LAMENTATION OF H. LINGLEY.

John Mapp, in Shrewsbury, does now bewail,Doomed to die for murder in a dreary gaol;Such a dreadful murder, as you may see,Which we may compare to the Alton tragedy.In Shrewsbury Gaol, now in grief do lie,John Mapp, the murderer, condemned to die.The cruel monster was not afraid,To kill a youthful and innocent maid.Little Catherine Lewis on a Sunday night,Mapp, without a reason, deprived of life.Returning home from chapel, he embraced her fast,’Twas the twenty-second of December last;He cut and mangled her, took her from the road,And her murdered body in the hovel throwed.Oh! how could any one so vile engage,To kill a child but nine years of age;Her clothes he scattered over ditch and field,For which he finds now his fate is sealed.The child was missed—news spread far and wide,John Mapp was questioned, he the deed denied,He prevaricated—untruths did state,And he must meet his untimely fate.Little Kitty’s brooch that was found on Mapp,And he took her ribbon from her Sunday hat;He had a heart harder far than steel,He was quite composed, working in the field.Mapp was apprehended and sent to gaol,And in a dungeon does now bewail;On the tree a forfeit he must pay, his life,His murdered victim haunts him day and night.Now Mapp is cast and condemned to die,Although the murder he does now deny;The jury found him guilty, the case was clear,And his last moments are drawing near.How sad and dreadful it is to state,The horrid murders that have been of late;In every quarter both far and near,Such atrocious deeds before this no one did hear.Little Catherine Lewis, as I unfold,Was but a little more than nine years old,Innocent and charming, pious and kind,Sweet disposition, and amiable mind.What motive could the horrid murderer have,To send the child to an early grave?It was not for lucre, he could nothing gain,To cause such horror, such grief and pain.When he appears on the fatal tree,Not a a spark of pity will there be for he;He must die a murderer, nothing can him save,Aged thirty-five, lie in a murderer’s grave.

John Mapp, in Shrewsbury, does now bewail,Doomed to die for murder in a dreary gaol;Such a dreadful murder, as you may see,Which we may compare to the Alton tragedy.

John Mapp, in Shrewsbury, does now bewail,

Doomed to die for murder in a dreary gaol;

Such a dreadful murder, as you may see,

Which we may compare to the Alton tragedy.

In Shrewsbury Gaol, now in grief do lie,John Mapp, the murderer, condemned to die.

In Shrewsbury Gaol, now in grief do lie,

John Mapp, the murderer, condemned to die.

The cruel monster was not afraid,To kill a youthful and innocent maid.Little Catherine Lewis on a Sunday night,Mapp, without a reason, deprived of life.

The cruel monster was not afraid,

To kill a youthful and innocent maid.

Little Catherine Lewis on a Sunday night,

Mapp, without a reason, deprived of life.

Returning home from chapel, he embraced her fast,’Twas the twenty-second of December last;He cut and mangled her, took her from the road,And her murdered body in the hovel throwed.

Returning home from chapel, he embraced her fast,

’Twas the twenty-second of December last;

He cut and mangled her, took her from the road,

And her murdered body in the hovel throwed.

Oh! how could any one so vile engage,To kill a child but nine years of age;Her clothes he scattered over ditch and field,For which he finds now his fate is sealed.

Oh! how could any one so vile engage,

To kill a child but nine years of age;

Her clothes he scattered over ditch and field,

For which he finds now his fate is sealed.

The child was missed—news spread far and wide,John Mapp was questioned, he the deed denied,He prevaricated—untruths did state,And he must meet his untimely fate.

The child was missed—news spread far and wide,

John Mapp was questioned, he the deed denied,

He prevaricated—untruths did state,

And he must meet his untimely fate.

Little Kitty’s brooch that was found on Mapp,And he took her ribbon from her Sunday hat;He had a heart harder far than steel,He was quite composed, working in the field.

Little Kitty’s brooch that was found on Mapp,

And he took her ribbon from her Sunday hat;

He had a heart harder far than steel,

He was quite composed, working in the field.

Mapp was apprehended and sent to gaol,And in a dungeon does now bewail;On the tree a forfeit he must pay, his life,His murdered victim haunts him day and night.

Mapp was apprehended and sent to gaol,

And in a dungeon does now bewail;

On the tree a forfeit he must pay, his life,

His murdered victim haunts him day and night.

Now Mapp is cast and condemned to die,Although the murder he does now deny;The jury found him guilty, the case was clear,And his last moments are drawing near.

Now Mapp is cast and condemned to die,

Although the murder he does now deny;

The jury found him guilty, the case was clear,

And his last moments are drawing near.

How sad and dreadful it is to state,The horrid murders that have been of late;In every quarter both far and near,Such atrocious deeds before this no one did hear.

How sad and dreadful it is to state,

The horrid murders that have been of late;

In every quarter both far and near,

Such atrocious deeds before this no one did hear.

Little Catherine Lewis, as I unfold,Was but a little more than nine years old,Innocent and charming, pious and kind,Sweet disposition, and amiable mind.

Little Catherine Lewis, as I unfold,

Was but a little more than nine years old,

Innocent and charming, pious and kind,

Sweet disposition, and amiable mind.

What motive could the horrid murderer have,To send the child to an early grave?It was not for lucre, he could nothing gain,To cause such horror, such grief and pain.

What motive could the horrid murderer have,

To send the child to an early grave?

It was not for lucre, he could nothing gain,

To cause such horror, such grief and pain.

When he appears on the fatal tree,Not a a spark of pity will there be for he;He must die a murderer, nothing can him save,Aged thirty-five, lie in a murderer’s grave.

When he appears on the fatal tree,

Not a a spark of pity will there be for he;

He must die a murderer, nothing can him save,

Aged thirty-five, lie in a murderer’s grave.

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London.

Within a dungeon in Norwich gaol,One Hubbard Lingley in grief bewails,His own kind uncle he did kill and slay,On a Friday morning in the month of May.For that cruel murder he’s doomed to dieOn Norwich fatal sad gallows high.He is doomed to suffer as I relateOn the very tree where Rush met his fateIn health, in vigour, in youth and bloom,The murderer Lingley must meet his doom.In the morning early at four o’clockHe fired a sad and dreadful shotWhich caused his uncle’s fatal death woundWhere he fell bleeding upon the ground.A kind good uncle as may be seenTo his wicked nephew he had been;Reared him up tenderly and used him well,And in his cottage with him to dwell.But he resolved he his blood would spillHis uncle Benjamin he wished to kill;On Friday morn, the seventeenth of May,The nephew did his kind uncle slay.Early in the morning, at four o’clock,To attract his uncle he fired a shotAnd by that spot received the fatal wound.The murderer flew and left him on the groundSome labouring men who were passers by,Saw the murdered in his blood to lie;Suspicion did on his nephew fall,And innocent blood did for vengeance call.Many excuses did Lingley make,Not having courage to meet his fate;He before a jury for the deed was tried,And condemned to suffer on the gallows high.Hubbard Lingley thought when his uncle diedHis place to him would not be denied;So he was determined to kill and slay,His uncle dear the seventeenth day of May.He is doomed to die, nothing can him save,By the side of Rush in a murderer’s grave;His bones will moulder till the Judgment day,How could he take his uncle’s life away?At Norwich castle he was tried and castAnd his last moments approaching fast;The hangman anxious does now awaitTo terminate Hubbard Lingley’s fate.Oh! all young men a warning takeThink and consider ere it is too late;How could he dare lift his murderous hand.Base, vile, ungrateful, and cruel man.

Within a dungeon in Norwich gaol,

One Hubbard Lingley in grief bewails,

His own kind uncle he did kill and slay,

On a Friday morning in the month of May.

For that cruel murder he’s doomed to die

On Norwich fatal sad gallows high.

He is doomed to suffer as I relateOn the very tree where Rush met his fateIn health, in vigour, in youth and bloom,The murderer Lingley must meet his doom.

He is doomed to suffer as I relate

On the very tree where Rush met his fate

In health, in vigour, in youth and bloom,

The murderer Lingley must meet his doom.

In the morning early at four o’clockHe fired a sad and dreadful shotWhich caused his uncle’s fatal death woundWhere he fell bleeding upon the ground.

In the morning early at four o’clock

He fired a sad and dreadful shot

Which caused his uncle’s fatal death wound

Where he fell bleeding upon the ground.

A kind good uncle as may be seenTo his wicked nephew he had been;Reared him up tenderly and used him well,And in his cottage with him to dwell.

A kind good uncle as may be seen

To his wicked nephew he had been;

Reared him up tenderly and used him well,

And in his cottage with him to dwell.

But he resolved he his blood would spillHis uncle Benjamin he wished to kill;On Friday morn, the seventeenth of May,The nephew did his kind uncle slay.

But he resolved he his blood would spill

His uncle Benjamin he wished to kill;

On Friday morn, the seventeenth of May,

The nephew did his kind uncle slay.

Early in the morning, at four o’clock,To attract his uncle he fired a shotAnd by that spot received the fatal wound.The murderer flew and left him on the ground

Early in the morning, at four o’clock,

To attract his uncle he fired a shot

And by that spot received the fatal wound.

The murderer flew and left him on the ground

Some labouring men who were passers by,Saw the murdered in his blood to lie;Suspicion did on his nephew fall,And innocent blood did for vengeance call.

Some labouring men who were passers by,

Saw the murdered in his blood to lie;

Suspicion did on his nephew fall,

And innocent blood did for vengeance call.

Many excuses did Lingley make,Not having courage to meet his fate;He before a jury for the deed was tried,And condemned to suffer on the gallows high.

Many excuses did Lingley make,

Not having courage to meet his fate;

He before a jury for the deed was tried,

And condemned to suffer on the gallows high.

Hubbard Lingley thought when his uncle diedHis place to him would not be denied;So he was determined to kill and slay,His uncle dear the seventeenth day of May.

Hubbard Lingley thought when his uncle died

His place to him would not be denied;

So he was determined to kill and slay,

His uncle dear the seventeenth day of May.

He is doomed to die, nothing can him save,By the side of Rush in a murderer’s grave;His bones will moulder till the Judgment day,How could he take his uncle’s life away?

He is doomed to die, nothing can him save,

By the side of Rush in a murderer’s grave;

His bones will moulder till the Judgment day,

How could he take his uncle’s life away?

At Norwich castle he was tried and castAnd his last moments approaching fast;The hangman anxious does now awaitTo terminate Hubbard Lingley’s fate.

At Norwich castle he was tried and cast

And his last moments approaching fast;

The hangman anxious does now await

To terminate Hubbard Lingley’s fate.

Oh! all young men a warning takeThink and consider ere it is too late;How could he dare lift his murderous hand.Base, vile, ungrateful, and cruel man.

Oh! all young men a warning take

Think and consider ere it is too late;

How could he dare lift his murderous hand.

Base, vile, ungrateful, and cruel man.

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High-street, St. Giles.

This day the extreme sentence of the law was carried into effect on Alice Holt, at Chester Gaol, for the murder of her mother by poison. The evidence at the trial showed that prisoner, her mother, and a man named Holt, with whom she cohabited, lived together at Stockport. In February last the deceased, Mary Bailey, was taken ill, and the prisoner insured her life for £26, at a premium of 6d. per week. She induced a woman named Betty Wood to personate her mother before the doctor, telling her that the agent said “Any one would do.” The proposal was accepted by the Wesleyan Assurance Society, and from that time the mother became worse. Prisoner called in the parish surgeon and the infirmary visiting officer, both of whom were ignorant of the other’s visits, and complained of their medicine not being given. On the 25th and 26th the prisoner bought some arsenic—a quarter of a pound each time—which she put in a jug with some boiling water, and sprinkled about the room where her mother lay to kill vermin. The night of the 26th deceased had some brandy-and-water, and complained of “grounds” being at the bottom. Prisoner said, “You ought to have drunk grounds and all.” Mary Bailey died in the morning with all the symptoms of arsenical poison, and was buried. The personation came to the ears of the office, and the body was disinterred, when it was found perfectly fresh, but “saturated with arsenic,” of which no less than 160 grains were found in the stomach and adjacent parts.

The unfortunate woman was not tried at the Summer Assizes, in consequence of her being in the family-way. The child has since been adopted by Holt’s uncle, the only person who has visited her since during her imprisonment. She has been sullen, and strongly protested her innocence.

On Sunday, the prisoner made the following statement:—On the Monday before mother died, I brought the insurance paper home, insuring my mother’s life for £26, and mine for £28. He then proposed I should get some charcoal and put it under mother’s bed alight, when she was asleep, and she would never wake more. On Wednesday night Holt and I never went to bed. He said it would be a great releasement if she was in her grave, and he would buy some stretchnine (strychnine) if I would give it her. I said, “Thou’lt be found out.” He said, “They cannot find it out by that.” I said, “Thou hast brought me to destruction, and now thou wants to bring me to the gallows.” He then beat me. In the beer of which I spoke, I saw, after my mother had drank it, a quantity of blue arsenic grounds. I said, “Thou hast given my mother arsenic.” He said, “If thou tell aught, I will have thee up for defrauding the insurance,” and said, “Nobody will believe but what thou hast done it thyself.” This was the only arsenic my mother ever had.—Another statement was afterwards made by the prisoner.

Took place this morning. When near the drop her courage failed her, and she was half dragged, half carried to the scaffold. On the platform she fell on her knees, and moaned piteously, “The Lord have mercy upon me,” which she continued to do whilst Calcraft pulled the bolt. The drop fell, and the culprit was launched into eternity before a great many people, particularly women-folks.

A dreadful case of murder,Such as we seldom hear,Committed was at Stockport,In the County of Cheshire.Where a mother, named Mary Bailey,They did so cruelly slaughter,By poison administered all in her beerBy her own daughter.The daughter insured the life of the mother,For twenty-six pounds at her death,Then she and the man that she lived withDetermined to take away her breath.And when Betty Wood represented the mother,She did’nt act with propriety,For the poor mother lost her life,And they all swindled the Society.Now that the old gal’s life’s insured,Holt to the daughter did say,Better in the grave she were immured,And the money will make us so gay.Now that you have got me in the family way,And from me my virtue you’ve wrung,You’ll never be happy a day,Till on the gallows I’m hung.She laid a plan to murder her,As we now see so clear,To put a quantity of arsenicInto her poor mother’s beer.To see her lay in agony,Upon that dreadful night,With a dreadful dose of arsenic,Oh, it was a dreadful sight.She lived but just six hours,Then the poor woman did die,And this base murdering wretch,The dreadful deed did deny.On the man Holt she laid the blame,Vowed he did her mother slay,Holt on her did the same,Saying she took the mother’s life away.The father of her unborn infant,Whom she vowed to love most dear,And when confined in prison,She was overcome with fear,She made a rambling statement’Bout the arsenic in the beerLaid all the blame on Holt and Betty WoodExpecting for to get clear.But there’s no doubt the base wretchDid her poor mother slay.For which on Chester’s scaffold,Her life did forfeit pay,So all young women a warning take,By this poor wretch you see,A hanging for the mother’s sakeOn Chester’s fatal tree,

A dreadful case of murder,

Such as we seldom hear,

Committed was at Stockport,

In the County of Cheshire.

Where a mother, named Mary Bailey,

They did so cruelly slaughter,

By poison administered all in her beer

By her own daughter.

The daughter insured the life of the mother,For twenty-six pounds at her death,Then she and the man that she lived withDetermined to take away her breath.And when Betty Wood represented the mother,She did’nt act with propriety,For the poor mother lost her life,And they all swindled the Society.

The daughter insured the life of the mother,

For twenty-six pounds at her death,

Then she and the man that she lived with

Determined to take away her breath.

And when Betty Wood represented the mother,

She did’nt act with propriety,

For the poor mother lost her life,

And they all swindled the Society.

Now that the old gal’s life’s insured,Holt to the daughter did say,Better in the grave she were immured,And the money will make us so gay.Now that you have got me in the family way,And from me my virtue you’ve wrung,You’ll never be happy a day,Till on the gallows I’m hung.

Now that the old gal’s life’s insured,

Holt to the daughter did say,

Better in the grave she were immured,

And the money will make us so gay.

Now that you have got me in the family way,

And from me my virtue you’ve wrung,

You’ll never be happy a day,

Till on the gallows I’m hung.

She laid a plan to murder her,As we now see so clear,To put a quantity of arsenicInto her poor mother’s beer.To see her lay in agony,Upon that dreadful night,With a dreadful dose of arsenic,Oh, it was a dreadful sight.

She laid a plan to murder her,

As we now see so clear,

To put a quantity of arsenic

Into her poor mother’s beer.

To see her lay in agony,

Upon that dreadful night,

With a dreadful dose of arsenic,

Oh, it was a dreadful sight.

She lived but just six hours,Then the poor woman did die,And this base murdering wretch,The dreadful deed did deny.On the man Holt she laid the blame,Vowed he did her mother slay,Holt on her did the same,Saying she took the mother’s life away.

She lived but just six hours,

Then the poor woman did die,

And this base murdering wretch,

The dreadful deed did deny.

On the man Holt she laid the blame,

Vowed he did her mother slay,

Holt on her did the same,

Saying she took the mother’s life away.

The father of her unborn infant,Whom she vowed to love most dear,And when confined in prison,She was overcome with fear,She made a rambling statement’Bout the arsenic in the beerLaid all the blame on Holt and Betty WoodExpecting for to get clear.

The father of her unborn infant,

Whom she vowed to love most dear,

And when confined in prison,

She was overcome with fear,

She made a rambling statement

’Bout the arsenic in the beer

Laid all the blame on Holt and Betty Wood

Expecting for to get clear.

But there’s no doubt the base wretchDid her poor mother slay.For which on Chester’s scaffold,Her life did forfeit pay,So all young women a warning take,By this poor wretch you see,A hanging for the mother’s sakeOn Chester’s fatal tree,

But there’s no doubt the base wretch

Did her poor mother slay.

For which on Chester’s scaffold,

Her life did forfeit pay,

So all young women a warning take,

By this poor wretch you see,

A hanging for the mother’s sake

On Chester’s fatal tree,

W. Smith, Printer, Chester.

On Monday morning a cruel and inhuman murder was committed by the father on a child aged six years, in Neal’s passage, Seven Dials. The father has been separated from his wife for some time, and the boy had been brought up by its maternal grandmother, a poor old woman. The child being an unusally intelligent and nice-looking boy was a great favourite with the grandmother and an aunt who lived in the same room. It appears the mother had been living with another man as his wife, and the father also had formed an illicit connection with another woman. The poor boy had consequently become a source of trouble to both of them, although the merest trifle was required for its maintenance.

On Sunday evening the father (Jeffery) called at the grandmother’s for the boy. She asked him what he wanted with the child, but he became very violent, ordered the child to dress himself, and swore that “he would do for her and the child too,” if she did not mind. Jeffrey then went to his sister, in White Lion street, taking the child with him, and asked for a bed. He was accommodated with one, and went to bed with the boy; but at two o’clock in the morning he rose, and took the child away. He could not have walked many yards away—for Neal’s passage, where the body of the deceased was found, is close at hand. The child was found suspended from a projecting beam or bracket in a cellar to which all the residents had access for water, &c. Horrible as it seems, it is apparent from the condition of the body, that the cruel father tied its hands behind, and had literally enacted the part of executioner of his own child, holding its legs, and forcing down its body to complete the strangulation of the poor boy. The child remained in this position till about half-past six o’clock, when it was seen by a girl who had occasion to go to the cellar, and who gave the alarm. Dr. Harvey, the parish surgeon, attended directly, and pronounced the child to have been dead about three or four hours.

Dr. Lankester, the coroner, held an adjourned inquest on Wednesday, and there being no further evidence the jury returned a verdict of wilful murder by hanging and suffocation of Richard A. Jefferey, by his father, John R. Jefferey. The prisoner was examined at Bow street yesterday, and committed to Newgate.

You kindest fathers, tender mothers,To this sad tale, oh! list awhile,Hark you, sisters, too, and brothers,To a murder on the Seven Dials;Such a crime indeed,—no never!Its baseness I can scarce reveal,In Neal’s Passage, Earl Street, Seven Dials,In St. Giles’s-in-the-fields.In all your troubles and your trials,You never knew, as I reveal,Such a murder, on the Seven Dials,In St. Giles’s-in-the-fields.In Earl Street lived a wretch named Jefferys,Who a tailor was by trade we find,A sad, a base, and cruel villain,Wickedness ran in his mind;A child, the villain ought to cherish,His offspring which he should adore,Seventeen weeks ago he left him,At his old Grandmother’s door.His little boy named Richard Arthur,By the wretched father, we are told,Was cruelly and basely murdered,—The child was only seven years old;The villain took him to a cellar,Resolved his offspring to destroy,Tied his little hands behind him,And hanged the pretty smiling boy.Vengeance against the boy he threaten’dDetermin’d for to take his life,And to commit the dreadful action,He often did produce a knife;’Twas his only child, he had no other,A rogue in grain, devoid of fear,He’d been separated from the motherOf the little boy for three long years.The grandmother, his mother’s mother,Her little grandchild long did keep,Receiving nothing from the father,For the space of seventeen long weeks,And then the villain did demand him,He clandestinely took him away,That fatal evening he determinedWas his little boy to slay.Then he to the cellar took him,—His heart was harder far than steel,The wicked, base, inhuman monster,His actions no one can reveal.His only chlld, to hold beside him,With rope he bound his little hands,When behind his back he placed them,He in the cellar did him hang.He flew, but Justice close pursued him,And taken he has been we see;When tried, no doubt, they’ll find him guilty,And he’ll be hanged on Newgate’s tree;Hanging is too good for such a villain,He who would his flesh and blood destroy,The child, we are told, was six years old,A pretty little prattling boy.We all have got our cares and trials,And unto fate compelled to yield,This deed was done on the Seven Dials.In St. Giles’s-in-the-fields.

You kindest fathers, tender mothers,

To this sad tale, oh! list awhile,

Hark you, sisters, too, and brothers,

To a murder on the Seven Dials;

Such a crime indeed,—no never!

Its baseness I can scarce reveal,

In Neal’s Passage, Earl Street, Seven Dials,

In St. Giles’s-in-the-fields.

In all your troubles and your trials,You never knew, as I reveal,Such a murder, on the Seven Dials,In St. Giles’s-in-the-fields.

In all your troubles and your trials,

You never knew, as I reveal,

Such a murder, on the Seven Dials,

In St. Giles’s-in-the-fields.

In Earl Street lived a wretch named Jefferys,Who a tailor was by trade we find,A sad, a base, and cruel villain,Wickedness ran in his mind;A child, the villain ought to cherish,His offspring which he should adore,Seventeen weeks ago he left him,At his old Grandmother’s door.

In Earl Street lived a wretch named Jefferys,

Who a tailor was by trade we find,

A sad, a base, and cruel villain,

Wickedness ran in his mind;

A child, the villain ought to cherish,

His offspring which he should adore,

Seventeen weeks ago he left him,

At his old Grandmother’s door.

His little boy named Richard Arthur,By the wretched father, we are told,

His little boy named Richard Arthur,

By the wretched father, we are told,

Was cruelly and basely murdered,—The child was only seven years old;The villain took him to a cellar,Resolved his offspring to destroy,Tied his little hands behind him,And hanged the pretty smiling boy.

Was cruelly and basely murdered,—

The child was only seven years old;

The villain took him to a cellar,

Resolved his offspring to destroy,

Tied his little hands behind him,

And hanged the pretty smiling boy.

Vengeance against the boy he threaten’dDetermin’d for to take his life,And to commit the dreadful action,He often did produce a knife;’Twas his only child, he had no other,A rogue in grain, devoid of fear,He’d been separated from the motherOf the little boy for three long years.

Vengeance against the boy he threaten’d

Determin’d for to take his life,

And to commit the dreadful action,

He often did produce a knife;

’Twas his only child, he had no other,

A rogue in grain, devoid of fear,

He’d been separated from the mother

Of the little boy for three long years.

The grandmother, his mother’s mother,Her little grandchild long did keep,Receiving nothing from the father,For the space of seventeen long weeks,And then the villain did demand him,He clandestinely took him away,That fatal evening he determinedWas his little boy to slay.

The grandmother, his mother’s mother,

Her little grandchild long did keep,

Receiving nothing from the father,

For the space of seventeen long weeks,

And then the villain did demand him,

He clandestinely took him away,

That fatal evening he determined

Was his little boy to slay.

Then he to the cellar took him,—His heart was harder far than steel,The wicked, base, inhuman monster,His actions no one can reveal.His only chlld, to hold beside him,With rope he bound his little hands,When behind his back he placed them,He in the cellar did him hang.

Then he to the cellar took him,—

His heart was harder far than steel,

The wicked, base, inhuman monster,

His actions no one can reveal.

His only chlld, to hold beside him,

With rope he bound his little hands,

When behind his back he placed them,

He in the cellar did him hang.

He flew, but Justice close pursued him,And taken he has been we see;When tried, no doubt, they’ll find him guilty,And he’ll be hanged on Newgate’s tree;Hanging is too good for such a villain,He who would his flesh and blood destroy,The child, we are told, was six years old,A pretty little prattling boy.

He flew, but Justice close pursued him,

And taken he has been we see;

When tried, no doubt, they’ll find him guilty,

And he’ll be hanged on Newgate’s tree;

Hanging is too good for such a villain,

He who would his flesh and blood destroy,

The child, we are told, was six years old,

A pretty little prattling boy.

We all have got our cares and trials,And unto fate compelled to yield,This deed was done on the Seven Dials.In St. Giles’s-in-the-fields.

We all have got our cares and trials,

And unto fate compelled to yield,

This deed was done on the Seven Dials.

In St. Giles’s-in-the-fields.

H. DISLEY, Printer, 57, High street, St. Giles, London.

Within a dreary cell I lie,A wretched murderer, condemned to dieFor the murder of my darling boy,Whose precious life I did destroy.I am doomed to die, my glass is run,For the murder of my darling son.John Richard Jeffery, it is my name,Why did I do that deed of shame?I confess my crime, but do declare,No ill feeling to my child did bear.From my wife I long had parted been,Which disturbed my mind, as may be seen;And Satan’s doubts they filled my mind,Which led me to this dreadful crime.I could not bear the child to see,It seemed to increase my misery,While thinking of my absent wife,I form’d a plan to take his life.At his grandmother’s he found a home,And with fiendish thoughts I’m asham’d to own;Quick dress that child, to her did say,For I was determined the boy to slay.Poor little boy, it seemed filled with fear,And cried, don’t dress me granny dear;Don’t let father take me away,With you, dear granny, I’d rather stay.But to his wishes I paid no heedBut left with the child, as you may read;Then proceeded in the dead of night,To a lonely spot to take his life.To a dismal cellar I took the helpless child,The thoughts of which now drives me wild;Poor boy, he fainted with affright,And in that state I took his life.With a handkerchief I bound his hands,And to the cistern I did him hang;Poor innocent, unconscious quite,Knew not his father had took his life.When this fearful act the hand had done,From the fearful scene away did run;With stricken conscience, like the murderer Cain,But peace of mind could not obtain.I strove to forget it for a time,But my murdered boy so haunted my mind,I gave myself up, as you may read,To make some atonement for the deed.I soon upon the drop must stand,A guilty and heart-broken man;My darling boy I shall no more behold,Have mercy, God, on my guilty soul!

Within a dreary cell I lie,A wretched murderer, condemned to dieFor the murder of my darling boy,Whose precious life I did destroy.

Within a dreary cell I lie,

A wretched murderer, condemned to die

For the murder of my darling boy,

Whose precious life I did destroy.

I am doomed to die, my glass is run,For the murder of my darling son.

I am doomed to die, my glass is run,

For the murder of my darling son.

John Richard Jeffery, it is my name,Why did I do that deed of shame?I confess my crime, but do declare,No ill feeling to my child did bear.

John Richard Jeffery, it is my name,

Why did I do that deed of shame?

I confess my crime, but do declare,

No ill feeling to my child did bear.

From my wife I long had parted been,Which disturbed my mind, as may be seen;And Satan’s doubts they filled my mind,Which led me to this dreadful crime.

From my wife I long had parted been,

Which disturbed my mind, as may be seen;

And Satan’s doubts they filled my mind,

Which led me to this dreadful crime.

I could not bear the child to see,It seemed to increase my misery,While thinking of my absent wife,I form’d a plan to take his life.

I could not bear the child to see,

It seemed to increase my misery,

While thinking of my absent wife,

I form’d a plan to take his life.

At his grandmother’s he found a home,And with fiendish thoughts I’m asham’d to own;Quick dress that child, to her did say,For I was determined the boy to slay.

At his grandmother’s he found a home,

And with fiendish thoughts I’m asham’d to own;

Quick dress that child, to her did say,

For I was determined the boy to slay.

Poor little boy, it seemed filled with fear,And cried, don’t dress me granny dear;Don’t let father take me away,With you, dear granny, I’d rather stay.

Poor little boy, it seemed filled with fear,

And cried, don’t dress me granny dear;

Don’t let father take me away,

With you, dear granny, I’d rather stay.

But to his wishes I paid no heedBut left with the child, as you may read;Then proceeded in the dead of night,To a lonely spot to take his life.

But to his wishes I paid no heed

But left with the child, as you may read;

Then proceeded in the dead of night,

To a lonely spot to take his life.

To a dismal cellar I took the helpless child,The thoughts of which now drives me wild;Poor boy, he fainted with affright,And in that state I took his life.

To a dismal cellar I took the helpless child,

The thoughts of which now drives me wild;

Poor boy, he fainted with affright,

And in that state I took his life.

With a handkerchief I bound his hands,And to the cistern I did him hang;Poor innocent, unconscious quite,Knew not his father had took his life.

With a handkerchief I bound his hands,

And to the cistern I did him hang;

Poor innocent, unconscious quite,

Knew not his father had took his life.

When this fearful act the hand had done,From the fearful scene away did run;With stricken conscience, like the murderer Cain,But peace of mind could not obtain.

When this fearful act the hand had done,

From the fearful scene away did run;

With stricken conscience, like the murderer Cain,

But peace of mind could not obtain.

I strove to forget it for a time,But my murdered boy so haunted my mind,I gave myself up, as you may read,To make some atonement for the deed.

I strove to forget it for a time,

But my murdered boy so haunted my mind,

I gave myself up, as you may read,

To make some atonement for the deed.

I soon upon the drop must stand,A guilty and heart-broken man;My darling boy I shall no more behold,Have mercy, God, on my guilty soul!

I soon upon the drop must stand,

A guilty and heart-broken man;

My darling boy I shall no more behold,

Have mercy, God, on my guilty soul!

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles.

A shocking murder of a wife was committed on Sunday, at Ashburnham, a village near Hastings. Near the village is a quantity of land called Gardener’s Farm, which is farmed by an old man named Stubberfield and his son Jeremiah. The son, who is married, has a separate residence about sixty yards from that of his parent. There were living in the same house with the son, his wife Matilda, their son, Mary Deeprose (a companion to Mrs Stubberfield), and several farm labourers and servants. The boy, eight years old, who occupied the same room with his parents, states that early on Sunday morning he saw his father kneeling upon his mother, and squeezing her throat. Hearing his mother say, “Oh!” feebly, as is in pain, he said to his father, “Your hurting mother.” “You hold your tongue,” replied the father, “I’m only tickling her.” The boy again made a similar remark, upon which the father said that if he didn’t hold his tongue he would “see to him.” Stubberfield then dressed himself, and having kissed his wife and child, went down stairs. The boy immediately aroused the other inmates of the house, who were soon in the bedroom of the murdered woman. The police were sent for, and in a short time, some two hundred persons were scouring the neighbourhood in search of Stubberfield, and it was not till the afternoon he was discovered, and then he was making his way towards home. He had secreted himself in a pit, and tried to drown himself, but could not do so, for he always floated on the top of the water.

A dreadful deed, as you may read,I am going to unfold,A base and cruel murder,That will make your blood run cold;At a village called Ashburnham,A few miles from Hastings town,Where the family of the StubberfieldsWas known for miles round.Jeremiah Stubberfield killed his wife,At Ashburnham, we see,Which caused many a tear both far and near,The Sussex tragedy.There lived old Farmer Stubberfield,An aged, wealthy sire,At Gardner’s Farm, and near him lived,His son, named Jeremiah;Who had a wife, Matilda,Virtuous, good, and kind,Who had a son, and her companion,Labourers and servants, too, we find.On Sunday morn, the twenty-third of May,The little boy, but eight years old,Saw his father squeeze his mother’s throat,Most awful to unfold;He called unto his father,While trembling with fear,Saying, oh, cruel father,You are killing mother dear.The murderer kissed his wife and child,After that he did slay,Then placed his coat upon his arm,And from the farm did stray;The servants and the labourers,Went to the fatal bed,And there beheld MatildaQuite cold, and lying dead.They did pursue the murderer,They in numbers went along,Searched the hedges and the ditches,Dragged the rivers and the ponds;But late on Sunday afternoon,As they in numbers on did stray,They saw him wandering to his home,Where his murdered wife did lay.He says he dearly loved her,A kind, good, and tender wife,Oh, whatever could possess him,To take away her life;It has caused great excitement,Far round the country,A farmer’s son the murder done,—The Sussex tragedy.To end this dreadful tale of woe,Confined within a gaol,Lies Jeremiah Stubberfield,In anguish to bewail;He loved his wife, far more than life,He her corpse sweet kisses gave,He has brought his aged parents,In sorrow to the grave.

A dreadful deed, as you may read,

I am going to unfold,

A base and cruel murder,

That will make your blood run cold;

At a village called Ashburnham,

A few miles from Hastings town,

Where the family of the Stubberfields

Was known for miles round.

Jeremiah Stubberfield killed his wife,At Ashburnham, we see,Which caused many a tear both far and near,The Sussex tragedy.

Jeremiah Stubberfield killed his wife,

At Ashburnham, we see,

Which caused many a tear both far and near,

The Sussex tragedy.

There lived old Farmer Stubberfield,An aged, wealthy sire,At Gardner’s Farm, and near him lived,His son, named Jeremiah;Who had a wife, Matilda,Virtuous, good, and kind,Who had a son, and her companion,Labourers and servants, too, we find.

There lived old Farmer Stubberfield,

An aged, wealthy sire,

At Gardner’s Farm, and near him lived,

His son, named Jeremiah;

Who had a wife, Matilda,

Virtuous, good, and kind,

Who had a son, and her companion,

Labourers and servants, too, we find.

On Sunday morn, the twenty-third of May,The little boy, but eight years old,Saw his father squeeze his mother’s throat,Most awful to unfold;He called unto his father,While trembling with fear,Saying, oh, cruel father,You are killing mother dear.

On Sunday morn, the twenty-third of May,

The little boy, but eight years old,

Saw his father squeeze his mother’s throat,

Most awful to unfold;

He called unto his father,

While trembling with fear,

Saying, oh, cruel father,

You are killing mother dear.

The murderer kissed his wife and child,After that he did slay,Then placed his coat upon his arm,And from the farm did stray;The servants and the labourers,Went to the fatal bed,And there beheld MatildaQuite cold, and lying dead.

The murderer kissed his wife and child,

After that he did slay,

Then placed his coat upon his arm,

And from the farm did stray;

The servants and the labourers,

Went to the fatal bed,

And there beheld Matilda

Quite cold, and lying dead.

They did pursue the murderer,They in numbers went along,Searched the hedges and the ditches,Dragged the rivers and the ponds;But late on Sunday afternoon,As they in numbers on did stray,They saw him wandering to his home,Where his murdered wife did lay.

They did pursue the murderer,

They in numbers went along,

Searched the hedges and the ditches,

Dragged the rivers and the ponds;

But late on Sunday afternoon,

As they in numbers on did stray,

They saw him wandering to his home,

Where his murdered wife did lay.

He says he dearly loved her,A kind, good, and tender wife,Oh, whatever could possess him,To take away her life;It has caused great excitement,Far round the country,A farmer’s son the murder done,—The Sussex tragedy.

He says he dearly loved her,

A kind, good, and tender wife,

Oh, whatever could possess him,

To take away her life;

It has caused great excitement,

Far round the country,

A farmer’s son the murder done,—

The Sussex tragedy.

To end this dreadful tale of woe,Confined within a gaol,Lies Jeremiah Stubberfield,In anguish to bewail;He loved his wife, far more than life,He her corpse sweet kisses gave,He has brought his aged parents,In sorrow to the grave.

To end this dreadful tale of woe,

Confined within a gaol,

Lies Jeremiah Stubberfield,

In anguish to bewail;

He loved his wife, far more than life,

He her corpse sweet kisses gave,

He has brought his aged parents,

In sorrow to the grave.

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High street, St. Giles, London.

Who now lies under Sentence of Death at Maidstone Gaol.

A poor unhappy man and woman,Does in agony bewail,Sentenced to die, alas for murder!In separate cells, in Maidstone gaol.Ann Lawrence aged eight-and-twenty,For the wilful murder of her child,And John Fletcher, only twenty,For the dreadful murder of James Boyle.In agony, now lies lamenting,John Fletcher, who is frenzy wild,In Chatham prison killed the warder,And Ann Lawrence her own darling child.Ann Lawrence is a married woman,Who with a man named Highams did dwell;He also had a wife still living,Highams and Lawrence lived at Tunbridge Wells,They lived unhappy, often quarrelled,Faults on both sides we may see,Ann Lawrence in a fit of frenzy,Overpowered with jealousy.Determined was to kill her offspring,Revengeful, shocking to unfold,To aggravate her own paramour,Her little boy but four years old;At Tunbridge Wells she basely murder’d.Wickedness ran in her mind,When her child she’d slain, said with disdain,The innocent child was killed by Highams.The little boy named Jeremiah,Looked in his mother’s face with tearsWhen her little boy she did destroy,Aged only four years;Her counsel for her pleaded cleverTo free her every way he tried,When the Judge the sentence passed upon her,The dreadful murder she denied.John Fletcher who must die beside her,A convict was for seven years,He in Chatham prison killed the warder,To give the blow he was prepared,He says the warder did illuse him,And tantalized him day by day,And in a fit of desperation,He with a hammer did him slay.At Maidstone they were tried and sentenc’dTo die a murderer’s death of scorn,In youth and health they are lamenting,In grief and agony forlorn;The awful moments are approaching,And there is nothing can them save,They soon must leave this world of sorrow,And sleep within a murderer’s grave.Oh male and female curb your passions,Think and consider ere too late,Passion, jealousy, and vengence,Has caused those wretched person’s fate;Let their fate be an example,Oh! pray be guided one and all,Think of John Fletcher and Ann Lawrence,Remember what caused their downfall.Passion, jealousy, and vengeance,Was the cause, we plainly see,Of bringing John Fletcher and Ann LawrenceTo die on Maidstone’s dismal tree.

A poor unhappy man and woman,

Does in agony bewail,

Sentenced to die, alas for murder!

In separate cells, in Maidstone gaol.

Ann Lawrence aged eight-and-twenty,

For the wilful murder of her child,

And John Fletcher, only twenty,

For the dreadful murder of James Boyle.

In agony, now lies lamenting,John Fletcher, who is frenzy wild,In Chatham prison killed the warder,And Ann Lawrence her own darling child.

In agony, now lies lamenting,

John Fletcher, who is frenzy wild,

In Chatham prison killed the warder,

And Ann Lawrence her own darling child.

Ann Lawrence is a married woman,Who with a man named Highams did dwell;He also had a wife still living,Highams and Lawrence lived at Tunbridge Wells,They lived unhappy, often quarrelled,Faults on both sides we may see,Ann Lawrence in a fit of frenzy,Overpowered with jealousy.

Ann Lawrence is a married woman,

Who with a man named Highams did dwell;

He also had a wife still living,

Highams and Lawrence lived at Tunbridge Wells,

They lived unhappy, often quarrelled,

Faults on both sides we may see,

Ann Lawrence in a fit of frenzy,

Overpowered with jealousy.

Determined was to kill her offspring,Revengeful, shocking to unfold,To aggravate her own paramour,Her little boy but four years old;At Tunbridge Wells she basely murder’d.Wickedness ran in her mind,When her child she’d slain, said with disdain,The innocent child was killed by Highams.

Determined was to kill her offspring,

Revengeful, shocking to unfold,

To aggravate her own paramour,

Her little boy but four years old;

At Tunbridge Wells she basely murder’d.

Wickedness ran in her mind,

When her child she’d slain, said with disdain,

The innocent child was killed by Highams.

The little boy named Jeremiah,Looked in his mother’s face with tearsWhen her little boy she did destroy,Aged only four years;Her counsel for her pleaded cleverTo free her every way he tried,When the Judge the sentence passed upon her,The dreadful murder she denied.

The little boy named Jeremiah,

Looked in his mother’s face with tears

When her little boy she did destroy,

Aged only four years;

Her counsel for her pleaded clever

To free her every way he tried,

When the Judge the sentence passed upon her,

The dreadful murder she denied.

John Fletcher who must die beside her,A convict was for seven years,He in Chatham prison killed the warder,To give the blow he was prepared,He says the warder did illuse him,And tantalized him day by day,And in a fit of desperation,He with a hammer did him slay.

John Fletcher who must die beside her,

A convict was for seven years,

He in Chatham prison killed the warder,

To give the blow he was prepared,

He says the warder did illuse him,

And tantalized him day by day,

And in a fit of desperation,

He with a hammer did him slay.

At Maidstone they were tried and sentenc’dTo die a murderer’s death of scorn,In youth and health they are lamenting,In grief and agony forlorn;The awful moments are approaching,And there is nothing can them save,They soon must leave this world of sorrow,And sleep within a murderer’s grave.

At Maidstone they were tried and sentenc’d

To die a murderer’s death of scorn,

In youth and health they are lamenting,

In grief and agony forlorn;

The awful moments are approaching,

And there is nothing can them save,

They soon must leave this world of sorrow,

And sleep within a murderer’s grave.

Oh male and female curb your passions,Think and consider ere too late,Passion, jealousy, and vengence,Has caused those wretched person’s fate;Let their fate be an example,Oh! pray be guided one and all,Think of John Fletcher and Ann Lawrence,Remember what caused their downfall.

Oh male and female curb your passions,

Think and consider ere too late,

Passion, jealousy, and vengence,

Has caused those wretched person’s fate;

Let their fate be an example,

Oh! pray be guided one and all,

Think of John Fletcher and Ann Lawrence,

Remember what caused their downfall.

Passion, jealousy, and vengeance,Was the cause, we plainly see,Of bringing John Fletcher and Ann LawrenceTo die on Maidstone’s dismal tree.

Passion, jealousy, and vengeance,

Was the cause, we plainly see,

Of bringing John Fletcher and Ann Lawrence

To die on Maidstone’s dismal tree.

Disley, Printer, High street, St. Giles, London.

Who was executed this morning at the Old Bailey, for the wilful murder of Sarah Ann Hodgkinson, one of the sufferers at the Clerkenwell Explosion.

This morning the unfortunate Fenian convict, Michael Barrett, suffered the extreme penalty of the law at the Old Bailey. The prisoner has been attended by the Rev. Mr. Hussey, a Roman Catholic priest, who has remained with him a considerable time every day. He was very taciturn, and although he was no doubt aware of the efforts that were being made to obtain a reprieve, it was a noticeable fact that he never attempted to declare his innocence. Down to recently he used to attend the service in the prison regularly, but after Mr. Hussey had been with him he entirely refrained from doing so. He has not been visited by any one since his conviction. All his relations appear to reside in Ireland, and he does not seem to have had any connexions or friends in this country.

The sheriffs of the prison arrived at an early hour, and immediately proceeded to the condemned cell, where they found the prisoner in devotional exercises with the Rev. Mr. Hussey. He declared himself ready to die, and seemed to consider himself a martyr. The time having arrived, Calcraft, the executioner, was introduced to the prisoner, who immediately commenced pinioning him, which operation having been gone through, the prisoner thanked the governor and other officials of the prison for their kindness towards him. The procession was then formed, and slowly took its way towards the scene of execution. The prisoner ascended the scaffold with a firm step. Everything having been prepared, the cap was drawn over his eyes and the rope adjusted, the bolt was drawn, and he appeared to struggle but slightly before life was extinct.

Adieu, vain world, I now must leave you,Here I cannot longer dwell,I have been tried, and I am sentencedTo die for the deed in Clerkenwell;Oh! that dreadful sad explosion,Which did so much destruction cause,Brought me to the tree at Newgate,My sufferings sure no one knows.I must leave this world of sorrow,On earth I must no longer dwell,Sentenced to be hanged for murder,For the sad affair in Clerkenwell.Alas! my name is Michael Barrett,Born and brought up in Erin’s isle,I did adore my native country,Wheron I oft did sweetly smile;Oh yes, my own dear native Erin,Behold me on the fatal tree,A miserable malefactor,In a murderer’s grave I soon shall be.A traitor did swear hard against me,A wretch, Mullany known by name,Worse by far than any other,And many persons know the same;Only one amongst the prisoners,And that poor one, alas! was me,Poor unhappy Michael Barrett,Condemned to die upon a tree.I twice have been respited,I did not expect to die,But I must go in grief and woe,On Newgate’s tree so high;That I should gain my liberty,Some thousands did believe,But, oh, alas! all hope is passed.And I have been deceived.Farewell, my friends, I’m doomed to leave you,With you I can no longer stay,Let not my departure grieve you,I die upon the twenty-sixth of May,On the fatal tree at Newgate,For the affair at Clerkenwell,Called a Fenian, Michael Barrett,Friends and kindred, farewell!I see the hangman now before me,Standing on the fatal drop,In the prime of life and vigour,Hard is Michael Barrett’s lot:Only one of all the number,All the rest, alas! but me,Acquitted was, but Michael BarrettDies on Newgate’s fatal tree.A last adieu, vain world, I leave you,I am going to the silent bourne,Lovely Erin, I grieve for youBut I never shall return;Approaching is the Tuesday morning,I am summonsed far away,Erin, remember Michael Barrett,Who died upon the twenty-sixth of May.

Adieu, vain world, I now must leave you,

Here I cannot longer dwell,

I have been tried, and I am sentenced

To die for the deed in Clerkenwell;

Oh! that dreadful sad explosion,

Which did so much destruction cause,

Brought me to the tree at Newgate,

My sufferings sure no one knows.

I must leave this world of sorrow,On earth I must no longer dwell,Sentenced to be hanged for murder,For the sad affair in Clerkenwell.

I must leave this world of sorrow,

On earth I must no longer dwell,

Sentenced to be hanged for murder,

For the sad affair in Clerkenwell.

Alas! my name is Michael Barrett,Born and brought up in Erin’s isle,I did adore my native country,Wheron I oft did sweetly smile;Oh yes, my own dear native Erin,Behold me on the fatal tree,A miserable malefactor,In a murderer’s grave I soon shall be.

Alas! my name is Michael Barrett,

Born and brought up in Erin’s isle,

I did adore my native country,

Wheron I oft did sweetly smile;

Oh yes, my own dear native Erin,

Behold me on the fatal tree,

A miserable malefactor,

In a murderer’s grave I soon shall be.

A traitor did swear hard against me,A wretch, Mullany known by name,Worse by far than any other,And many persons know the same;Only one amongst the prisoners,And that poor one, alas! was me,Poor unhappy Michael Barrett,Condemned to die upon a tree.

A traitor did swear hard against me,

A wretch, Mullany known by name,

Worse by far than any other,

And many persons know the same;

Only one amongst the prisoners,

And that poor one, alas! was me,

Poor unhappy Michael Barrett,

Condemned to die upon a tree.

I twice have been respited,I did not expect to die,But I must go in grief and woe,On Newgate’s tree so high;That I should gain my liberty,Some thousands did believe,But, oh, alas! all hope is passed.And I have been deceived.

I twice have been respited,

I did not expect to die,

But I must go in grief and woe,

On Newgate’s tree so high;

That I should gain my liberty,

Some thousands did believe,

But, oh, alas! all hope is passed.

And I have been deceived.

Farewell, my friends, I’m doomed to leave you,With you I can no longer stay,Let not my departure grieve you,I die upon the twenty-sixth of May,On the fatal tree at Newgate,For the affair at Clerkenwell,Called a Fenian, Michael Barrett,Friends and kindred, farewell!

Farewell, my friends, I’m doomed to leave you,

With you I can no longer stay,

Let not my departure grieve you,

I die upon the twenty-sixth of May,

On the fatal tree at Newgate,

For the affair at Clerkenwell,

Called a Fenian, Michael Barrett,

Friends and kindred, farewell!

I see the hangman now before me,Standing on the fatal drop,In the prime of life and vigour,Hard is Michael Barrett’s lot:Only one of all the number,All the rest, alas! but me,Acquitted was, but Michael BarrettDies on Newgate’s fatal tree.

I see the hangman now before me,

Standing on the fatal drop,

In the prime of life and vigour,

Hard is Michael Barrett’s lot:

Only one of all the number,

All the rest, alas! but me,

Acquitted was, but Michael Barrett

Dies on Newgate’s fatal tree.

A last adieu, vain world, I leave you,I am going to the silent bourne,Lovely Erin, I grieve for youBut I never shall return;Approaching is the Tuesday morning,I am summonsed far away,Erin, remember Michael Barrett,Who died upon the twenty-sixth of May.

A last adieu, vain world, I leave you,

I am going to the silent bourne,

Lovely Erin, I grieve for you

But I never shall return;

Approaching is the Tuesday morning,

I am summonsed far away,

Erin, remember Michael Barrett,

Who died upon the twenty-sixth of May.

At the New Bailey Prison, Manchester, on Saturday, November 23rd, charged with the Wilful Murder of Sergeant Brett, at Manchester, on September 18th, 1867.

This morning, Saturday, November 23rd, the three unfortunate convicts, Gould, Allen, and Larkin, suffered the extreme penalty of the law at the New Bailey prison, Manchester. Since their condemnation the culprits have behaved in a most exemplary manner, and have paid great attention to the Rev. gentlemen who attended them. They continued to declare their innocence to the last, and appeared to think themselves martyrs to a grand cause, and appeared quite ready for the event. The mob was very great, but not so large as it might have been, but for the precautions taken by the authorities, who had erected barricades about every thirty yards, and so prevented the great pressure that would have been. The prisoners were astir at an early hour, and partook of the holy communion, and at the appointed time. Calcraft, the executioner, was introduced, when the operation of pinioning was gone through. The prisoners the meanwhile showed wonderful confidence, and appeared to be the least concerned. They all shook hands together and affectionately embraced one another, and declared themselves ready. The mournful procession was then formed, and at once proceeded towards the scaffold, where on their appearance there was a slight manifestation of applause. Everything having been prepared, the ropes adjusted, the signal was given, and the unhappy men were launched into eternity. The prisoners appeared to die very easy.

You true friends of liberty, and sons of the Emerald Isle,Attend with an ear of sympathy to what I now relate,And to my sad story, I’d have you to list awhile,Its of those poor unhappy men who now have met their fate;Its Allen, Larkin, and Gould I mean, who of treason have convicted been,Coupled with the crime of murder, for which we all deplore,To the scaffold were condemned we see through struggling for liberty,Of that poor unhappy country, the poor old shamrock shore.Now its well known that Irishmen have oft upon the battle field,Nobly fought our battles, against old England’s foes.And with the hearts of lions have forced her enemies to yield;But to friends they are warm-hearted, as all the world well knows.Its but for their rights they crave, old Ireland’s honour for to save,That has led to this calamity, for which we all deplore,But by treachery they were betrayed, and these poor men have the forfeit paid,And Allen, Gould, and Larkin, alas! are now no more.It was at Manchester, as I now state, they sought their comrades to liberate,And where is the man in such a state, would not have done the same?Those poor men they were taken, for whom many hearts are aching,For there is no one in reason their conduct can well blame.It was in the midst of that strife, that poor Brett he lost his life,That has caused the sons of Ireland most deeply to deplore,And through that sad unhappy day, there’s many a pitying heart will say,Poor Allen, Gould, and Larkin, alas! are now no more.These men they were convicted, and by the judge was sentenced,And for murder and treason they were condemned to die,And left to meet their fate to the gaze of all spectators,Tho’ that their lives would be spared it was the country’s cry.To God I recommend them, in his mercy to defend them,May their souls shine in glory upon that blessed shore,Safe within his keeping where there will be no weeping,Now Allen, Gould, and Larkin, alas! are now no more.

You true friends of liberty, and sons of the Emerald Isle,

Attend with an ear of sympathy to what I now relate,

And to my sad story, I’d have you to list awhile,

Its of those poor unhappy men who now have met their fate;

Its Allen, Larkin, and Gould I mean, who of treason have convicted been,

Coupled with the crime of murder, for which we all deplore,

To the scaffold were condemned we see through struggling for liberty,

Of that poor unhappy country, the poor old shamrock shore.

Now its well known that Irishmen have oft upon the battle field,Nobly fought our battles, against old England’s foes.And with the hearts of lions have forced her enemies to yield;But to friends they are warm-hearted, as all the world well knows.Its but for their rights they crave, old Ireland’s honour for to save,That has led to this calamity, for which we all deplore,But by treachery they were betrayed, and these poor men have the forfeit paid,And Allen, Gould, and Larkin, alas! are now no more.

Now its well known that Irishmen have oft upon the battle field,

Nobly fought our battles, against old England’s foes.

And with the hearts of lions have forced her enemies to yield;

But to friends they are warm-hearted, as all the world well knows.

Its but for their rights they crave, old Ireland’s honour for to save,

That has led to this calamity, for which we all deplore,

But by treachery they were betrayed, and these poor men have the forfeit paid,

And Allen, Gould, and Larkin, alas! are now no more.

It was at Manchester, as I now state, they sought their comrades to liberate,And where is the man in such a state, would not have done the same?Those poor men they were taken, for whom many hearts are aching,For there is no one in reason their conduct can well blame.It was in the midst of that strife, that poor Brett he lost his life,That has caused the sons of Ireland most deeply to deplore,And through that sad unhappy day, there’s many a pitying heart will say,Poor Allen, Gould, and Larkin, alas! are now no more.

It was at Manchester, as I now state, they sought their comrades to liberate,

And where is the man in such a state, would not have done the same?

Those poor men they were taken, for whom many hearts are aching,

For there is no one in reason their conduct can well blame.

It was in the midst of that strife, that poor Brett he lost his life,

That has caused the sons of Ireland most deeply to deplore,

And through that sad unhappy day, there’s many a pitying heart will say,

Poor Allen, Gould, and Larkin, alas! are now no more.

These men they were convicted, and by the judge was sentenced,And for murder and treason they were condemned to die,And left to meet their fate to the gaze of all spectators,Tho’ that their lives would be spared it was the country’s cry.To God I recommend them, in his mercy to defend them,May their souls shine in glory upon that blessed shore,Safe within his keeping where there will be no weeping,Now Allen, Gould, and Larkin, alas! are now no more.

These men they were convicted, and by the judge was sentenced,

And for murder and treason they were condemned to die,

And left to meet their fate to the gaze of all spectators,

Tho’ that their lives would be spared it was the country’s cry.

To God I recommend them, in his mercy to defend them,

May their souls shine in glory upon that blessed shore,

Safe within his keeping where there will be no weeping,

Now Allen, Gould, and Larkin, alas! are now no more.

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London.

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