Published in the Ipswich Weekly Journal and Suffolk, Norfolk, Essex and Cambridgeshire Advertiser
Friday December 2 1887
The Bramford Ghost
November’s frost the turnpike road
Had made both hard and dry,
The sun had long since set behind
A dark and sullen sky.
The market folk who that day went
To Ipswich busy town,
Had hasten’d home for fear lest night
Should o’er their path come down.
The gas was lit in house and shop,
And every frozen street
Resounded with the noisy tramp
Of eager, bustling feet.
A strapping lad from Bramford went,
His purchases to make;
Some said he was a decent chap,
And some, he was a rake.
His age it might be twenty-one,
Or may be twenty-two
But with the tale I’m going to tell,
His age has nought to do.
His purchases were quickly made,
Were in his pocket thrust
And then he went to look about,
As country people must.
He first went here and then went there;
Now looked at this and that;
Admiring first a gaudy rug,
And then a new shaped hat.
Thus loitered he about the town,
Until ‘twas getting late,
And then, almost afraid to go,
He tried to find a mate.
But no acquaintance could he see,
Which made his nerves feel sore,
For from the town unto his house
‘Twas three good miles or more.
Longer to stay it was no use;
So buttoning up his coat,
He turned his back on Ipswich streets,
With many a bitter thought.
His hurried way he homeward bent,
And darker grew the sky.
And loud and clear his footsteps rang
O’er footpath hard and dry.
To keep his feeble courage up,
And help him going along,
He whistled many a cheerful tune,
Or humm’d some favourite song.
But darker grew the lonely road
At every step he took,
And when rustling sound he heard,
He started round to look.
The last house he had long since passed,
And now the wind blew chill;
It moaned among the leafless trees,
And roared down Bramford hill.
Still on he went with hasty step,
And feared to look behind,
For all the dreadful tales he knew
Came fresh into his mind.
And now he wish’d he never heard,
A single goblin tale,
For being but a nervous lad,
He found his courage fail.
He fancied that each bush he saw,
And every dead tree stump,
Some goblin hid, which as he passes,
Would out upon him jump.
But soon he neared a lonely spot,
Of which queer tales were told,
He eyed that gloomy copse with dread,
And felt his blood turn cold.
He’d heard that once in days gone by,
A man had there been hung,
That three wild days and stormy nights,
The lifeless corpse had swung;
And when they laid it in the grave,
Wrapped in and old black coat,
The chain with which he had been hung
Was still around his throat.
But, so ‘twas told in whisper grave,
Three days the corpse lay there,
And then it went – no one knew how,
And none knew when or where.
And now the Bramford people say
That when the old moon wanes,
His restless spirit wanders forth
Dragging its iron chains.
The lad got all his courage up –
He’d passed the dreaded part,
When just behind he heard a sound,
Which chilled his timid heart
He glanced aside – nought could he see,
Yet still he heard the sound,
As though a rusty iron chain
Came clanking o’er the ground.
His whistling ceased, he held his breath,
His eyes stood out with fear;
His lips that just had moved in song,
Now moved in muttered prayer.
What could it be? He heard no step
Of woman, man or child
So thought of course the chain was trailed,
By ghost or goblin wild.
At last in sheer despair, he stopped
Until the Ghost should come;
It stopped as well – nought could he see,
Beyond the darksome gloom.
So on he went with quicker step,
Yet still the Ghost came on,
His walk soon changed into a trot,
His trot into a run.
But still the Ghost came clink-a-clink –
His mind was on the rack,
For much he feared the dreadful thing
Would leap upon his back.
He stopped again, and down he knelt
Against a wayside trough,
And prayed that all the holy saints
Would keep the devil off.
But when he stopped, the goblin stopped,
Nor moved a step, until
He once more started on his race,
And came to Bramford Hill.
Then clink, clink, clink, the goblin went,
Fainter the lad still grew,
Until at last a twinkling light,
Came suddenly in view.
The village folks had all retired,
The street was dark and still,
Except when rough November wind,
Came moaning down the hill.
Then down the street with clattering boots
He ran with might and main –
Vowing that if he once got home,
He’d ne’er come out again.
So dark the night and great his fear
The door he scarce could tell,
And when he swung it open wide
The Ghost passed through as well.
Then up the creaky stairs he sprang
Some safe retreat to find;
Yet still his grim pursuer came
Following close behind.
With trembling step and eager haste
He in the closet popped,
But in the closet popped the Ghost –
Then suddenly it stopped.
He thought that now the murderer’s chain
Would wrap around the neck,
So held the door with both his hands
And fastened down the “snack”. (Snack, snick or sneck is an old word meaning latch)
The inmates hurried up to see,
Whatever ailed the lad,
For rushing up the stairs like that,
They thought him surely mad.
They took him down, and then he told
His tale with horror fraught,
And soon in every bed and box,
The honest people sought.
They went into the closet last,
And opening the door,
They saw the horrid Goblin lay,
Quite dead upon the floor!
Then soon they cleared the myst’ry up,
And brought the Ghost to light;
It knew no sin, nor ever tried
To frighten folks at night.
Guiltless it was of every crime,
No evil thought was there –
While he whom it had so much scared
Sat panting in a chair;
His wooden soles were old and worn,
The irons round the soles
Had once contained full many nails,
But now were full of holes.
As he had trudged his homeward path
Along the Gipping vale,
And strove the haunted copse to pass,
Out fell another nail.
Then clink-a-clink the iron soles
Went every step he took,
But whether the Ghost, or what it was,
He’d been afraid to look.
But when he in the closet sprang
And fastened tight the door,
The iron that had thus got loose
Fell off upon the floor.
MORAL.
This Ghost is like most other Ghosts –
They frighten and appal,
Yet in the end they oft turn out,
To be no Ghost at all.
A lesson may be learnt from this;
Those who would fly through fear,
Should always try to ascertain,
If any danger’s near.
Fredk. W. DOUBLEDAY
Ipswich, November 1887
Fred Doubleday came from Newark. He was a mineral water manufacturer in Diss then a spirit agent in Ipswich, living at 11 Fonnereau Rd.