The Confession
‘I'm ill, I'm ill, ' said Rockingham,
‘I'm ill, ' then took to his bed,
He tossed and turned in his fever there
As the visions danced in his head.
He couldn't tell if the world outside
Was real, or a crazy dream,
But muttered into the night, instead
Of some of the things he'd seen.
His wife, Marie, was a surly wench
She said, ‘I'll not be a nurse!
I'll not be tied to a sick man's bed
And left the room, with a curse.
She called the maid and she told her: ‘Sit!
And mop at the old man's brow,
I'll be abroad in the coach and six,
If he dies, go milk the cow! '
The fever turned to delerium
As he tossed and turned all night,
The doctor came, and he feared for him
As he lay in the grey twilight,
He used up seventeen leeches as
He blooded him, full sore,
But Rockingham was a haunted man
From a time of long before.
From time to time, he would sit up straight
And stare, with an awful dread,
As the ghost of Harold Murchison
Would hover, over his bed.
‘Don't come for me, it was my Marie
That you wanted - She was a witch!
If only you'd taken her off from me,
She's such a God-awful bitch! '
He fell back onto the pillow, cried
At the mess he'd made of his life,
And the worst mistake he'd ever made
Was to make Marie his wife,
She'd married him for the Castle gate
And the pride of a titled name,
But her love had stayed with Murchison
And she saw him, just the same.
At midnight they had hurried the priest
And the constable came too,
‘I think he'll be dead by morning, ' said
The doc: ‘Not much I can do! '
But Rockingham tossed as one quite lost
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poem by David Lewis Paget
Added by Poetry Lover
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