Little Fanny Fletcher
Was only eight years old:
Her story is both sad and true.
And I will tell it unto you
As it, to me, was told.

In Stone Row, Jacksdale Common,
Stood Fanny’s humble home,
From which, except to church and school,
She never thought to roam.
Obedient to her parents,
To brothers, sisters, kind,
Like her in all her gentle ways
You very few would find.

The winter’s snows had disappeared,
The “Cut” from ice was free,
Along whose banks she daily passed,
In childhood’s, careless glee.
But never more than towing path,
Her willing feet will tread
To go to school at Ironville –
Her lessons are all said.

That fatal morn to school she went,
As blithe as bird in June,
Her lessons learned and duly said,
She home returned at noon.
Her mid-day meal she quickly got,
And then, as was the rule,
She must her father’s dinner take
Before, again to school.

With basket in her little hand,
All resolute of will,
With lightsome step, the bridge she crossed,
Nor dreamed of harm or ill.


Oh! ‘tis a sad, sad story,
No sadder one could be,
And so I tell it unto to you,
As it was told to me.

Through the wide gateway unobserved,
The “works” she entered in,
Where furnace blast and hammer’s clang
Resound with deafening din.

Across the yard which she must pass,
A seeming endless row,
Of trucks appeared to bar her path –
But onward she must go,
To reach the shop where father worked,
She tried to pass between,
The trucks that seemed so motionless,
Unnoticed and unseen.

For none, alas! was there to see,
The peril of the child,
But soon a piercing cry rang out,
Of pain and anguish wild.
She strove to extricate herself,
The effort proved in vain,
The wheel revolving caught her legs
And severed them in twain.

Around her, as they silent stood,
Strong men, were moved to tears,
To see a bud of life so fair,
Crushed out in childhood’s years.



To one, who to her rescue ran,
She said in childish talk,
“I cannot go to school today,
Because I cannot walk.”
And to her father, with a sigh,
“I wish I had not come,
But see, I’ve kept your dinner safe
And now, you’ll take me home.”

And home they bore that little form,
So motionless and white,
And thence to the Infirmary,
She died that very night.

Within the cemetery now,
A little grave is seen,
O’er which the daisies soon will grow
And grass spring fresh and green.

With grief to lose their darling child,
Her parents’ hearts are sore,
But though the home as one the less,
Yet Heaven has one the more.

Anonymous