Page:Lass of fair wone, or, The parson's daugter (sic) betrayed.pdf/8

 Forth from her hair a silver pin With hasty hand she drew, And press'd against its tender heart, And the sweet babe she slew.

Whene'er the act of blood was done, Her soul its guilt abhorr'd: “My Jesus! what has been my deed? Have mercy on me, Lord!”

With bloody nails, beside the pond, Its shallow grave she tore: "There rest in God; there shame and want Thou canst not suffer more:

Me vengeance waits. My poor, poor child. Thy wound shall bleed afresh, When ravens from the gallows tear Thy mother's mould'ring flesh."

Hard by the bower her gibbet stands: Her skull is still to show; It seems to eye the barren grave, Three spans in length below.

That is the spot where grows no grass; Where falls no rain nor dew; Whence steals along the pond of toads A hovering fire so blue.

And nightly, when the ravens come, Her ghost is seen to glide; Pursues and tries to quench the flame, And pines the pool beside.