Rio Grande's Last Race, and Other Verses






The Last Trump

  'You led the trump,' the old man said
   With fury in his eye,
  'And yet you hope my girl to wed!
  Young man! your hopes of love are fled,
   'Twere better she should die!

  'My sweet young daughter sitting there,
   So innocent and plump!
  You don't suppose that she would care
  To wed an outlawed man who'd dare
   To lead the thirteenth trump!

  'If you had drawn their leading spade
   It meant a certain win!
  But no!  By Pembroke's mighty shade
  The thirteenth trump you went and played
   And let their diamonds in!

  'My girl!  Return at my command
   His presents in a lump!
  Return his ring!  For understand
  No man is fit to hold your hand
   Who leads a thirteenth trump!

  'But hold!  Give every man his due
   And every dog his day.
  Speak up and say what made you do
  This dreadful thing — that is, if you
   Have anything to say!'

  He spoke.  'I meant at first,' said he,
   'To give their spades a bump:
  Or lead the hearts, but then you see
  I thought against us there might be,
   Perhaps, a fourteenth trump!'

       .    .    .    .    .

  They buried him at dawn of day
   Beside a ruined stump:
  And there he sleeps the hours away
  And waits for Gabriel to play
   The last — the fourteenth — trump.

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