For centuries the traditional method of execution in England was hanging.
This was carried out on public gallows often erected near to where the crime was committed. At first the unfortunate person was encarcerated in a metal cage and hung from a Gibbet to starve to death, their body left open to the elements. In less severe times at the turn of the 18th century they would be hung until death and their body then suspended from the Gibbet.

Not that I claim any providence from the fact, but the last standing Gibbet in England stands on top of Combe Hill in Berkshire. The Hill incidentally the highest down in England, over looks my house. The Gibbet is a national monument. It was raised in 1676 for the hanging of two lovers George Broomham and Dorothy Newman who plotted and murdered Georges Wife Martha and their son Robert . A local man known as Mad Thomas managed to tell the Authorities that he had witnessed what they did and the pair were arrested and convicted. Local legend has it that the ghosts of the excecuted haunt the hill where the Gibbet stands.

Last standing gallows in the UK
Last to hang were two Lovers
Killed the man's wife so they say
Back about 1676 or so
Don't know if the people spat upon them
Probably not: wouldn't have been civil
But their bodies hung for weeks
And the crows sat upon them
Doing what crows will do

And the people assembled to shout their abuse
So did the crows to sit and to peck
The jesters and tumblers any excuse
To make some coffers in those days
'Twas a cruel thing they did these lovers and all
And their just deserts were all plauded
The crows were on hand at nature's call
Their sitting and *****ing all lauded

So the foul birds had their way with us
And the wind played with us
And the people cheered and jeered
And thought how much better they were than us
And a body'd have thought hanging so long
Would have ached in the joints
But we were beyond hearing, caring, feeling
We guess hanging there like that lacked dignity
But we scarcely noticed
Being dead has its points.
And after all we were in Love

We know the absurds but us being birds
We have a different take on this
These bones at our feet picked clean and neat
Were the bones of two who strayed a bit
They invoked all the wrath in dire afternath
Of the murder of poor Martha Broomham
Now their ghosts are all rotten
but e'er long forgotten
As these winds howl their song all around them