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It was Yanky the Squire as I've heard them tell |
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He went out a-hunting all on one fine day |
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He went out a-hunting but nothing he found |
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But a poor murdered woman laid on the cold ground |
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About eight o'clock, boys, our dogs they throwed off |
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And off to the Common and that was the spot |
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They tried all the bushes but nothing they found |
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But a poor murdered woman laid on the cold ground |
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They whipped their dogs off and they kept them away |
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For I do think it is proper that she should have fair play |
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They tried all the bushes but nothing they found |
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But a poor murdered woman laid on the cold ground |
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They mounted their horses and they rode off the ground |
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They rode to the village and alarmed it all around |
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"It is late in the evening, I am sorry to say, |
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She cannot be removed until the next day." |
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The next Sunday morning about eight o'clock |
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Some hundreds of people to the spot they did flock |
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For to see that poor creature it would make your hearts bleed |
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Some cold-hearted violence came into their heads |
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She was took off the Common and down to some inn |
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And the man that has kept it his name is John Sims |
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The Coroner was sent for and the jury they joined |
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And soon they concluded and they settled their mind |
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A coffin was brought and in it she was laid |
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And took to the churchyard in fair Leatherhead |
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No father, no mother, nor no friend at all |
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Came to see the poor creature put under the mould |
