Friday, June 11, 1812. Thomas sings his last song from within the walls of Newgate prison. Tomorrow, under heavy military guard he, along with seven other suspected Luddites are hanged in Manchester.
To Tyburn Fair
I used to go,
to watch the just procession,
and eat the oranges
the dead would throw,
and hear their last confessions.
To Tyburn Fair
I used to go,
to hear the minstrels sing,
their tragic tales of highwaymen,
common criminals,
enemies of the king.
To Tyburn Fair
on a Saturday,
across the road a beam of wood.
The bones of Cromwell
dangle in the fog,
the Maid of Kent last stood
at Tyburn Fair--
I used to go there,
but now I'm bound for Newgate.
The wheels of progress
ground me in the mud,
a proper end, a tool of fate.
(we'll bury you at crossroads,
we dare not speak or pray,
we'll fill the trench with common earth,
and then we'll walk away.)