A fine young gent was he
His happiness everyone could see
Leaving every day
Going merrily about his way
In the evening to return
Nothing to discern
His contentment he'd show
The sorrow none would know
Daily leaving, he'd quit
His neighbors watch and sit
Day after day
No journey on his brief foray
Not seen in so long
Tense neighbors, something wrong
They'd knock at the door
The tapping he'd ignore
No smoke from the chimney, dead of winter
Finally his house they'd enter
What would they see?
A gent as frozen as can be
Shot through the head
By one piece of lead
Life, no longer to be
A dead young gent, his neighbors would see
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem