By the locals it's rarely admited, But once a foul crime was committed, When a man with a knife, Took a young lady's life, In a lane near the town of Combe Bisset.
The damsel who died was called Maeve, And she lies in a poor unmarked grave, And the legend I hear, Says on March 3 each year, Comes the ghost of the killer, a slave...
To the guilt of that terrible blight. And one year on just this grim night, To the pub came a stranger, Who said he'd arrange a Bet that he'd stay without fright...
In that graveyard until break of day. All the men tried his will to gainsay, But the stranger, the fool, In his long coat of wool, Was determined that he'd have his way.
He insisted that he'd have no fright, Though they argued with all of their might, So a strange knife they gave Him, in order to stave Off that ghost that would come in the night.
In the graveyard he soon squatted down, And drove the knife into the ground, Very close by his side, And there he did bide, 'Til he heard some peculiar sounds.
That cry - was it only an owl, Or something unspeakably foul? And that scrabbling he heard - Just a rat or a bird? And something now started to howl.
He cannot take more of this sound. He tries to rise up from the ground. But he finds he's stuck fast... Through his fright breathes his last... In the morning his body is found.
When that knife he'd plunged into the grass, Through his thick woollen coat it had passed. It was this held him tight, And prevented his flight... In his terror his heart beat its last.
The location given - - Combe Bissett, May well be the right place, but is it? And the date may be wrong, So you'd better be strong, When your own local graveyard you visit.
As usual, this tale's from tradition, I don't know if it's fact or it's fiction, But when old Bill stated, The facts as related, 'Twas told with the greatest conviction.
Tiddy Ogg.
Last updated: Tue, 14 Sep 1999.