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the old baby farmer

by meh229

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    a new take on the victorian murder ballad
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1.
All you who have children dear, Now hear this tale of woe, The history of this tragedy, I now to you will show. A happy couple at Penryn, Had a son who went to sea, And after fifteen years returned, His parents for to see. He to their cot disguised did go, Asked shelter from the cold, And ere he laid him down to sleep, Showed all his wealth and gold. The mother to the father went, In anxious breathless haste, And told of treasure she had seen, Around the stranger's waist. The father then, by Satan led, Did take the killer's part, He stole the cursed gold away, And stabbed his own boy's heart. And scarce before the parents yet, Had seen the morrow's light, Their daughter came with joy to ask, Of the sailor there last night. She said 'It is my brother James, Who long at sea has roved, He's come back home to share his wealth, With those he dearly loved'. Oh when they found the murdered youth, Was their own darling boy, Most frightful horrors seized their minds, And bitterly they cried. The guilty pair then slew themselves, Their sin they could not hide, And the broken-hearted daughter, Sank to the ground and died.
2.
dr palmer 04:30
Many years I was a sportsman, Many wondrous deeds I've done, Many races I've attended, Many thousands lost and won, They say I killed my wife's mother, Took away her precious life, Slew poor Cook and my own brother, Poisoned my own lawful wife. Everything looks black against me, That I freely do confess, Each new thought that comes now to me, Causes me pain and distress, Quick the jury did convict me, Proved I did commit the deed, Sentence passed on William Palmer, Sent me back to jail with speed. My poor mother back in Rugeley, Her son's end must now bewail, Knows her boy must die with scorn, A felon's death in Stafford jail, Every charge alleged against me, I have strongly it denied, Twelve long days my trial lasted, Now I am condemned to die. Dreadful is my situation, Here before the trap I stand, Might have filled a noble station, Might have been a happy man, Children yet unborn will mention, When to manhood they appear, The name of Dr William Palmer, Of Rugeley Town in Staffordshire. No-one cares a jot for Palmer, Though each charge I strong denied, No-one doubts that I am guilty, By a jury I've been tried, My fate now must make me tremble, Borne down with much grief and care, Here's the end of William Palmer, Of Rugeley Town in Staffordshire. My trial causes great excitement, In town and country everywhere, Now guilty found is William Palmer, Of Rugeley town in Staffordshire.
3.
The old baby farmer has been executed, time she was put out of her way, She's a bad woman, it's not disputed, words in favour no-one can anyone say. seems rather hard to run down a woman, she was hardly a woman at all, To make a fine living is so inhuman, Carousing in comfort 'afore her downfall. The old baby farmer, the wretch Mrs Dyer, At the Old Bailey her wages were paid, times long ago we'd have made a big fire, roasted so nicely that wicked old jade. girls who fell from the path of virtue, What could they do with a babe in arms? the deed they committed could not be undo, so the child was sent to the baby farm. To all sad crimes there must be an ending, Secrets like these forever can't last, Say as you like, there is no defending, The horrible deeds we have heard in the past. That old baby farmer the wretch Mrs Dyer, At the Old Bailey her wages is paid, times long ago we'd have made a big fire, roasted so nicely that wicked old jade. What did she think as she stood on the gallows? victims danced in front of her eyes, Her black heart, it must have been callous, rope round her neck - how quickly time flies. Down through the trapdoor, quick disappearing, The baby farmer has come to her harm, was death's call she's a'hearing, Maybe she went to the baby farm! That old baby farmer the wretch Mrs Dyer, At the Old Bailey her wages is paid, long ago we'd have made a big fire, roasted, so nicely, that wicked old jade.
4.
Near Exminster in Devonshire, A couple lived as you shall hear, In humble cot of lowly fame, Tom Johnson was the peasant's name. One daughter God had sent their way, But she upon a sick bed lay, And poverty so hard did press, They could not aid her in distress. An honest maid came by one night, And asked if there she could alight, But one night's rent can't pay the bills, To treat their sickly daughter's ills. When Tom came home, his wife she said, 'A lodger shares our daughter's bed, She's saved a guinea in her chest, And now beneath our roof she rests.' Tom Johnson to his wife did say, 'She shall not live till break of day,' But God above ordained it so, She overheard what he would do. She thought on this: the wretch depraved, And how her precious life to save, By swapping sides in daughter's bed, She'd spare her clever little head. At dead of night Tom did proceed, To perpetrate his horrid deed, Up to her bed in haste he flew, And in mistake his daughter slew. Then to the garden he conveyed, The body of this murdered maid, Not thinking that it was his own, Or that it ever would be known. The lodger told he was to blame, And when that he to justice came, Was sentenced for the wicked deed, To die upon a fatal tree.
5.
We are condemned death is nigh, in dismal cells we do lie, Jones and Harwood: it is true, We've murder done, no pity knew. A minister of God we've slain, For sake of gold, man's curse and bane, Poor Mr Hollest kind and good, We left him weltering in blood. To Frimley Grove, was where we went, On robbing we were fully bent, The rector's house we soon broke in, And then to plunder did begin. faces masked, disguised to all, pistols loaded well with ball, vile assassins onward crept, To where the good old couple slept. Mrs Hollest struggled brave, fought nobly, their lives to save, Undaunted, boldly bore her part, A woman with a warrior's heart. Her husband had one ruffian down, held him firmly on the ground, The coward wretch for help did call, then the other fired his ball. The wound was fatal, good old man, blood in streams; around it ran, both escaped while he did bleed, now we suffer for the deed. How could we such monsters prove, To murder those whom all did love? To want assistance; a hand to lend, ever was the poor man's friend. Widows weep they loss: they mourn, The only friend they had is gone, orphans' tears they quickly fall, For he's a father been to all. And Mrs Hollest? She was kind, Distress in her a friend did find, Her sole delight it seemed to be, To dry the tears of misery. we confess the crimes we've done, Is there hope on Earth? There's none, Grim death will drag us to the tomb, A scaffold is our final doom.
6.
A Captain Henrichson, abroad, Bound from Calcuta home, Some months ago left his abode, To plough the ocean's foam, In order to maintain his wife, And two young childen dear, Who tender loved them as his life, For them did persevere. And she, as frugal as her sire, Took lodgers now and then, The last, a fiend of darkness dire, Turned out the worst of men, Of good appearance first he took, A bedroom and a parlour, Nor did they take him by his look, A villian or a brawler. One day he struck the boy a blow, The servant's head bewilderin', She said her mistress won't allow, Such men to beat her children, With that the ruffian was enraged, With poker smashed her pate, He struck her while she was engaged, In cleaning out the grate. He next attacked the eldest child, Which likewise lifeless lay, Then killed the little infant mild, That backward ran away, He cut its throat from ear to ear, The others seeming dead, When Mrs Henrichson appeared, The poker beat her head. The police were called: a horrid deed, These mangled victims showed, Three of them were not wholly dead, Although much blood had flowed, The killer at a clothier's shop, Was into capture given, And will perhaps be on the drop, While they inhabit Heaven. They took him to the hospital, Where those poor sufferers lay, Ann Parr the servant knew him well, Swore what she had to say, Her agonising mistress gave, Birth to a little boy, And soon was fitted for the grave, With Ann he did destroy. Now he's committed to his cell, Till summer's next assizes, And Kirkdale Jail is where he'll dwell, To wait till law chastises, And so the funeral moves along, The mother and two boys, And mourners fifty thousand strong, Lament departed joys. Remember all that stand above, Their awful early tomb, You soon as well might victim prove, Be called to your last home, When you will have to stand before, The Judge of Earth and Heaven, Take care to make election sure, And have your sins forgiven.

about

exploration of the gallows murder ballad broadsides
background and research by paul slade
visit planetslade.com for the full true story behind each track

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released December 4, 2015

composed and played by meh229

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meh229 Scotland, UK

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