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Two Surrey men repent on the scaffold after a local clergyman is killed while they're burgling his house.
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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.
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