One Christmas morn in eighty-one,
Ashland, that quiet burg,
Was startled--the day had not yet dawned--
When the cry of fire was heard.
For well they knew two fair ladies
Had there retired to bed.
The startled crowd broke in, alas,
To find the girls both dead.
And from the hissing, seething flames
Three bodies did rescue;
Poor Emma's and poor Fannie's both,
And likewise Bobby's too.
And then like Rachel cried of old
The bravest hearts gave vent,
And all that blessed holiday
To Heaven their prayers were sent.
Autopsy by the doctors show'd
The vilest of all sin,
And proved to all beyond a doubt
Their skulls had been drove in.
And other crimes too vile to name;
I'll tell it if I must;
A crime that shocks all common sense,
A greed of hellish lust.
An ax and crowbar there was found
Besmeared with blood and hair,
Which proved conclusively to all
What had transpired there.
Two virgin ladies of fourteen,
The flower of that town,
With all their beauty and fond hopes,
By demons there cut down--
Just blooming into womanhood,
So lovely and so true;
Bright hopes of long and happy days
With morals just and pure.
Then Marshal Heflin sallied forth,
Was scarcely known to fail,
And in ten days had the assassins
All safely placed in jail.
George Ellis, William Neal and Craft,
Some were Kentucky's sons,
Near neighbors to the Gibbons' house
And were the guilty ones.
In this here dark and bloody ground
They were true types indeed,
Of many demons dead and dam'd
Who fostered that same greed.
A hellish greed of lust to blast
The virtuous and fair,
To gratify that vain desire
No human life would spare.
There Emma Thomas lay in gore,
A frightful sight to view;
Poor Fanny Gibbons in a crisp,
And Bob, her brother, too.
Bob was a poor lame crippled boy,
Beloved by everyone;
His mother's hope, his sister's joy,
A kind, obedient son.
At that dread sight the mother's grief
No mortal tongue can tell.
A broken heart, an addled brain,
When all should have been well.
Both her dear children lying there,
Who once so merry laughed.
There stiff and stark in death they lay,
Cut down by Ellis Craft.
That dreadful demon, imp of hell,
Consider well his crime;
Although he was a preacher's son,
Has blackened the foot of time.
--Peyton Buckner Byrne
This ballad was composed by Peyton Buckner Byrne of Greenup, Greenup
County, Kentucky. He is in error in writing the name of Emma Thomas; the
murdered girl's name was Emma Carico. The tragedy occurred in the early
'80's in the mill town of Ashland, Boyd County, Kentucky, which adjoins
Greenup County. The town of Greenup was formerly called Hangtown because
of the many hangings which occurred there in the days of the Civil War.
Peyton Buckner Byrne was a schoolteacher in that County and one of his
scholars, Miss Tennessee Smith, supplied this copy of the old
schoolteacher's ballad. Ellis Craft is buried on Bear Creek in Boyd
County, not far from Ashland where he committed the crime.