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.


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