RHYMES FOR THE TIMES.

Observer, Volume 4, Issue 96, 15 July 1882, Page 281

RHYMES FOR THE TIMES.

_$» "WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLEEGY." abah AdamSj also known as Adamson, was found dead on Sunday, July 2nd, near an abandoned coal pit, half -a-naile from any human habitation, in a lonely gully near Peebles, Otago. One arm was held up in front of the face, as if w .rding off a blow ; -the hair was dishevelled ; •■ i dress was partly off the body j a handkerchief was tied tightly round the throat ; there .i*e three or four wounds on the head, and the hroat was cut in two places. She had been for . years the paramour of a man named Beattie. 3 body was buried on the sth. at Papakaio, • liout the slightest ceremony, the only persons jj~ 3ent being the constable, sexton, and local publican, who drove a horse and cart conveying the body to the grave. " A li'Mc earth for Charity's salce." Dead ! dead ! stark and cold ; Hide her underneath the mould. Where no pang of conscience stings, No memory dwells of bygone things, JSTo Shame, no sorrow, no remorse, Ho brutal blofr, no sister's curse ; Where strife, and bitterness, and hate, And scandal cannot penetrate. Dead ! dead ! stark and cold ; Hide her underneath the mould. None are here who mourned or missed her, Woe is me, my fallen sister ! Question not if she were just, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ! Who is sinless here, my brothers ? * Let him cast a stone at others ; Let no blame be whispered here, Above tliis murdered woman's bier; 1 The hiiman soul has passed away That dwelt within this poor, dead clay. Dead! dead: stark and cold ; Hide her underneath the mould. None arc here who mourned or missed her, Woe is me, my erring sister ! Not one mourner lingeVs here, Beside her grave to shed a tear ; iNot one pitying word is spoken, Not a sign of grief, nor token Of a mourner or a lover, Not a flower is strewn above her ; Sigh, nor murmur of affliction, Prayer, nor psalm, nor benediction. Dead ! dead ! stark and cold j Shovel over her the mould. None are here who mourned or missed hex*, Woe is me, forsaken sister ! Only here in formal sort, The law whose forms she set at naught ; The sexton, with uncovered head, Who gleans the harvest of the dead ; And he who sells the Circean cup, Whose victims fill the churchyard up, Some touch of grief- within him stirred To see a customer interred. Dead ! dead ! stark and cold ; Shovel over her the mould. Who is here that mourned or missed her ? Woe is me, my friendless sister! Earth to earth ! Now, at last, Thy sad pilgrimage is past. By the holy love He beareth, By the bruised reed He spareth, O, may He, to whom alone All thy wrongs and shame are known, Now thy hope and refuge prove With a more than mortal love ! Dead, dead, stark and cold, Shovel over her the mould, None are here who mourned or missed her, Woe is me, my erring sister ! AUTOSIATHES.