The Ballad Of Charlotte Dymond

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01.08.2019-247 views -The Ballad Of Charlotte now Dymond

 Essay about The Ballad Of Charlotte now Dymond

Charlotte now Dymond was reported missing on

13 April 1844. Her body was available on

Bodmin Moor 9 times later. In 2 September

1844 Matthew Weeks was found guilty of

her killing. He was hanged on 12 August

1844.

The Ballad of Charlotte Dymond simply by Charles Causley

It was a Sunday evening


And in the April rain


That Charlotte went from your house, And

never emerged home once again.

And is that why the eye will not likely dry And

blinds your bleaching encounter?

" Consider me residence! ” cried Charlotte, " I rest here

in the pit! 


A reddish rock sets upon my own breasts, And my

nude neck is split! ”

Her skin was soft as sable, Her eyes were

large as time, Her head was blacker than the

swamp, fen, marsh, quagmire That licked her lifestyle away.

Her cheeks were made of darling, Her neck

was made of flame Exactly where all around the

razor blade Had written their red identity.

Her scarf of precious stone red cloth, She used a

yellowish gown, 


She transported a green gauze handkerchief

Your woman bought in Bodmin community.

As Matt turned by Plymouth About the

tilting Hoe, 


The frosty and cunning Constable Approximately him

do go:

Regarding her can range f her diamond necklace And in her

purse her pride Because she walked out 1

evening Her lover in her area.

" I've come to adopt you, Matthew, Unto the

Magistrate's door. Come peaceful now, you

pretty poor boy. And you must know what

for. ”

Out beyond the marshes Where the cows

stand, With her crippled lover Limping at

her hand.

Charlotte walked with Matthew Throughout the

Sunday air, Never saw the razor blade Waiting

in his hand.

Charlotte the girl was gentle


But they discovered her inside the flood Her Sunday

beads among the reeds Beaming with her

bloodstream.

Matthew, exactly where is Charlotte and wherefore

has she flown? To suit your needs walked out jogging

And now happen to be come by itself.

Why do you really not solution, Stand muted as a

woods, Your Sunday woollen stockings All

muddied to the knees?

" The girl with pure, ” cried Matthew, " Ones own the

early on dew, 


Her only stain it's the pain that round her

neck I actually drew! ”

" The girl with guiltless while the day The girl sprang

forth from her...

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