On a night all dark and gloomy, Leaving no one in his cottage, Cottage on the lower roadway, While the noisy winds were blowing, Uncle Barnice sought the village For a meeting at the school house. "Now's the time," Manassa whispered, And Calhoun and Balcomb entered Barnice's lonely, darkened cottage, Stole his money and some cider. When the aged Tollgate Keeper, Known to all as Uncle Barnice, Found his money had been stolen, He at once accused Manassa And his lazy, wayward comrades, Saying they were thieves and robbers. Then Manassa, sly and crafty, Playing nightly, with his comrades, Games of cards and drinking cider, In his shack against the boulder, On the side of Corliss Mountain, Sang in accents low and solemn-- "Have you heard the ancient saying-- How a dead man tells no stories, Tells no stories, tells no stories, How a dead man tells no stories?" Then he added in a whisper-- "Let us see this Tollgate Keeper In the darkness of the night time, In the bedroom of his cottage, Lest he tell the village people, Of the money that is stolen-- Tell them we are thieves and robbers, Only fit to be arrested." March the thirtieth it happened, In the year of eighteen fifty. In the shack against the boulder On the side of Corliss Mountain, When the night was dark and heavy And a dreary rain was falling, Gathered Cobb, Calhoun and Balcomb, With Manassa, drinking brandy, Playing cards, while all were thinking, "How a dead man tells no stories, Tells no stories, tells no stories, How a dead man tells no stories." 'Till the brandy jug was empty, And the game they played forgotten-- All the time the rain was falling. "Better go," Manassa whispered, "Go to see this Tollgate Keeper, In the bedroom of his cottage, For a dead man tells no stories, Tells no stories, tells no stories, For a dead man tells no stories." So they stole across the mountain To the road to Colebrook River, But Manassa, sly and crafty, Sly and crafty like his father, Sprained his ankle on the hill-side; Limped along in seeming anguish, Reached the slope on Woodruff hill-side, Said he could no farther travel, Wanted Cobb to stay beside him In the rain and dismal darkness While his friends, Calhoun and Balcomb, Went to see this Tollgate Keeper In the bed room of his cottage, Where they slew him in the darkness, Slew the aged Tollgate Keeper, "For a dead man tells no stories, Tells no stories, tells no stories, For a dead man tells no stories." Thus they murdered Uncle Barnice, March the thirtieth it happened, In the year of eighteen fifty. In the meeting house in Colebrook-- Meeting house in Colebrook River-- Where the people gathered weeping, April third of eighteen fifty, Sadly spoke the aged parson Of the death of Uncle Barnice; Praised his many deeds of kindness In the Colebrook River Village. In the graveyard is his tombstone, By the church in Colebrook River, Where we read the fearful story-- "BARNICE WHITE was murdered Mar. 30, 1850. Aged 69."