The Deacon's Revenge

All the while the lantern burns,
Shining like a beacon,
Hanging on the chapel wall,
Guarded by the Deacon.
Down along the dusty road
The stagecoach is expected.
With a load of gold and silver plate,
Nothing is neglected…
With the grinding wheels and rattling chains
The stagecoach is arriving,
The leather soaking up the horses'
Sweat of hours driving.
Through the gate the Coachman wheels
To halt below the lamplight
To hand the plate in to the church
Upon the stroke of midnight.
The Deacon takes the brassbound chest
And stands it in the entrance,
And bids the Coachman fast away,
Refusing all assistance.
And when the lamps upon the coach
Have faded to a flicker,
The Deacon leads his saddled horse
From where it has been tethered.
Upon its back the chest is tied
As minutes tick past midnight.
The Deacon climbs up on the mare
And, smothering the lamplight,
The chapel door he leaves ajar —
The wind begins it banging.
And from the chapel gallery
The Minister is hanging…