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Cold wind howled across a bleak Bodmin Moor,
As westward the horse drawn coach hurried on.
Black manes did whip six sweating black necks,
And dark was the night as the mares pulled as one.
Their misted breath fanned out of nostels flared,
As they obeyed the crack of coachman's whip.
Hurried the six, black as the night they all shared,
Until they saw the lights of The Mariners Ship.
“Whoa, whoa ye black fiends” the coachman did cry
As he pulled back on the reins with his might
And four pale passengers did alight with a sigh
For The Mariners Ship was their rest for the night.
Dark ale was drunk freely by the men of the group,
While the ladies sat by the fire supping their Sherry
With hunks of bread and cheese, followed by soup
And the four pale passengers retired somewhat merry.
On the hour of twelve their doors slowly did open
And into their rooms crept four hooded men.
Then raising their daggers without having spoken
Plunged them into the sleeping forms again and again.
The morning saw the four in the inns empty stable,
Dividing what spoils they had stolen that night
When in walked their victims still pale but able
And the four just stared and began shaking with fright.
Then four living dead advanced with drawn swords
The men carried sabres while the ladies held rapiers.
With ligtening cuts four heads did fly high to skywards,
Eight deaths, and not one mentioned in the daily papers.
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