The Cross Roads.

The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as I have versified them.




THE CROSS ROADS.


    There was an old man breaking stones
    To mend the turnpike way,
    He sat him down beside a brook
    And out his bread and cheese he took,
    For now it was mid-day.

    He lent his back against a post,
    His feet the brook ran by;
    And there were water-cresses growing,
    And pleasant was the water's flowing
    For he was hot and dry.

    A soldier with his knapsack on
    Came travelling o'er the down,
    The sun was strong and he was tired,
    And of the old man he enquired
    How far to Bristol town.

    Half an hour's walk for a young man
    By lanes and fields and stiles.
    But you the foot-path do not know,
    And if along the road you go
    Why then 'tis three good miles.

    The soldier took his knapsack off
    For he was hot and dry;
    And out his bread and cheese he took
    And he sat down beside the brook
    To dine in company.

    Old friend! in faith, the soldier says
    I envy you almost;
    My shoulders have been sorely prest
    And I should like to sit and rest,
    My back against that post.

    In such a sweltering day as this
    A knapsack is the devil!
    And if on t'other side I sat
    It would not only spoil our chat
    But make me seem uncivil.

    The old man laugh'd and moved. I wish
    It were a great-arm'd chair!
    But this may help a man at need;
    And yet it was a cursed deed
    That ever brought it there.

    There's a poor girl lies buried here
    Beneath this very place.
    The earth upon her corpse is prest
    This stake is driven into her breast
    And a stone is on her face.

    The soldier had but just lent back
    And now he half rose up.
    There's sure no harm in dining here,
    My friend? and yet to be sincere
    I should not like to sup.

    God rest her! she is still enough
    Who sleeps beneath our feet!
    The old man cried. No harm I trow
    She ever did herself, tho' now
    She lies where four roads meet.

    I have past by about that hour
    When men are not most brave,
    It did not make my heart to fail,
    And I have heard the nightingale
    Sing sweetly on her grave.

    I have past by about that hour
    When Ghosts their freedom have,
    But there was nothing here to fright,
    And I have seen the glow-worm's light
    Shine on the poor girl's grave.

    There's one who like a Christian lies
    Beneath the church-tree's shade;
    I'd rather go a long mile round
    Than pass at evening thro' the ground
    Wherein that man is laid.

    There's one that in the church-yard lies
    For whom the bell did toll;
    He lies in consecrated ground,
    But for all the wealth in Bristol town
    I would not be with his soul!

    Did'st see a house below the hill
    That the winds and the rains destroy?
    'Twas then a farm where he did dwell,
    And I remember it full well
    When I was a growing boy.

    And she was a poor parish girl
    That came up from the west,
    From service hard she ran away
    And at that house in evil day
    Was taken in to rest.

    The man he was a wicked man
    And an evil life he led;
    Rage made his cheek grow deadly white
    And his grey eyes were large and light,
    And in anger they grew red.

    The man was bad, the mother worse,
    Bad fruit of a bad stem,
    'Twould make your hair to stand-on-end
    If I should tell to you my friend
    The things that were told of them!

    Did'st see an out-house standing by?
    The walls alone remain;
    It was a stable then, but now
    Its mossy roof has fallen through
    All rotted by the rain.

    The poor girl she had serv'd with them
    Some half-a-year, or more,
    When she was found hung up one day
    Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay
    Behind that stable door!

    It is a very lonesome place,
    No hut or house is near;
    Should one meet a murderer there alone
    'Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan
    Would never reach mortal ear.

    And there were strange reports about
    That the coroner never guest.
    So he decreed that she should lie
    Where four roads meet in infamy,
    With a stake drove in her breast.

    Upon a board they carried her
    To the place where four roads met,
    And I was one among the throng
    That hither followed them along,
    I shall never the sight forget!

    They carried her upon a board
    In the cloaths in which she died;
    I saw the cap blow off her head,
    Her face was of a dark dark red
    Her eyes were starting wide:

    I think they could not have been closed
    So widely did they strain.
    I never saw so dreadful a sight,
    And it often made me wake at night,
    For I saw her face again.

    They laid her here where four roads meet.
    Beneath this very place,
    The earth upon her corpse was prest,
    This post is driven into her breast,
    And a stone is on her face.