Miles Weatherhill, the Young Weaver, And His Sweetheart, Sarah Bell
The prisoner, Weatherhill, was Executed at Manchester, on Saturday, April the 4th, for the Murder of Jane Smith, at Todmorden, a fellow-servant of Sarah Bell.
Oh give attention, you pretty maidens,
A tale of love I will here unfold,
And you will say, when the same is mentioned,
’Tis as sad a story as ever yet was told;
Miles Weatherhill was a brisk young weaver,
And at Todmorden did happy dwell,
He fell in love with a pretty maiden,
The parson’s servant named Sarah Bell.
It was at Todmorden where these true lovers,
At the parson’s house, tales of love did tell,
And none on earth could be more constant,
Than Miles the weaver and young Sarah Bell.
Deep in each heart was true love engrafted,
They had sworn for ever to happy be,
No power on earth could those lovers sever,
They met in joy and felicity;
But they was parted, and broken hearted,
Separated was those true lovers far,
Those constant lovers adorned each other,
And love will penetrate through iron bars.
Miles Weatherhill was but three and twenty,
His mind was noble, he good did mean,
And Sarah Bell was fair and virtuous,
Young blooming, aged seventeen;
They would have married, but tales were carried,
Which caused displeasure, as you shall hear,
Miles was refused to meet his lover,
And she left Todmorden, in Lancashire,
She left her true-love quite broken hearted,
And to her mother at York did go,
And when such a distance from each other parted,
Caused them sorrow, grief, pain, and woe;
In a fit of sadness, overcome with madness,
He made a deep and solemn vow,
If separated from his own true lover,
He would be revenged on Parson Plow.
With four loaded pistols, in a fit of frenzy,
Miles to the Vicarage did haste forthwith,
And with a weapon wounded the master,
And shot the maiden, named Jane Smith;
To the lady’s bedchamber, in rage and anger,
Bent on destruction, with intent to kill,
He did illtreat her, with a poker beat her,
And her crimson blood on the floor did spill.
Oh, God, in mercy guide evil passions,
Thou seest all things from heaven above,
Three innocent lives has been sacrificed,
And one serious injured, all through true love,
If they’d not been parted, made broken-hearted,
Those in the grave would be living now,
And Miles would not have died on the gallows,
For slaying the maiden and Parson Plow.
Young men and maidens, you constant lovers,
If true and honourable you make a vow,
Be just and upright and oh, remember,
Todmorden Vicarage, and Parson Plow;
And all good people, oh, pray consider,
Where true love is planted, there let it dwell,
And recollect the Todmorden murder,
Young Miles the weaver, and Sarah Bell.
Miles and the true-love by death is parted,
In health and bloom, he the world did leave,
And his true love, quite broken-hearted,
For Miles the weaver, in pain do grieve;
At the early age of three and twenty,
In the shades below, with the worms do dwell,
On the fatal drop, he cried, broken-hearted,
May we meet in heaven, my sweet Sarah Bell.
H. Disley, Printer, 57, High street, St. Giles, London.—W.C.