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Lost quotations

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Poem narrated by a ghost about her body being used in London teaching hospitals | 09-Aug-10

Enquirer is looking for an amusing poem they heard on the radio in about 2004.

It concerned the ghost of a lady talking to her husband (Albert of Alfred) who was asleep in bed, telling him that he would not be able to visit her grave because her body had been cut up and shared around London teaching hospitals and was buried in various places.

Enquirer thinks is was by a female poet with the surname Wood.

3 comments have been made on this quote. Click here to read them and then add your own!

Do you know this poem? Do you have any clues to help us find it?


Try "Susan Wood" for the poet.
Anne Bingley

This is Mary's Ghost by Thomas Hood

'Twas in the middle of the night,
To sleep young William tried,
When Mary?s ghost came stealing in,
And stood at his bed-side.

O William dear! O William dear! 5
My rest eternal ceases;
Alas! my everlasting peace
Is broken into pieces.

I thought the last of all my cares
Would end with my last minute; 10
But tho? I went to my long home
I didn?t stay long in it.

The body-snatchers they have come,
And made a snatch at me;
It?s very hard them kind of men 15
Won?t let a body be!

You thought that I was buried deep
Quite decent like and chary,
But from her grave in Mary-bone
They?ve come and boned your Mary. 20

The arm that used to take your arm
Is took to Dr. Vyse;
And both my legs are gone to walk
The hospital at Guy?s.

I vow?d that you should have my hand, 25
But fate gives us denial;
You?ll find it there, at Dr. Bell?s
In spirits and a phial.

As for my feet, the little feet
You used to call so pretty, 30
There?s one, I know, in Bedford Row,
The t?other?s in the city.

I can?t tell where my head is gone,
But Doctor Carpue can:
As for my trunk, it?s all pack?d up 35
To go by Pickford?s van.

I wished you?d go to Mr. P.
And save me such a ride;
I don?t half like the outside place,
They?ve took for my inside. 40

The cock it crows - I must begone!
My William we must part!
But I?ll be yours in death, altho?
Sir Astley has my heart.

Don?t go to weep upon my grave, 45
And think that there I be;
They haven?t left an atom there
Of my anatomie.

Tina Rath

This is the poem our enquirer was looking for. The enquirer would like to thank Tina Rath for enabling them to rediscover it.
Poetry Library

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