The tales were not more evil than the truth.
She had two children as the fruits of trade
Though she drank bitter herbs to kill the curse,
Both of them sons, and one she overlaid,
The other one the parish had to nurse.
Now she grew plump with money in her purse,
Passing for pure a hundred miles, I guess,
From where her little son wore workhouse dress.
There with the Union boys he came and went,
A parish bastard fed on bread and tea,