The barbarous and bloody Son,
WHO
Shot his FATHER
As he was going into the Church.
This Murder being Committed by one Symmons, on the Body of his Father-in-Law,
Mr. James Monevoir, a Master Weaver, by shooting him with a Pistol Charg'd with six Slugs,
as he was going into a French Tabernacle in Spittle-Fields, on Sunday Morning the 12th. of Ju-
ly, about Ten of the Clock, and of his being taken and Committed, by Justice Bateman, unto
Newgate for the same. Tune of, I love you dearly, etc.
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OH horrid is the Crime of blood,
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And Damnable if understood;
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And yet this sin so rife is grown,
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The like before was never known.
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As by this tragick act you'l see
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How bloody it appears to be;
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A son the father for to kill,
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And suddenly his blood to spill.
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Oh horrid horrid sure to tell,
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For this must be contriv'd in Hell,
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Or no one else could do this Deed,
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To make a harmless Father bleed.
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Symmons, a Watch-maker by trade,
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Bout three years since marry'd a Maid,
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Whose father lived at the Crown,
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A Weaver in th' Artillery-ground.
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And with this Maiden it is told,
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He had a Portion all in Gold;
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The Father for a year to come,
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Kept both the Daughter and the Son.
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Then went the daughter and the son
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Into the world to live alone;
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But in a year or less was he
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Ruined by Debauchery.
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His Father set him up again
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In hopes his Lewdness he'd refrain;
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But still all that his father gave,
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The Son would not one penny save.
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When that the Father slack'd his hand,
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This Spendthrift would not stay on land
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But on the Seas straight went the Son,
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That and Gallows refuses none.
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But lately he return'd on shore,
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And to his Father went for more:
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The father cry'd I cannot give;
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The Son reply'd then you shant live.
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So straight a Pistol he did get,
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And with six Slugs he Charged it;
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then waited a full hour and more
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to shoot his Father at the Church-door.
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On Sunday the twelfth of July,
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this wicked Son in wait did lye,
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to work his Fathers overthrow,
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While he poor Man to Church did go,
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And just as his poor Father come,
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Straight curs'd him did the wicked son,
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And swearing now I have you found,
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I will have your hearts blood and wounds.
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So Cockt the Pistol and let fly
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Into his Guts immediately;
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Six Slugs which did his Bowels tear,
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While the Minister was at prayer.
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Murder being cry'd and noise of Gun
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Made people out of the Church run,
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they found the Murder'd Father lye,
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the son with sword drawn standing by.
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they cryd whats this that thou hast done?
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whats that to you replyes the son,
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But they secured him presently,
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And now in Newgate he does lye.
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Now Children love your Parents dear,
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Let no temptations you insnare,
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to do as this vile wretch has done,
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A Father murdered by a son.
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