The Ballad Of Charlotte Dymond
Charlotte Dymond was reported missing on
14 April 1844. Her body was found on
Bodmin Moor 9 days later. On 2 August
1844 Matthew Weeks was found guilty of her murder. He was hanged on 12 August
1844.
The Ballad of Charlotte Dymond by Charles Causley
It was a Sunday evening
And in the April rain
That Charlotte went from our house, And never came home again.
And is that why your eye won’t dry And blinds your bleaching face?
“Take me home!” cried Charlotte, “I lie here in the pit!
A red rock rests upon my breasts, And my naked neck is split!”
Her skin was soft as sable, Her eyes were wide as day, Her head was blacker than the bog That licked her life away.
Her cheeks were made of honey, Her throat was made of flame Where all around the razor Had written its red name.
Her shawl of diamond red cloth, She wore a yellow gown,
She carried a green gauze handkerchief
She bought in Bodmin town.
As Matthew turned at Plymouth About the tilting Hoe,
The cold and cunning Constable Up to him did go:
About her throat her necklace And in her purse her pride As she walked out one evening Her lover at her side.
“I’ve come to take you, Matthew, Unto the
Magistrate’s door. Come quiet now, you pretty poor boy. And you must know what for.” Out beyond the marshes Where the cattle stand, With her crippled lover Limping at her hand.
Charlotte walked with Matthew Through the
Sunday mist, Never saw the razor Waiting at his wrist.
Charlotte she was gentle
But they found her in the flood Her Sunday beads among the reeds Beaming with her blood. Matthew, where is Charlotte and wherefore has she flown? For you walked out together
And now are come alone.
Why do you not answer, Stand silent as a tree, Your Sunday woollen stockings All muddied to the knee?
“She is pure,” cried Matthew, “As is the early dew,
Her only stain it is the pain that round her neck I drew!”
“She is guiltless as the day She sprang forth from her
14 April 1844. Her body was found on
Bodmin Moor 9 days later. On 2 August
1844 Matthew Weeks was found guilty of her murder. He was hanged on 12 August
1844.
The Ballad of Charlotte Dymond by Charles Causley
It was a Sunday evening
And in the April rain
That Charlotte went from our house, And never came home again.
And is that why your eye won’t dry And blinds your bleaching face?
“Take me home!” cried Charlotte, “I lie here in the pit!
A red rock rests upon my breasts, And my naked neck is split!”
Her skin was soft as sable, Her eyes were wide as day, Her head was blacker than the bog That licked her life away.
Her cheeks were made of honey, Her throat was made of flame Where all around the razor Had written its red name.
Her shawl of diamond red cloth, She wore a yellow gown,
She carried a green gauze handkerchief
She bought in Bodmin town.
As Matthew turned at Plymouth About the tilting Hoe,
The cold and cunning Constable Up to him did go:
About her throat her necklace And in her purse her pride As she walked out one evening Her lover at her side.
“I’ve come to take you, Matthew, Unto the
Magistrate’s door. Come quiet now, you pretty poor boy. And you must know what for.” Out beyond the marshes Where the cattle stand, With her crippled lover Limping at her hand.
Charlotte walked with Matthew Through the
Sunday mist, Never saw the razor Waiting at his wrist.
Charlotte she was gentle
But they found her in the flood Her Sunday beads among the reeds Beaming with her blood. Matthew, where is Charlotte and wherefore has she flown? For you walked out together
And now are come alone.
Why do you not answer, Stand silent as a tree, Your Sunday woollen stockings All muddied to the knee?
“She is pure,” cried Matthew, “As is the early dew,
Her only stain it is the pain that round her neck I drew!”
“She is guiltless as the day She sprang forth from her