The Ballad of Elizabeth Snagge

The night was dark, a velvet band around a lover’s eye.

The moon was slowly dying in the late December sky.

The wind was gently crooning its malignant lullaby,

when Lady Snagge came riding -

In haste she came down Wood End Lane,

homeward bound to Lord Moreteyne

when she came riding by.

With hat pulled down, in cloak and gown to ward off winter weather.

Her saddle, crop and boots were made of finest Spanish leather

with golden chains and sparkling rings drawn from her Lordship’s treasure.

The Lady Snagge came riding –

She urged her pony harder on,

a wealthy lady out upon

a night of stolen pleasure.

The men were masked and hidden fast in bushes by the path,

their gaunt expressions testified the foulness of their task,

with hungry eyes and sharpened knives a-gleaming in the dark

the villains stayed in hiding,

maliciously abiding,

just like they’d been conspiring,

till she came riding past.

A rope was strung from tree to tree and stretched so tight and thin.

It caught the lady’s pretty neck an inch below the chin.

Her head flew through the frosty air; the robbers hurried in

to where her corpse was writhing.

They robbed her of her finery,

her gold and jewels and ivory

and left her headless body there, an act of mortal sin.

Now all of this occurred just passed the bottom of my drive

but that was 1562 no witnesses alive

can tell you if the tale is true, though records do survive,

although they may be lying,

but to this day the locals say

that those who to this manor stray

still see her riding by

and sometimes as I lie at night disturbed by vivid dreams

the peacefulness is shattered - like it is when someone screams.

Perhaps I hear the sound of hooves - but are they what they seem?

Is Lady Snagge still riding?

They echo still down Cranfield Hill -

a phantom rider riding till

the morning sunlight beams.