THE GHOST OF BOSWORTH HALL

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 Bosworth Hall, the Grey Lady, a moment in time,

The spooks fall in this little rhyme.


She was the daughter of the Duke.
Anne was killed, it wasn’t a fluke.


She loved the gardener, her father was not to know,
They met in secret, in places not to go.


But she knew her father was nasty and had a gun,
Many times she heard his voice and had to run.


The big church near the hall,
Cottage gardens, trees big and tall.


Years of love were about to stop,
It was meant for the gardener, he would have had his lot.


Winter’s day was the moment it was planned,
He walked out of the kitchen with the trap in his hand.


Anne was walking out again to meet the love of her life,
She was thinking one day she would be his wife.


She walked in the grounds of the hall — a fall,
Became trapped in the mantrap, life would not be a ball.


She managed to carry the trap, pouring with blood,
Staff came to help, they did what they could.


Very sadly, Anne passed away from her wounds,
Still today, the blood comes flowing down to the rooms.


The gardener was never heard from again,
Sacked on the spot — was he really to blame?


Anne walks around the grounds of the hall still today,
Looking for her love, she wasn’t to stay.


Many centuries later, the hall became a hospital,
Bosworth Park Infirmary was the name.


But the blood still comes down very much the same.


A myth or truth, we will never know,
But the family did exist — sightings will come and go.


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