Now mothers all pray give attention, And fathers listen to the tale I’ll tell, To the fearful scene at the House of Detention In Corporation Lane at Clerkenwell; While parents for their children are weeping, And tender mothers wring their hands in pain Do tell me, are they dead, or only sleeping, O shall I never see my child again. To rescue Burke it was their intention, At Clerkenwell this wicked deed was done, And such a sight as this I’ll mention, Was never heard of beneath the sun. Three men they say on that fatal Friday, At four o’clock on that afternoon, Those villians caused that explosion, And hurried those poor creatures to their doom. They from a truck took a barrel of powder, A female, Ann Justice was there as well, And in one moment death and disorder Around the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell. Then all around lay the dead and dying, Some crying, where is my mother dear, Among the ruins in anguish lying, Where tender mothers and children dear; Covered with blood and mutilated, And some they found, death had stilled their cries, For mothers, fathers, and helpless infants, Now in Bartholomew Hospital lies, Three persons there were apprehended, Allen and Desmond to escape they tried, Their purpose it was frustrated, But destruction was spread far and wide. The one who did this deed so cruel, From that sad spot he did escape, But justice quickly will follow after, Be sure it will that villain overtake. They little thought on the fatal morning, With hearts so light and spirits gay That ere the sun should again be dawning, Their little homes would be swept away; That little children in death be sleeping, Or parents for them in anguish cry, For Minnie Abbot many now are weeping, Another little girl has lost her eyes. For those that’s gone shed a tear of pity, And God bless those who assistance gave, Such a crime we seldom hear in London city, May God receive their souls now in the grave. The government has relieved the sufferers, From the Queen, a message to those in pain, And such a sad and dreadful story, In London may we never hear again. SUNDAY TRADING BILL. Oh dear, oh lor, what shall we do? I am sure I cannot tell, can you? Of Lord Chelmsford’s Bill, I’ll tell you true-- The Bill on Sunday trading. The mawworms seem to try, I’m sure, Each way they can to crush the poor, And bring them to the workhouse door, By stopping Sunday trading. I’m sure it is a lying sin, It’s no harm to say, bad luck to him,-- He might as well try to stop our wind, As to stop all Sunday trading.