This snippet came from a very strange documentary from decades ago, about a woman from rural Maine in the late 1800s who was ostracized from her community for what was considered the ultimate sin. This woman had a desperate life of privation from childhood on, and was violated and made pregnant at age 13 (already stigmatized by poverty, and now by illicit pregnancy). The baby was taken away from her and sent away, perhaps even sold, destined to be an unpaid farm laborer. She was forced to go on struggling through a harsh life, marrying a poor farmer, being widowed, then later in her life meeting a younger man whom she thought understood her soul.
She married him for love, a rare thing back then, in spite of her community's disapproval of the age difference. A few years later, someone came to visit her and recognized the young man. To everyone's horror, this turned out to be the baby she had been forced to give away at age 13. Without any knowledge of it, she had married her own son. She spent the next few decades of her life living as a hermet, with virtually no contact with other human beings. Only occasionally, someone would begrudgingly donate food to keep her alive. Children would be sent over to her shack with bags of basic provisions, a sack of potatoes, a few garden vegetables - and THROW the sack over her fence so they would not need to talk to her. The town congratulated themselves on their charity towards such a sinner.
This woman was a pauper - a person so poor and so devoid of fundamental resources that she becomes a pawn in the hands of the powerful. I was horrified to learn that paupers were actually bought and sold as an acceptable form of slavery. They were expected to be grateful to be "rescued" from starvation and homelessness and given the golden opportunity to perform unpaid, backbreaking labor on a farm for room and board. The only escape from this fate was death.
This song seemed to sum it all up. It was so eerie it made my hair stand on end. The words are as follows:
There's a grim horse hearse
And the hearse has no springs,
And the hearse has no springs,
And hark to the dirge the sad driver sings:
"Rattle her bones (her bones)
"Rattle her bones (her bones)
Over the stones (the stones)
She is only a pauper
Who nobody owns."
This evokes the image of a corpse lying in the back of a rickety old wagon, given a pauper's burial which the community no doubt thinks is too good for her.
