Here comes Kate Summers, who, for gold,
Takes any man to bed:
“ You knew my friend, Nell Barnes,” she said;
“ You knew Nell Barnes — she's dead.”

“Nell Barnes was bad on all you men,
Unclean, a thief as well;
Yet all my life I have not found
A better friend than Nell.”

So I sat at her side at last,
For hours, till she was dead;
And yet she had no sense at all
Of any word I said.

“For all her cry but came to this —
'Not for the world! Take care:
Don't touch that bird of paradise,
Perched on the bed-post there!”

'I asked her would she like some grapes,
Som damsons ripe and sweet;
A custard made with new-laid eggs,
Or tender fowl to eat.'

I promised I would follow her,
To see her in her grave;
And buy a wreath with borrowed pence,
If nothing I could save.

Yet still her cry but came to this —
“Don't touch that bird of paradise,
Perched on the bed-post there!”

- William H. Davies

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