Monday, 11 April 2011

Maria Marten


I am the mole catchers daughter


And they should have buried me deep.


In a dream my step mother


To meet me she came.


My ghost to her chamber


Rose and followed to tell


Of my squire who cut and beat me


Into my unholy grave.


As a lad I dressed to be away


In secret to ride with him.


'Tis true I shared my honey sometimes


My stroke it played him my pet


For a promise


To make me a lady.


But once in the barn


Rough hands and words tore upon me


My blood fell to bloom in the clay


My handkerchief of primrose lawn


It broke my breath from my soul.


Only beasts were witness


And eight hooded rooks upon the roof


Were the judge of William Corder.


In the May sun set


Aflood with red is the barn.


My body lay bent against bone


'Till my father he found me


A lovely in gore.


And they should have buried me deep


For my tale lives long


'Cross the land.



2011



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