Modest Mary Kelly was good and pure,
Strong, chaste, not yet twenty in 1794.
Beautiful as summer skies, with love of every book,
That spring she fell in love with the farmer Peter Cooke.
They were engaged to be wed on All Hallows Eve,
She would be an October bride like the town had never seen.
But upon a September morn Peter vanished without a trace,
So Mary Kelly rode off, ready for any danger she might face.
Five days and nights she searched for him high and low,
Until at last a lone woodsman told her where to go.
She found him at the Tavern of the Dancing Horse,
Foolish Peter, in the arms of another woman of course.
And when she discovered them in their sinful bed,
Mary emptied Peter’s shotgun into both their heads.
Poor Mary Kelly, her life once a story book to be read,
Perished that winter, hanged by the neck until dead.
She was put into the ground still wearing the fatal rope,
She was buried, Hell bound, without the slightest hope.
Now she wanders her grave at the witching time,
Eternally damned for her ghastly crime.
A more tragic tale there could not be,
Then the legend of modest, murdering Mary Kelly.
