Mathew's Lament

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: January 24, 2018

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Submitted: January 24, 2018

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Matthews Lament.

 

(With acknowledgement to Charles Causley who wrote the Ballard of Charlotte Dymond)

 

 

Charlotte Dymond, a domestic servant aged eighteen was murdered near Rowtor Ford on Bodmin Moor on Sunday 14th April 1844 by her young man; crippled farm- hand Matthew Weeks, aged twenty two. A stone marks the spot. What prompted this terrible act?

 

 

They were standing too close to each other, she resting her head on his chest,

Caressing her cheek with his fingers, as the sun settled down in the west.

Her smile promised much to the suitor a haven away from the storm.

Her eyes were the colour of starlight her charms all velvet and warm.

He watched like a fool, at the window, seeing his love drift away.

Into the arms of another, he would make somebody pay.

 

For six sweet years he had known her, their hearts and their spirits in tune.

Three times he had pressed her to marry him but all she would say was, soon.

The nights they had spent were in heaven she showed him the way to her soul.

Such bliss he had never encountered, she loved him as though he were whole.

To lose her would tear him asunder his mind and his body to dust

This stranger she touched was a lover, he could see in her eyes it was lust.

 

Challenged at birth, now derided, with a body broken by fate.

When he saw the new man Adonis, his mind seethed with loathing and hate.

There was green in his eye as he watched them and implacable black in his heart.

Betrayal is how he saw it, bitter and cold and apart.

She had shattered his life and his spirit, his mind like his body askew.

Vengeance was all he could dream of and only a death would do.

 

His plan hatched with guile and cunning would lure her away from the hearth.

He would strike while the anger was in him, lest love should deflect from the path.

Her blood would be spilled on the Lords Day and God would collude with the sin.

On the moor she would fall in her beauty, blessed by the freedom he’d win.

But oh how misguided his purpose such remorse left a terrible stain.

He had slaughtered his love and his darling and all that was left was the pain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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