The Ballad of Charlotte Dymond

To view my FAQ concerning Charlotte Dymond, click HERE.

Coming as I do from Cornwall, I thought it would be appropriate to mention this one. I first learned about Charlotte Dymond during an English lesson at school but have since read much more about it. There is an excellent write up about it by accomplished crime writer Linda Stratmann. There is also a fascinating book published by Pat Munn dedicated to the mystery surrounding the murder of Charlotte Dymond. While some of the conclusions that Munn comes to are perhaps less than logical, it is an excellent read nonetheless.

Charlotte Dymond, an attractive 18 year old domestic servant was found murdered near Roughtor Ford on 14th April 1844. Her colleague and boyfriend, crippled farm-hand Matthew Weeks, was hanged for her murder. Her body had lain undiscovered on Bodmin moor for several days before it was found by a search party. The Ballad of Charlotte Dymond written by Charles Causley explains the story of the whole affair far more eloquently and concisely than I am capable of, so will let the ballad take it from here:

It was a Sunday evening And in the April rain That Charlotte went from our house And never came home again. Her shawl of diamond redcloth, She wore a yellow gown, She carried the green gauze handkerchief She bought in Bodmin town. About her throat her necklace And in her purse her pay: The four silver shillings She had at Lady Day. In her purse four shillings And in her purse her pride As she walked out one evening Her lover at her side. Out beyond the marshes Where the cattle stand, With her crippled lover Limping at her hand. Charlotte walked with Matthew Through the Sunday mist, Never saw the razor Waiting at his wrist. Charlotte she was gentle But they found her in the flood Her Sunday beads among the reeds Beaming with her blood. Matthew, where is Charlotte, And wherefore has she flown? For you walked out together And now are come alone. Why do you not answer, Stand silent as a tree, Your Sunday worsted stockings All muddied to the knee? Why do you mend your breast-pleat With a rusty needle’s thread And fall with fears and silent tears Upon your single bed? Why do you sit so sadly Your face the colour of clay And with a green gauze handkerchief Wipe the sour sweat away? Has she gone to Blisland To seek an easier place, And is that why your eye won’t dry And blinds your bleaching face?

Take me home! cried Charlotte, ‘I lie here in the pit! A red rock rests upon my breasts And my naked neck is split!’ Her skin was soft as sable, Her eyes were wide as day, Her hair was blacker than the bog That licked her life away; Her cheeks were made out of honey, Her throat was made of flame Where all around the razor Had written its red name. As Matthew turned at Plymouth About the tilting Hoe, The cold and cunning constable Up to him did go: ‘I’ve come to take you, Matthew, Unto the magistrate’s door. Come quiet now, you pretty poor boy, And you must know what for.’ ‘She is as pure,’ cried Matthew, ‘As is the early dew, Her only stain it is the pain That round her neck I drew! ‘She is as guiltless as the day She sprang forth from her mother. The only sin upon her skin Is that she loved another.’ They took him off to Bodmin, They pulled the prison bell, They sent him smartly up to heaven And dropped him down to hell. All through the granite kingdom And on its travelling airs Ask which of these two lovers The most deserves your prayers. And your steel heart search, Stranger, That you may pause and pray For lovers who come not to bed Upon their wedding day, But lie upon the moorland Where stands the sacred snow Above the breathing river, And the salt sea-winds go.

To view my FAQ concerning Charlotte Dymond, click HERE.