  Who was hung at York for robbing the mail on the 14th of April, 1792. To you my dear companions, Accept these lines I pray; A most impartial trial Has occupied this day. 'Tis from your dying Broughton To show his wretched fate, I hope you'll make reformation Before it is too late. The loss of your companion Does grieve my heart full sore, And I know that my fair Ellen Will my wretched fate deplore. I think on those happy hours That now are past and gone, Now poor unhappy Broughton Does wish he had ne'er been born. One day in Saint James's With large and swelling pride, Each man had a flash woman Walking by his side; At night we did retire Unto some ball or play, In these unhappy pleasures How time did pass away. Brought up in wicked habit, Which brings me now in fear, How little did I think My time would be so near; For now I'm overtaken, Condemned and cast to die, Exposed a sad example To all that does pass by. O that I had but gone To some far-distant clime, A gibbet post, poor Broughton, Would never have been mine; But alas, for all such wishes, Such wishes are in vain, Alas! it is but folly And madness to complain. One night I tried to slumber And close my weeping eyes, I heard a foot approach Which struck me with surprise; I listened for a moment, A voice made this reply, "Prepare thyself, Spence Broughton, To-morrow you must die." O awful was the messenger And dismal was the sound, Like a man that was distracted I rolled upon the ground; My tears they fell in torrents, With anguish I was torn; I am poor unhappy Broughton, I wish I had ne'er been born. Farewell, my wife and children, To you I do bid adieu, I never should have come to this Had I staid at home with you. I hope thro' my Redeemer To gain the happy shore, Farewell! farewell! farewell for ever, Spence Broughton soon will be no more. |
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