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Personal Note:

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Poem

Two hundred and three long years have flown
  Since you swung in Gallows Lane.
Now only two rough and mossy stone
  Memorials remain.

And one recounts the sin and shame,
  The ignominious death,
The bastard child, the guilt, the blame,
  Judge Hardinge's righteousness.

But the other recalls your suffering;
  Its gentle words intone:
'The one among you without sin -
  Let him first cast a stone.

But why did you take the knife, Mary,
  Out of the kitchen drawer?
Your baby just wanted a life, Mary,
  And you asked for little more.

Did you take the knife to cut the cord?
  Did you panic when first she cried?
That wailing everyone ignored?
  The blood you tried to hide?

When they dragged you out of the tiny cell,
  After a winter in Presteigne gaol,
You shivered and stumbled and nearly fell,
  Your fear too great and your heart too frail.

But no-one watched you cross the street
  To the place allotted for retribution;
Your hair flowed over the winding sheet
  They'd dressed you in for your execution.

And no-one watched as you hung and swung,
  For the law was not well served that day.
Was Mary Morgan fair and young,
  Silenced by one who'd led her astray?

They thought so when they cut you down,
  And claimed your body as their own;
Your legend lives on in Presteigne Town,
  Judge Hardinge's grave long overgrown.

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