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