The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth
Page 847
(The Pope, who reduced the stout Arians to beggary)
Averred — (keep this counsel for ever before ye)
That the lover on earth has his sole purgatory!
PERORATION.
Let your minds then be wrapp’d in devout contemplation
Of the precepts convey’d by this grave exhortation;
Be loving, beloved, and never leave off — it’s
The way to fulfil both the law and the prophets!
A CHAPTER OF HIGHWAYMEN.
AIR—” Which nobody can deny!”
OF every rascal of every kind,
The most notorious to my mind,
Was the Cavalier Captain, gay JEMMY HIND!
Which nobody can deny.
But the pleasantest coxcomb among them all
For lute, coranto, and madrigal,
Was the galliard Frenchman, CLAUDE DU-VAL!
Which nobody can deny.
And Tobygloak never a coach could rob,
Could lighten a pocket or empty a fob,
With a neater hand than OLD MOB, OLD MOB!
Which nobody can deny.
Nor did housebreaker ever deal harder knocks
On the stubborn lid of a good strong box,
Than the prince of good fellows, TOM COX, TOM COX!
Which nobody can deny.
And blither fellow on broad highway,
Did never with oath bid traveller stay,
Than devil-may-care WILL HOLLOWAY!
Which nobody can deny.
And in roguery nought could exceed the tricks
Of GETTINGS and GREY, and the five or six,
Who trod in the steps of bold NEDDY WICKS!
Which nobody can deny.
Nor could any so handily break a lock
As SHEPPARD, who stood on the Newgate dock,
And nicknamed the jailers around him, “his flock!”
Which nobody can deny.
Nor did highwayman ever before possess,
For ease, for security, danger, distress,
Such a mare as DICK TURPIN’S Black Bess! Black Bess!
Which nobody can deny.
THE RAPPAREES.
AIR— “The Groves of the Pool.”
LET the Englishman boast of his Turpins and Sheppards, as cocks of the walk,
His Mulsacks, and Cheneys, and Swiftnecks — it’s all botheration and talk;
Compared with the robbers of Ireland, they don’t come within half a mile,
There never were yet any rascals, like those of my own native isle.
First and foremost comes REDMOND O’HANLON, allowed the first thief of the world,
That o’er the broad province of Ulster, the Rapparee banner unfurled;
Och! he was an elegant fellow, as ever you saw in your life,
At fingering the blunderbuss trigger, or handling the throatcutting knife.
And then such a dare-devil squadron as that which composed REDMOND’S tail!
Meel, Mactigh, Jack Reilly, Shan Bernagh, Phil Galloge, and Arthur O’Neal; —
Shure never were any boys like ‘em, for rows, agitation, and sprees;
Not a rap did they leave in the country, and hence they were called Rapparees.
Next comes POWER, the Great Tory of Munster, a gentleman born every inch,
And strong JACK MACPRERSON of Leinster, a horse-shoe who broke at a pinch;
The last was a fellow so lively, not death e’en his courage could damp, —
For as he was led to the gallows, he played his own “march to the camp.”
PADDY FLEMING, DICK BALF, and MULHONI, I think are the next on my list,
All adepts in the beautiful science of giving a pocket a twist;
JEMMY CARRICK must follow his leaders, ould PURNEY who put in a huff,
By dancing a hornpipe at Tyburn, and bothering the hangman for snuff.
There’s PAUL LIDDY, the curly-pate Tory, whose noddle was stuck on a spike,
And BILLY DELANY, the “Songster” we never shall meet with his like;
For his neck by a witch was anointed, and warranted safe by her charm,
No hemp that was ever yet twisted his wonderful throttle could harm.
And lastly, there’s CAHIR NA CAPPUL, the handiest rogue of them all,
Who only need whisper a word, and your horse will trot out of his stall;
Your tit is not safe in your stable, though you or your groom should be near,
And devil a bit in the paddock, if CAHIR gets hould of his ear.
Then success to the Tories of Ireland, the generous, the gallant, the gay!
With them the best Rumpads of England are not to be named the same day!
And were further proof wanting to show what precedence we take with our prigs,
Recollect that our robbers are TORIES, while those of your country are WHIGS!
A ROMANY CHANT.
IN a box of the Stone Jug I was born,
Of a hempen widow the kid forlorn,
Fake away.
And my father, as I’ve heard say,
Fake away.
Was a merchant of capers gay,
Who cut his last fling with great applause,
Nix my doll pals, fake away.
Who cut his last fling with great applause,
To the tune of a “hearty choke with caper sauce.”
Fake away.
The knucks in quod did my schoolmen play,
Fake away.
And put me up to the time of day;
Until at last there was none so knowing,
Nix my doll pals, fake away.
Until at last there was none so knowing,
No such sneaksman or buzgloak going.
Fake away.
Fogles and fawnies soon went their way,
Fake away.
To the spout with the sneezers in grand array.
No dummy hunter had forks so fly;
Nix my doll pals, fake away.
No dummy hunter had forks so fly.
No knuckler so deftly could fake a cly,
Fake away.
No slour’d hoxter my snipes could stay,
Fake away.
None knap a reader like me in the lay.
Soon then I mounted in swell-street high.
Nix my doll pals, fake away.
Soon then I mounted in swell-street high,
And sported my flashest toggery.
Fake away,
Firmly resolved I would make my hay,
Fake away.
While Mercury’s star shed a single ray;
And ne’er was there seen such a dashing prig,
Nix my doll pals, fake away.
And ne’er was there seen such a dashing prig,
With my strummel faked in the newest twig.
Fake away.
With my fawnied famms, and my onions gay,
Fake away;
My thimble of ridge, and my driz komesa;
All my togs were so niblike and splash,
Nix my doll palls, fake away.
All my togs were so niblike and splash,
Readily the queer screens I then could smash;
Fake away,
But my nuttiest lady one fine day,
Fake away,
To the beaks did her fancy man betray,
And thus was I bowled out at last.
Nix my doll pals, fake away.
And thus was I bowled out at last,
And into the jug for a lag was cast;
Fake away.
But I slipped my darbies one morn in May,
Fake away.
And gave to the dubsman a holiday.
And here I am, pals, merry and free,
A regular rollicking romany.
Nix my doll pals, fake away.
OLIVER WHIDDLES!
I.
OLIVER whiddles — the tattler old!
Telling what best had been left untold.
Oliver ne’er was a friend of mine
;
All glims I hate that so brightly shine.
Give me a night black as hell, and then
See what I’ll show to you, my merry men.
II.
Oliver whiddles! — who cares — who cares,
If down upon us he peers and stares?
Mind him who will, with his great white face,
Boldly I’ll ride by his glim to the chase;
Give him a Rowland, as loudly as ever
Shout, as I show myself, “Stand and deliver!”
WILL DAVIES AND DICK TURPIN.
Hodiè mihi, cràs tibi. — SAINT AUGUSTIN.
I.
ONE night when mounted on my mare,
To Bagshot Heath I did repair,
And saw Will Davis hanging there,
Upon the gibbet bleak and bare,
With a rustified, fustified, mustified air!
II.
Within his chains bold Will looked blue,
Gone were his sword and snappers too,
Which served their master well and true;
Says I, “Will Davies, how are you?
With your rustified, Justified, mustified air!”
III.
Says he, “Dick Turpin, here I be,
Upon the gibbet as you see;
I take the matter easily;
You’ll have your turn as well as me,
With your whistle-me, pistol-me, cut-my-throat air!’
IV.
Says I, “That’s very true, my lad;
Meantime, with pistol and with prad,
I’m quite contented as I am,
And heed the gibbet not a d — n!
With its rustified, fustified, mustified air!’
V.
For never more shall Bagshot see
A highwayman of such degree,
Appearance, and gentility,
As Will, who hangs upon the tree.
With his rustified, fustified, mustified air!
THE FOUR CAUTIONS.
I.
PAY attention to these cautions four,
And through life you will need little more,
Should you dole out your days to threescore
Beware of a pistol before!
Before! before!
Beware of a pistol before!
II.
And when backwards his ears are inclined,
And his tail with his ham is combined,
Caution two you will bear in your mind: —
Beware of a prancer behind!
Behind! behind!
Beware of a prancer behind!
III.
Thirdly, when in the park you may ride,
On your best bit of blood, sir, astride,
Chatting gay to your old friend’s young bride: —
Beware of a coach at the side!
At the side! at the side!
Beware of a coach at the side!
IV.
Lastly, whether in purple or grey,
Canter, ranter, grave, solemn, or gay,
Whate’er he may do or may say: —
Beware of a priest every way!
Every way! every way!
Beware of a priest every way!
THE DOUBLE CROSS.
BY A MEMBER OF THE P. C.
I.
THOUGH all of us Lave Leard of crost fights,
And certain gains, by certain lost fights;
I rather fancies that it’s news,
How in a mill, both men should lose;
For vere the odds are thus made even,
It plays the dickens with the steven;
Besides, against all rule they’re sinning,
Yere neither has no chance of vinning.
Ri, toi, loi, &co
II.
Two milling coves, each vide avake,
Vere backed to fight for heavy stake;
But in the mean time, so it vos,
Both kids agreed to play a cross;
Bold came each buffer to the scratch,
To make it look a tightish match;
They peeled in style, and bets were making,
‘Tvos six to four, but few were taking.
Ri, tol, lol, &c.
III.
Quite cautiously the mill began,
For neither knew the other’s plan;
Each cull completely in the darky
Of vot might be his neighbour’s mark;
Resolved his fibbing not to mind,
Nor yet to pay him back in kind;
So on each other kept they tout
And sparred a bit, and dodged about.
Ri, tol, lol, &c.
IV.
Vith mawleys raised, Tom bent his back,
As if to plant a heavy thwack:
Vile Jem, vith neat left-handed stopper,
Straight threatened Tommy with a topper.
’Tis all my eye! no claret flows,
No facers sound — no smashing blows.
Five minutes pass, yet not a hit,
How can it end, pals? — Vait a bit.
Ri, tot, lot, &c.
V.
Each cove vos teazed with double duty,
To please his backers, yet play booty?
Yen, luckily for Jem, a teller
Vos planted right upon his smeller;
Down dropped he, stunned; ven time was called,
Seconds in vain the seconds bawled;
The mill is o’er, the crosser crost,
The loser’s von, the Vinner’s lost!
Ri, tol, lol, &c.
THE MODERN GREEK.
(NOT TRANSLATED FROM THE ROMAIC.)
COME, gemmen, name, and make your game,
See, round the ball is spinning.
Black, red, or blue, the colours view,
Un, deux, cinque, ’tis beginning.
Then make your game,
The colour name,
While round the ball is spinning.
This sleight of hand my flat shall land,
While covered by my bonnet,
I plant my ball, and boldly call,
Come make your game upon it!
Thus rat-a-tat!
I land my flat!
’Tis black — not red — is winning.
At gay roulette was never met
A lance like mine for bleeding!
I’m ne’er at fault, at nothing halt,
All other legs preceding.
To all awake,
I never shake
A mag unless I nip it.
Blind-hookey sees how well I squeeze
The well-packed cards in shuffling.
Ecarté, whist, I never missed,
And nick the broads while ruffling.
Mogul or loo,
The same I do,
I’m down to trumps as trippet!
French hazard ta’en, I nick the main,
Was ne’er so prime a caster.
No crabs for me, I’m fly, d’ye see;
The bank shall change its master.
Seven quatre, trois,
The stakes are high!
Ten mains! ten mains are mine, pals!
At Rouge et Noir, you hellite choir
I’ll make no bones of stripping;
One glorious coup for me shall do,
While they may deal each pip in.
Trente-un-apres
Ne’er clogs my way;
The game — the game’s divine, pals.
At billiards set I make my bet,
I’ll score and win the rub, pals;
I miss my cue, my hazard, too,
But yet my foe I’ll drub, pals.
That cannon-twist,
I ne’er had missed,
Unless to suit my views, pals.
To make all right, the match look tight,
This trick, you know, is done, pals;
But now be gay, I’ll show my play —
Hurrah! the game is won, pals,
No hand so fine,
&n
bsp; No wrist like mine,
No odds I e’er refuse, pals.
Then choose your game; whate’er you name,
To me alike all offers;
Chick-hazard, whist, whate’er you list,
Replenish quick your coffers.
Thus, rat-a-tat!
I land my flat!
To every purse I speak, pals.
Cramped boxes ‘ware, all’s right and fair,
Barred balls I bar when goaded;
The deuce an ace is out of place!
The deuce a die is loaded!
Then make your game,
Your colour name;
Success attend the Greek, pals.
PLEDGE OF THE HIGHWAYMAN.
I.
COME, fill up a bumper to Eve’s fairest daughters,
Who have lavished their smiles on the brave and the free;
Toast the sweethearts of DUDLEY, HIND, WILMOT, and WATERS,
Whate’er their attraction, whate’er their degree.
II.
Pledge! pledge in a bumper, each kind-hearted maiden,
Whose bright eyes were dimmed at the highwayman’s fall;
Who stood by the gallows with sorrow o’erladen,
Bemoaning the fate of the gallant DU-VAL!
III.
Here’s to each lovely lass chance of war may bring near one,
Whom, with courtier-like manner, politely we stop;
And to whom, like the lover addressing his dear one,