge who sees but half the facts!
|Shame on the nurse who private letters opes!
|But never shalt thou be forgot by us,
|The pity of thy lifes so blasted hopes.
|Lady, hope on! All England takes thy part
|But a few bigots. Lady, then, take heart.