Through the streets our wheels slowly move;
The toll of the death bell dismays us.
With nosegays and gloves we are deck’d,
So trim and so gay they array us.
The passage all crowded we see
With maidens that move us with pity;
Our air all, admiring agree
Such lads are not left in the city.
Oh! Then to the tree I must go;
The judge he has ordered the sentence.
And then comes a gownsman you know,
And tells a dull tale of repentance.
By the gullet we’re ty’d very tight;
We beg all spectators, pray for us.
Our peepers are hid from the light,
The tumbril shoves off, and we morrice.
Tyburn ballad as transcribed by Francis Place