It was Hankey the squire, as I’ve heard men say,
Who rode out a-hunting on one Saturday.
They hunted all day, but nothing they found
But a poor murdered woman, laid on the cold ground.
About eight o’clock, boys, our dogs they throwed off,
On Leatherhead Common, and that was the spot;
They tried all the bushes, but nothing they found
But a poor murdered woman, laid on the cold ground.
They whipped their dogs off, and kept them away,
For I do think it proper she should have fair play;
They tried all the bushes, but nothing they found
But a poor murdered woman, laid on the cold ground.
They mounted their horses, and rode off the ground,
They rode to the village, and alarmed it all around,
“It is late in the evening, I am sorry to say,
She cannot be removed until the next day.”
The next Sunday morning, about eight o’clock,
Some hundreds of people to the spot they did flock;
To see the poor creature your hearts would have bled,
Some coldness & violence came into their heads.
She was took off the common, and down to some inn,
And the man that has kept it, his name is John Simms.
The coroner was sent for, the jury they joined,
And soon they concluded, and settled their mind.
Her coffin was brought; in it she was laid,
And took to the churchyard that was called Leatherhead,
No father, no mother, nor no friend, I’m told,
Came to see that poor creature laid under the mould.
So now I conclude, and I finish my song,
And those that have done it, shall find themselves wrong.
For the last day of Judgment the trumpet shall sound,
And their souls not in heaven, I’m afraid, won’t be found.
