Tragedy
THE ASHLAND TRAGEDY
One Christmas morn in eighty-one,
Ashland, that quiet burg,
Was startled—the day had not yet dawned—
When the cry of fire was heard.
For well they knew two fair ladies
Had there retired to bed.
The startled crowd broke in, alas,
To find the girls both dead.
And from the hissing, seething flames
Three bodies did rescue;
Poor Emma’s and poor Fannie’s both,
And likewise Bobby’s too.
And then like Rachel cried of old
The bravest hearts gave vent,
And all that blessed holiday
To Heaven their prayers were sent.
Autopsy by the doctors show’d
The vilest of all sin,
And proved to all beyond a doubt
Their skulls had been drove in.
And other crimes too vile to name;
I’ll tell it if I must;
A crime that shocks all common sense,
A greed of hellish lust.
An ax and crowbar there was found
Besmeared with blood and hair,
Which proved conclusively to all
What had transpired there.
Two virgin ladies of fourteen,
The flower of that town,
With all their beauty and fond hopes,
By demons there cut down—
Just blooming into womanhood,
So lovely and so true;
Bright hopes of long and happy days
With morals just and pure.
Then Marshal Heflin sallied forth,
Was scarcely known to fail,
And in ten days had the assassins
All safely placed in jail.
George Ellis, William Neal and Craft,
Some were Kentucky’s sons,
Near neighbors to the Gibbons’ house
And were the guilty ones.
In this here dark and bloody ground
They were true types indeed,
Of many demons dead and dam’d
Who fostered that same greed.
A hellish greed of lust to blast
The virtuous and fair,
To gratify that vain desire
No human life would spare.
There Emma Thomas lay in gore,
A frightful sight to view;
Poor Fanny Gibbons in a crisp,
And Bob, her brother, too.
Bob was a poor lame crippled boy,
Beloved by everyone;
His mother’s hope, his sister’s joy,
A kind, obedient son.
At that dread sight the mother’s grief
No mortal tongue can tell.
A broken heart, an addled brain,
When all should have been well.
Both her dear children lying there,
Who once so merry laughed.
There stiff and stark in death they lay,
Cut down by Ellis Craft.
That dreadful demon, imp of hell,
Consider well his crime;
Although he was a preacher’s son,
Has blackened the foot of time.
—Peyton Buckner Byrne
|
This ballad was composed by Peyton Buckner Byrne of Greenup, Greenup County, Kentucky. He is in error in writing the name of Emma Thomas; the murdered girl’s name was Emma Carico. The tragedy occurred in the early ’80’s in the mill town of Ashland, Boyd County, Kentucky, which adjoins Greenup County. The town of Greenup was formerly called Hangtown because of the many hangings which occurred there in the days of the Civil War. Peyton Buckner Byrne was a schoolteacher in that County and one of his scholars, Miss Tennessee Smith, supplied this copy of the old schoolteacher’s ballad. Ellis Craft is buried on Bear Creek in Boyd County, not far from Ashland where he committed the crime.
THE MORAL OF THE BALLAD
There’s a sad moral to this tale.
Now pass the word around;
Pull off your shoes now and walk light;
Ashland is holy ground.
Bill Neal he came from Virginia,
A grand and noble State,
But his associates were bad
And he has shared their fate.
Bill Neal he saw Miss Emma Thomas,
So beautiful and fair
That all his hellish greed of lust
Seemed to be centered there.
Bill Neal he was a married man,
Had children and a wife;
And ofttimes bragged what he would do,
If it should cost his life.
Bill Neal done what he said he would,
And yet a greater sin;
Then with a great big huge crowbar
Broke Emma’s skullbones in.
Yes, Bill Neal done just what he said,
And yet that greater sin,
For which the gates of Heaven closed
And will not let him in.
Now while his victim is in Heaven,
Where all things are done well,
There with the angels glorified,
Bill Neal will go to hell.
|
THE DEATH OF MARY PHAGAN
Leo M. Frank, manager of the pencil factory, was a Jew. Sentiment ran high against him at the time of the murder. This ballad was composed by young Bob Salyers of Cartersville, Georgia, who heard the story on all sides. He could neither read nor write.
Come listen all ye maidens,
A story I’ll relate
Of pretty Mary Phagan
And how she met her fate.
Her home was in Atlanta
And so the people say,
She worked in a pencil factory
To earn her meager pay.
She went down to the office
One April day, it’s said;
The next time that they saw her,
Poor Mary, she was dead.
They found her outraged body—
Oh, hear the people cry—
“The fiend that murdered Mary
Most surely he must die.”
James Conley told the story,
“’Twas Leo Frank,” he said,
“He strangled little Mary
And left her cold and dead.”
Now Frank was tried for murder,
His guilt he did deny.
But the jury found him guilty
And sentenced him to die.
His life he paid as forfeit;
And then there came a time
Another man lay dying,
And said he did the crime.
We do not know for certain,
But in the Judgment Day,
We know that God will find him
And surely make him pay.
—Bob Salyers
|
THE FATE OF EFFIE AND RICHARD DUKE
Oh, hearken to this sad warning,
You husbands who love your wife,
Don’t never fly in a passion
And take your companion’s life.
Of Doctor Rich Duke I will tell you,
Who lived up Beaver Creek way,
He married fair Effie Allen
And loved her well, so they say.
Both Effie and Rich had money,
But he was much older than she,
And she said, “All your lands and money
Should be deeded over to me.”
His wife he loved and trusted
And he hastened to obey;
But the fact he soon regretted
That he deeded his riches away.
They quarreled and then they parted,
The times were more than three,
For both of them were stubborn
And they never could agree.
Now Doctor John, his brother,
Was a highly respected man,
He brought Effie home one evening,
Saying, “Make up your quarrel if you can.”
And Rich seemed glad to see her,
And followed her up the stair,
But only God and the angels
Know just what happened there.
Doctor John was down at the table
When he heard the pistol roar;
He ran up the stairs in a moment
And looked in at the open door.
Poor Rich lay there by his pistol
With a bullet through his brain,
And Effie lay there dying
Writhing in mortal pain.
They were past all human succor,
No earthly power could save;
And they took their secrets with them
To the land beyond the grave.
Now all you wives and husbands,
Take heed to this warning true.
Never quarrel over lands and money
Or some day the fact you will rue.
—Coby Preston
|
THE FATE OF FLOYD COLLINS
This ballad was composed in 1925 by Jilson Setters, when Floyd Collins was trapped in a salt mine near Mammoth Cave, Kentucky.
Come all you friends and neighbors
And listen to what I say,
I’ll relate to you a story,
Of a man who passed away.
He struggled hard for freedom,
His heart was true and brave,
While his comrades they were toiling
His precious life to save.
His name was Floyd Collins,
Exploring he did crave.
But he never dreamed that he’d be trapped
In a lonely sandstone cave.
His entrance it was easy,
His heart was light and gay,
But his mind was filled with trouble
When he found he’d lost his way.
He wandered through the cavern,
He knew not where to go,
He knew he was imprisoned,
His heart was full of woe.
He started for the entrance
That he had passed that day.
A large and mighty boulder
Had slipped down in his way.
The stone was slowly creeping
But that he did not know,
Underneath he found an opening
He thought that he could go.
He soon got tired and worried,
He soon then had to rest,
The boulder still was creeping,
It was tightening on his chest.
He lost all hopes of freedom,
No farther could he go;
His agony was desperate,
That you all well know.
His weeping parents lingered near;
A mother gray and old.
Soon poor Floyd passed away
And heaven claimed his soul.
A note was in his pocket,
The neighbors chanced to find;
These few lines were written
While he had strength and mind:
“Give this note to mother,
Tell her not to cry;
Tell her not to wait for me,
I will meet her by and by.”
—Jilson Setters
|
This ballad was written by fifty-year-old Adam Crisp who lived in Fletcher, North Carolina, at the time of Collins’ death. Crisp could neither read nor write but composed many ballads.
FLOYD COLLINS’ FATE
Come all you young people
And listen to what I tell:
The fate of Floyd Collins,
Alas, we all know well.
His face was fair and handsome,
His heart was true and brave,
His body now lies sleeping
In a lonely sandstone cave.
How sad, how sad the story,
It fills our eyes with tears,
His memory will linger
For many, many a year.
His broken-hearted father
Who tried his boy to save
Will now weep tears of sorrow
At the door of Floyd’s cave.
Oh, mother, don’t you worry,
Dear father, don’t be sad;
I’ll tell you all my troubles
In an awful dream I had;
I dreamed that I was prisoner,
My life could not be saved,
I cried, “Oh! must I perish,
Within the silent cave?”
The rescue party gathered,
They labored night and day
To move the mighty boulder
That stood within the way.
“To rescue Floyd Collins!”
This was the battlecry.
“We will never, no, we will never
Let Floyd Collins die.”
But on that fatal morning
The sun rose in the sky,
The workers still were busy,
“We will save him by and by.”
But, oh, how sad the evening,
His life they could not save,
His body then was sleeping
Within the lonely cave.
Young people all take warning
With this, for you and I,
We may not be like Collins,
But you and I must die.
It may not be in a sand cave
In which we find our tomb,
But at that mighty judgment
We soon will find our doom.
—Adam Crisp
|