May the Lord have mercy on your guilty soul.
What visions now must haunt his pillow,
As in his cell he lays now almost wild,
She points at him, and cries, oh tremble, murderer!
’Tis I, your victim here—that little child!
The hangman comes, hark, the bell is tolling,
Your time has come, nothing can save you,
He mounts the scaffold, the drop is falling,
And Frederick Baker fills a murderer’s grave.