The Three Friends

I hate three friends, three glorious friends, three
dearer could not be;
And every night, when midnight tolls, they meet
to laugh with me.
The first was shot by Carlist thieves, three years ago, in Spain;
The second drowned, near Alicante, and I alive remain.
I love to see their thin white forms come stealing through the night,
And grieve to see them fade away in the early morning light.
The first with gnomes in the Under-land is leading a lordly life,
The second has married a mermaiden, a beautiful water-wife.
And since I have friends in the earth and sea — with
a few, I trust, on high,
'Tis a matter of small account to me, the way
that I may die.
For whether I sink in the foaming flood, or swing
on the triple tree,
Or die in my grave as a Christian should, is much
the same to me.