The Last Trump
‘You led the trump,’ the old man saidWith 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 careTo wed an outlawed man who’d dareTo lead the thirteenth trump!
‘If you had drawn their leading spadeIt meant a certain win!But no! By Pembroke’s mighty shadeThe thirteenth trump you went and playedAnd let their diamonds in!
‘My girl! Return at my commandHis presents in a lump!Return his ring! For understandNo man is fit to hold your handWho leads a thirteenth trump!
‘But hold! Give every man his dueAnd every dog his day.Speak up and say what made you doThis dreadful thing—that is, if youHave anything to say!’
He spoke. ‘I meant at first,’ said he,‘To give their spades a bump:Or lead the hearts, but then you seeI thought against us there might be,Perhaps, a fourteenth trump!’
. . . . .
They buried him at dawn of dayBeside a ruined stump:And there he sleeps the hours awayAnd waits for Gabriel to playThe last—the fourteenth—trump.