Horrid Murder of a Gentleman, in a Railway Carriage
Another base and dreadful murder,
Now again, alas, has been,
One of the most atrocious murders
It is, as ever yet was seen;
Poor Thomas Briggs, how sad to mention,
Was in a first-class railway carriage slain,
Between Old Ford and Hackney Wick,
Which caused excitement, care and pain.
Oh, listen to this railway murder
Poor Briggs received the fatal wound,
Between Old Ford Bridge and Hackney Wick
And very near great London town.
They found a hat in the railway carriage,
Made in Crawford-street, St. Marylebone,
In which poor Thomas Briggs was riding,
On his journey to his home;
Alas, poor man, he little thought
That he would be deprived of life,
In the railway carriage, by a villain,
At ten o’clock that fatal night.
Oh, little did he think they’d kill him,
He had no thought he was to die,
Upon that fatal Saturday evening,
On the 9th day of July;
The villains in the carriage slew him,
For plunder Thomas Briggs was killed,
In a first-class carriage they did rob him,
And all around his blood was spilled.
Thomas Briggs was a faithful servant,
To Robarts, Lubbock and Company,
Three hundred pounds rewards is offered,
Soon may the murderer taken be,
And brought to justice for the dreadful
Deed he done, as we may hear,
And glad we are there is before us,
A clue to the wicked murderer.
They have traced his watch-chain in the city,
The very key, as we are told,
Stole from poor Briggs that fatal evening,
Albert curb, with swivel seal in gold.
Robbed of nearly all that he possessed,
He was, upon that fatal night,
Between Old Ford and Hackney Wick,
In the Railway Carriage in daylight.
This sad affair has caused excitement,
Far and near, for miles around,
And thousands to the spot are going
From all around great London town.
And on the spot they look with horror,
Where poor Thomas Briggs was killed,
They view with grief, with pain and sorrow,
Where his crimson blood was spilled.
Oh, God above, look down from Heaven,
Point the murdering villains out,
Let stern justice close pursue them,
Never let them roam about;
On him, or them, we all are certain,
Has on the brow the mark of Cain,
Thus ends the brutal horrid murder,
Which has caused such grief and pain.
On that fatal Saturday evening,
They left him in his crimson gore,
July the 9th, in a railway carriage,
Eighteen hundred and sixty-four.