MILES WEATHERHILL by ANONYMOUS

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.

* * *

Miles Weatherhill was but three and twenty,
His mind was noble, he good did mean,
And Sarah Bell was fair and virtuous,
Young and blooming, aged seventeen.
They would have been married, but tales were carried,
Which caused displeasure, as you shall hear,
Miles was refused for 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.

* * *

Miles and his 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.

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