By Charles Causley.<\/p>\n
The Ballad of Charlotte Dymond<\/strong><\/p>\n It was a Sunday evening Her shawl of diamond redcloth, About her throat her necklace In her purse four shillings Out beyond the marshes Charlotte walked with Matthew Charlotte she was gentle Matthew, where is Charlotte, Why do you not answer, Why do you mend your breast-pleat Why do you sit so sadly Has she gone to Blisland Take me home! cried Charlotte, Her skin was soft as sable, Her cheeks were made out of honey, \u2018I\u2019ve come to take you, Matthew, \u2018She is as pure,\u2019 cried Matthew, \u2018She is as guiltless as the day They took him off to Bodmin, All through the granite kingdom And your steel heart search, Stranger, But lie upon the moorland Charles Causley<\/p>\n Visits: 1989<\/p>\n By Charles Causley. The Ballad of Charlotte Dymond It was a Sunday evening And in the April rain That Charlotte went from our house And never came home again. Her shawl of diamond redcloth, She wore a yellow gown, She carried the green gauze handkerchief She bought in Bodmin town. About her throat her necklace […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":2605,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2615","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry","has-post-title","has-post-date","has-post-category","has-post-tag","has-post-comment","has-post-author",""],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/launcestonthen.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2615","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/launcestonthen.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/launcestonthen.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/launcestonthen.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/launcestonthen.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2615"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/launcestonthen.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2615\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2616,"href":"https:\/\/launcestonthen.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2615\/revisions\/2616"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/launcestonthen.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2605"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/launcestonthen.co.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2615"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nAnd in the April rain
\nThat Charlotte went from our house
\nAnd never came home again.<\/p>\n
\nShe wore a yellow gown,
\nShe carried the green gauze handkerchief
\nShe bought in Bodmin town.<\/p>\n
\nAnd in her purse her pay:
\nThe four silver shillings
\nShe had at Lady Day.<\/p>\n
\nAnd in her purse her pride
\nAs she walked out one evening
\nHer lover at her side.<\/p>\n
\nWhere the cattle stand,
\nWith her crippled lover
\nLimping at her hand.<\/p>\n
\nThrough the Sunday mist,
\nNever saw the razor
\nWaiting at his wrist.<\/p>\n
\nBut they found her in the flood
\nHer Sunday beads among the reeds
\nBeaming with her blood.<\/p>\n
\nAnd wherefore has she flown?
\nFor you walked out together
\nAnd now are come alone.<\/p>\n
\nStand silent as a tree,
\nYour Sunday worsted stockings
\nAll muddied to the knee?<\/p>\n
\nWith a rusty needle\u2019s thread
\nAnd fall with fears and silent tears
\nUpon your single bed?<\/p>\n
\nYour face the colour of clay
\nAnd with a green gauze handkerchief
\nWipe the sour sweat away?<\/p>\n
\nTo seek an easier place,
\nAnd is that why your eye won\u2019t dry
\nAnd blinds your bleaching face?<\/p>\n
\n\u2018I lie here in the pit!
\nA red rock rests upon my breasts
\nAnd my naked neck is split!\u2019<\/p>\n
\nHer eyes were wide as day,
\nHer hair was blacker than the bog
\nThat licked her life away;<\/p>\n
\nHer throat was made of flame
\nWhere all around the razor
\nHad written its red name.
\nAs Matthew turned at Plymouth
\nAbout the tilting Hoe,
\nThe cold and cunning constable
\nUp to him did go:<\/p>\n
\nUnto the magistrate\u2019s door.
\nCome quiet now, you pretty poor boy,
\nAnd you must know what for.\u2019<\/p>\n
\n\u2018As is the early dew,
\nHer only stain it is the pain
\nThat round her neck I drew!<\/p>\n
\nShe sprang forth from her mother.
\nThe only sin upon her skin
\nIs that she loved another.\u2019<\/p>\n
\nThey pulled the prison bell,
\nThey sent him smartly up to heaven
\nAnd dropped him down to hell.<\/p>\n
\nAnd on its travelling airs
\nAsk which of these two lovers
\nThe most deserves your prayers.<\/p>\n
\nThat you may pause and pray
\nFor lovers who come not to bed
\nUpon their wedding day,<\/p>\n
\nWhere stands the sacred snow
\nAbove the breathing river,
\nAnd the salt sea-winds go.<\/p>\n