‘E closed the iron box,

Laid down and shuttling near by.

Curtains were drawn iron bolt and locks,

Shutting out thy fresh aired sky.

Thou bird which you would seem must ‘ave died,

In meagre cage so dark to see.

And a camellia girl stood by a merchants’ of thy side,

And listened o’er quivering breath as the breast pocket was filled with the key.

Locked was a wing wry’d neck was high,

‘ell was a dream for thy.

Wrung from might n’ Hebrew shook,

Thee’s iron bars every cranny and nook.

Await! Yet tremble for knife and neck wring out blood,

Stoned was a bird inside nay’ smallpox cage.

Alas, mockingbird in hand was such water enough to flood,

Wither, yet see! It was my wings cut off left to bleed velour my dead age.