MURDER BY MILL STREET BRIDGE

      Eliza Dore 1829-1875        Abel Ovans   1830-1852

Brought up afore the beak, we were much afeared,

me 'n' Abel Ovans, my intended, my troth, my bud.

Very moment they condemned him, I vent an almighty scream.

Such a worrit was he, always bullyragging me, Abel.

Even when I was with child, he’d treat me ill.

How I regret we put a sham upon my ma and pa;

leastways, I hoped to make a goodly mother.

Abel was like tinder, a tongue pad, ‘cause he would

not care a splinter for any bub. Even told

a neighbour he wished the child were dead.

‘Twas better when I was house servant to a victualler

and my beloved Abel was hired a farm labourer.

For my confinement I went to live in Newport,

leaving my caring parents for old grumble-guts,

who begrudged drudgery, would not touch the baby.

We were in bad bread.  O mama, please forgive me.

I missed my sisters something dreadful, begged them visit.

Abel vouched he’d meet them at the Newport packet.

When I was belly up, I had a bellyful of pain.

Seedy, we couldn’t cough the rent, so were turfed out

of our lodgings on a winter’s day, carrying our

bundle of belongings, what with my baby wailing

and Abel kicking up, muttering oaths, scowling.

We quit the Carpenter’s Arms, a Monmouth inn,

where folks said my baby looked bobbish, a treat,

a picture of blooming health – if left to fate!

But next day, God help us, Abel struck me chill.

‘Get rid o’ that dam bub!  It ain’t mine!  All to hell!’

Acting the mule, I refused to hand her tender body over.

We walked in broody silence till Mill Street bridge.

‘Give me that child if you want us to live together!’

I was sore afraid he’d give me fits with his blathery.

‘Let me have the young bugger!’  Snatching the swaddle

clouts, he wrested the child wrapped in a shawl

and strode over the bridge and along by the canal.

‘I don’t care a tuppenny dam no more, you trapes!’

‘Give me back my baby!  O give me back my babe!’

Ten minutes lapsed afore his brassy, sullen return,

roughly bunching shawl and clothes.  Of my babe no sign!

‘What have you done with my little girl?’ I urged too late.

‘I’ve done away with it,’ he barked.  ‘I’ll not keep it!’         

‘It?’ I cried.  ‘My poor precious daughter!  Never no It!’

‘Don’t make that racket here!’  For I couldn’t stop sobbing.

Yes, damn my soul, I’d still have lied to save his skin.

Strangers asked after the baby, suspicions grew, rumours.

About Stowe there was such an unholy stir.

On the morrow the naked baby’s body was found

drowned, floating amid the reeds of the mill pond.

My poor little mite was given burial by Stowe’s chaplain.

Fond and foolish was I to lie for Abel’s skin.

I changed my tune and confessed to police.

Abel swore I’d wished to poison the child.  What dreadful lies!

My late lost love was charged and nubbed.  I was saved

the noose with two days’ grace for mercy’s sake.

Michael Small

June 9-21, 2014

Eliza Dore was spared the death sentence but not transportation.  One of 219 female convicts on the Duchess of Northumberland, the last transport to carry female convicts to Van Diemen’s Land. She arrived in Hobart in April, 1853 after a five month voyage. The following year she re-married and gave birth to thirteen more children.  Abel Ovans was publicly hanged.in 1852.