As I stood, in the mists, of the workhouse
And watched little Mary Ann Bell
Her crime, that she was an orphan
Her punishment, to live in this hell
At seven years old, she was tiny
Malnourished and always so ill
But she sought and was given no pity
And her grace shone out from her still
She had beautiful eyes, did Mary Ann Bell
And a smile that could light up a room
But she shed many tears in the workhouse
She had learned how to cry in the womb
Her meals were served on the bare floor
And the work was savage and cruel
She was dirty, unkempt and bewildered
As she sucked at a bowl of cold gruel
In the nights, were the horrors of warders
Their hands and the rancid black breath
And forlorn and alone was Mary Ann Bell
Who’s only escape would be death
And death did come young, for Mary Ann Bell
She never lived to be eight
Seven long years in the workhouse
Were her epitaph and was her fate
She lies in the soil, somewhere out there
Snowdrops, are her only headstone
She died as she lived, did Mary Ann Bell
Frightened, abused and alone.
Paintings and poetry. 