Tyburn London's Fatal Tree, Twelve Solemn St Sepulcher's Bell Towles. Poem by Anthony Fry

I confess corruption, placed in ranks of reprobates.

The death tree I see, my soul a tremble, I struggle.

A lone figure standing out, in the cold and dark of night.

I have been only corruption, and leader to confusion.

I have wasted my name, in goods unlawfully gotten.

Standing as an example, ending my days in repentance.

Repentance of my former sins, I would call upon God.

Forgiveness may descend, penitence of heart I desire.

I could be pardoned of heinous sin, which I committed.

Life which I gracelessly abused, my death a scandal.

Undeservedly having defied death, long before this time.

Then his eye welled forth a tear, holding not one regret.

Thousands died in a murky past, contriving Audrey's sparrow.

Seduced by raffish, but expensive delights of the Metropolis.

A penn'orth of curds and whey, my favourite comestibles.

Vibrant with activity, it was filthy, full of pestilential, jolly noisy.

Busy with conventicles, or clandestine meetings in Fetter Lane.

A Newgate hostelry, named, ' The man loaded with mischief.'

Knaves, fools, luckless dupes, a woman, a magpie, a monkey.

From Newgate prison to Tyburn, to mother Procter's pew.

Via the neckinger stream, underground at the elephant and castle.

The Church of the holy St Sepulchre, to Newgate Prison.

St Sepulchre's sexton, traversed a secret underground passage.

Twas heard twelve solemn bell towles, with double strokes.

To Jesus Christ our Lord, I commend receive your soul.

All of you, that in these Newgate condemned cells do stay.

Prepare you now, for tomorrow you shall pass on your way.

Listen all and pray, your last breathing hour is drawing near.

That you once more, before Almighty God must appear.

Examine yourselves careful, no time left for you to repent.

The windows dancing, with a devils warm fire, eternal flames.

St Sepulchre's bell towles, have mercy on your damned souls.

Your lone sole, shall not see another sunset past twelve strikes.

To God I commend thy soul, whither fly thou thy soul to hell.

Most died as obscurely, and hopelessly as they had lived.

I am accused and condemned to die, Lord have mercy on me.

The accommodating devils neck-cloth, a knotted rope for hanging.

They were turned off the ladder, and there hanged till dead.

Finally I hang here, on ye old London fatal Tyburn Tree.

And thus of you all, I take my leave of this world. Amen.