each man kills the thing he loves

 I

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.

II
He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I hear him sighing, sighing,
At the foot of the scaffold high.

III
When the night had passed he was gone,
The grave on which he lay
Was filled with silence, and from it
Sprung forth the lonely day.
While all men were laying low,
We went to claim his soul in the name of man.

IV
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some kill their love by being glad,
And some by being bold.
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead know nothing, but they do the best.

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V
One man killed his love with a kiss
And the other used a sword.