It was Yankee the squire
As I've heard the men say
Who rode out a-hunting on one Saturday
They hunted all day, but nothing they found
But a poor murdered woman
Laid on the cold ground
About eight o'clock, boys
The dogs they throwed off
On Leatherhead Common
And that was the spot
They tried all the bushes
But nothing they found
But a poor murdered woman
Laid on the cold ground
They mounted their horses
And they rode off the ground
They rode to the village
And alarmed it all around
It is late in the evening
I'm sorry to say
She cannot be removed
Until the next day
The next Sunday morning
About eight o'clock
Some hundreds of people
To the spot they did flock
For to see the poor creature
Your hearts would have bled
Some cold-hearted violence
Came into their head
She was took off the common
And down to some inn
And the man that has kept it
His name is John Sim
The coroner was sent for
The jury they come
And soon they concluded
And settled their mum
Her coffin was brought
In it she was laid
And took to the churchyard
This cold winter day
No father, no mother
No lone friend untold
Came to see the poor creature
Laid under the cold
So now I'll conclude
And I'll finish my song
And those that have done it
Shall find themselves wronged
The last day of judgment
The trumpet shall sound
And their souls not in heaven
I'm afraid won't be found
