PATSY’S POEM.
(Composed while in Bloomington jail)
While sitting in this silent chamber,
And nothing else to do,
I thought I would compose a song
And write it, friends, for you.
I am not much of a poet,
Though I’ll do the best I can
To try to keep my courage up
And bear it like a man.
I was born in Cincinnati
And in Ohio State—
Little did I think, my friends
I would ever meet such a fate.
I was brought up by honest parents,
Who thought the world of me.
And this is the first time I’ve been
Deprived of liberty.
It was on the fourth of August, in 1879,
From house to house the news was spread
That Aaron Goodfellow had been shot,
And soon he would be dead.
Suspicion pointed toward me;
They rushed upon their prey,
And I was forced to prison
To await my trial day.
They took me to the station-house;
From there to the county jail,
Where iron bars surrounded me,
There my troubles to bewail.
I never did the cruel deed—
God knows I’m not to blame,
Although I have been convicted
And must suffer all the shame.
A word to my old mother,
And my sisters kind and true:
Remember I’m innocent
Though I must part from you.
Any you my kind relations,
I know you wish me well;
But my feelings at this moment
No human tongue can tell.
Before I close this rhyme
I’ll not forget to mention
My good jailer,
Mr. Franks.
And now, my kind friends,
‘Tis all that I can do
In sending this, my song,
To bid you all adieu.
Patsy Devine, in a Bloomington, Illinois jail, sometime between 1880 1882
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
PATSY’S POEM.
(Composed while in Bloomington jail)
While sitting in this silent chamber,
And nothing else to do,
I thought I would compose a song
And write it, friends, for you.
I am not much of a poet,
Though I’ll do the best I can
To try to keep my courage up
And bear it like a man.
I was born in Cincinnati
And in Ohio State—
Little did I think, my friends
I would ever meet such a fate.
I was brought up by honest parents,
Who thought the world of me.
And this is the first time I’ve been
Deprived of liberty.
It was on the fourth of August, in 1879,
From house to house the news was spread
That Aaron Goodfellow had been shot,
And soon he would be dead.
Suspicion pointed toward me;
They rushed upon their prey,
And I was forced to prison
To await my trial day.
They took me to the station-house;
From there to the county jail,
Where iron bars surrounded me,
There my troubles to bewail.
I never did the cruel deed—
God knows I’m not to blame,
Although I have been convicted
And must suffer all the shame.
A word to my old mother,
And my sisters kind and true:
Remember I’m innocent
Though I must part from you.
Any you my kind relations,
I know you wish me well;
But my feelings at this moment
No human tongue can tell.
Before I close this rhyme
I’ll not forget to mention
My good jailer,
Mr. Franks.
And now, my kind friends,
‘Tis all that I can do
In sending this, my song,
To bid you all adieu.
Patsy Devine, in a Bloomington, Illinois jail, sometime between 1880 1882
I found this poem a few years ago while doing genealogy research on the internet. My GG Grandfather's name was George Hartsock. He was one of the jurors that convicted Patsy Devine of the ****** of Aaron Goodfellow. Mr. Devine professed his innocence until the very end, and composed this poem, in jail, awaiting execution by hanging.
http://www.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~ildewitt/aaron-goodfellows-murder.htm
