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.