The Shadow Of Raggedstone

O RAGGEDSTONE, you darksome hill, Your shadow fell for sure Upon my own dear love and I, Across the purple moor.

For we were such a happy pair, The day we climbed your crest; And now my love she lays her head Upon another’s breast.

She sits beside another man, And walks abroad with he, And never sheds a single tear, Or thinks a thought o’ me!

My mind it seems a-fire like, My heart’s as cold as lead, My prayers they dry upon my lips And somehow won’t get said.

I wish that I could lay me down, Upon the dreary plain That stretches out to Raggedstone,* And never rise again!

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* A legend is attached to Raggedstone Hill in Worcestershire. The Hill was cursed by a Benedictine Monk. From time to time a great shadow rises up from it, spreading across the surrounding country. Woe betide those on whom the shadow falls, as it brings with it terrible misfortune! Many of the people living near Raggedstone still firmly believe in this legend.