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.