In terms of entreaty the question we pop.
IV.
How oft, in such case, rosy lips have proved sweeter
Than the rosiest book; — bright eyes saved a bright ring;
While that one other kiss has brought off a repeater,
And a bead as a favour — the favourite string.
V.
With our hearts ready rifled, each pocket we rifle,
With the pure flame of chivalry stirring our breasts;
Life’s risk for our mistress’s praise is a trifle;
And each purse as a trophy our homage attests.
VI.
Then toss off your glasses to all girls of spirit,
Ne’er with names, or with number, your memories vex:
Our toast, boys, embraces each woman of merit,
And, for fear of omission, we’ll drink the WHOLE SEX!
THE GAME OF HIGH TOBY.
I.
Now Oliver puts his black nightcap on,
And every star its glim is hiding,
And forth to the heath is the scampsman gone,
His matchless cherry-black prancer riding;
Merrily over the common he flies,
Fast and free as the rush of rocket,
His crape-covered vizard drawn over his eyes,
His tol by his side, and his pops in his pocket.
CHORUS.
Then who can name
So merry a game,
As the game of all games — high toby
II.
The traveller hears him, away! away!
Over the wide wide heath he scurries;
He heeds not the thunderbolt summons to stay,
But ever the faster and faster he hurries.
But what daisy-cutter can match that black-tit?
He is caught — he must “stand and deliver
Then out with the dummy, and off with the bit,
Oh! the game of high toby for ever!
CHORUS.
Then who can name
So merry a game,
As the game of all games — high toby!
III.
Believe me there is not a game, my brave boys,
To compare with the game of high toby;
No rapture can equal the tobyman’s joys,
To blue devils, blue plumbs give the go-by!
And what if, at length, boys, he come to the crap!
Even rack punch has some bitter in it,
For the mare-with-three-legs, boys, I care not a rap,
‘Twill be over in less than a minute!
GRAND CHORUS.
Then hip, hurrah
Ming care away Hurrah for the game of high toby!
THE SCAMPSMAN.
Quis verè rex? — SENECA.
THERE is not a king, should you search the world round,
So blithe as the king of the road to he found;
His pistol’s his sceptre, his saddle his throne,
Whence he levies supplies, or enforces a loan.
Derry down.
To this monarch the highway presents a wide field,
Where each passing subject a tribute must yield;
His palace (the tavern!) receives him at night,
Where sweet lips and sound liquor crown all with delight,
Derry down.
The soldier and sailor, both robbers by trade,
Full soon on the shelf, if disabled, are laid:
The one gets a patch, and the other a peg,
But, while luck lasts, the highwayman shakes a loose leg!
Derry down.
Most fowls rise at dawn, but the owl wakes at e’en,
And a jollier bird can there nowhere be seen;
Like the owl, our snug scampsman his snooze takes by day,
And, when night draws her curtain, scuds after his prey!
Derry down.
As the highwayman’s life is the fullest of zest,
So the highwayman’s death is the briefest and best;
He dies not as other men die, by degrees!
But AT ONCE! without wincing, and quite at his ease!
Derry down.
THE KNIGHT OF MALTA.
A CANTERBURY TALE.
COME list to me, and you shall have, without a hem or haw, sirs,
A Canterbury pilgrimage, much better than old Chaucer’s,
’Tis of a hoax I once played off, upon that city clever,
The memory of which, I hope, will stick to it for ever.
With my coal black beard, and purple cloak,
jack-boots, and broad-brimmed castor,
Hey-ho! for the knight of Malta!
To execute my purpose, in the first place you must know, sirs,
My locks I let hang down my neck — my beard and whiskers grow, sirs;
A purple cloak I next clapped on, a sword tagged to my side, sirs,
And mounted on a charger black, I to the town did ride, sirs. *
With my coal-black beard, &c.
Two pages were there by my side, upon two little ponies,
Decked out in scarlet uniform as spruce as macaronies;
Caparisoned my charger was, as grandly as his master,
And o’er my long and curly locks I wore a broad-brimmed castor.
With my coal-black beard, &c.
The people all flocked forth, amazed to see a man so hairy,
Oh! such a sight had ne’er before been seen in Canterbury!
My flowing robe, my flowing beard, my horse with flowing mane, sirs!
They stared — the days of chivalry they thought were come again, sirs!
With my coal-black beard, &c.
I told them a long rigmarole romance, that did not halt a
Jot, that they beheld in me a real knight of Malta!
Tom a Becket had I sworn I was, that saint and martyr hallowed,
I doubt not just as readily the bait they would have swallowed.
With my coal-black beard, &c.
I rode about, and speechified, and everybody gullied,
The tavern-keepers diddled, and the magistracy bullied:
Like puppets were the townsfolk led in that show they call a raree;
The Gotham sages were a joke to those of Canterbury.
With my coal-black beard, &c.
The theatre I next engaged, where I addressed the crowd, sirs,
And on retrenchment and reform, I spouted long and loud, sirs;
On tithes, and on taxation, I enlarged with skill and zeal, sirs,
Who so able as a Malta knight, the malt-tax to repeal, sirs?
With my coal-black beard, &c.
As a candidate I then stepped forth to represent their city,
And my non-election to that place was certainly a pity;
For surely I the fittest was, and very proper, very,
To represent the wisdom and the wit of Canterbury.
With my coal-black beard, &c.
At the trial of some smugglers next, one thing I rather queer did,
And the justices upon the bench I literally bearded;
It became dangerous then to whisper a syllable of suspicion against his wealth
or rank, his wisdom or beauty; and all who would not bow down before this
golden image were deemed worthy of no better fate than Shadrach,
Meschech, and Abednego — to be cast into a burning fiery furnace.”
As a sequel to the foregoing story, it may be added, that the Knight of
Malta became the inmate of a lunatic asylum; and on his liberation was
shot at the head of a band of Kentish hinds,
whom he had deluded into
the belief that he was the Messiah!
For I swore that I some casks did see, though proved as clear as day, sirs,
That I happened at the time to be some fifty miles away, sirs!
With my coal-black beard, &c.
The last assertion, I must own, was somewhat of a blunder,
&n
bsp; And for perjury indicted they compelled me to knock under;
To my prosperous career this slight error put a stop, sirs,
And thus crossed, the knight of Malta was at length obliged to hop, sirs!
With his coal-black beard, and purple cloak,
jack-boots, and broad-brimmed castor.
Good-bye to the knight of Malta!
SAINT GILES’S BOWL.
I.
WHERE Saint Giles’s church stands, once a lazar-house stood;
And, chained to its gates, was a vessel of wood;
A broad-bottomed bowl, from which all the fine fellows,
Who passed by that spot on their way to the gallows,
Might tipple strong beer
Their spirits to cheer,
And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear!
For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles,
So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!
II.
By many a highwayman many a draught
Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles’s was quaft,
Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down,
And the broad-bottom’d bowl was removed to the Crown,
Where the robber may cheer
His spirits with beer,
And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear!
For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles,
So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!
III.
There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth,
OLD MOB and Tom Cox took their last draught on earth:
There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up,
And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup!
For a can of ale calms
A highwayman’s qualms,
And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms!
For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles,
So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Giles!
When gallant Tom SHEPPARD to Tyburn was led,
“Stop the cart at the Crown — stop a moment,” he said;
He was offered the Bowl, but he left it and smiled,
Crying “Keep it till called for by JONATHAN WILD!
“The rascal one day
Will pass by this way,
And drink a full measure to moisten his clay!
And never will Bowl of St. Giles have beguiled
Such a thorough-paced scoundrel as JONATHAN WILD!”
V.
Should it e’er be my lot to ride backwards that way,
At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay;
I’ll summon the landlord — I’ll call for the Bowl,
And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul!
Whatever may hap,
I’ll taste of the tap,
To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap!
For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles,
So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Giles l
THE NEWGATE STONE.
I.
WHEN CLAUDE DU VAL was in Newgate thrown,
He carved his name on the dungeon stone;
Quoth a dubsman, who gazed on the shattered wall,
“You have carved your epitaph, CLAUDE DU VAL,
With your chisel so fine, tra la!”
II.
Du VAL was hanged, and the next who came
On the selfsame stone inscribed his name;
“Aha!” quoth the dubsman, with devilish glee,
“TOM WATERS, your doom is the triple tree!
With your chisel so fine, tra la!”
III.
Within that dungeon lay CAPTAIN BEW,
RUMBOLD and WHITNEY — a jolly crew!
All carved their names on the stone, and all
Share the fate of the brave Du VAL!
With their chisel so fine, tra la!
IV.
Full twenty highwaymen blithe and bold,
Rattled their chains in that dungeon old:
Of all that number there ‘scaped not one
Who carved his name on the Newgate Stone,
With his chisel so fine, tra la!
THE CARPENTER’S DAUGHTER.
I.
THE carpenter’s daughter was fair and free —
Pair, and fickle, and false was she!
She slighted the journeyman (meaning me!)
And smiled on a gallant of high degree.
Degree! degree!
She smiled on a gallant of high degree.
II.
When years were gone by, she began to rue
Her love for the gentleman (meaning you!),
“I slighted the journeyman fond,” quoth she,
“But where is my gallant of high degree?
Where? where?
Oh! where is my gallant of high degree?”
OWEN WOOD.
I.
ONCE on a time, as I’ve heard tell,
In Wych-street, Owen Wood did dwell;
A carpenter he was by trade,
And money, I believe he made.
With a foodie doo!
II.
This carpenter he had a wife,
The ceaseless torment of his life;
Who, though she did her husband scold,
Loved well a woollen-draper bold.
With a foodie doo!
III.
Now Owen “Wood had one fair child,
Unlike her mother, meek and mild;
Her love the draper strove to gain,
But she repaid him with disdain.
With a foodle doo!
IV.
In vain he fondly urged his suit,
And, all in vain, the question put;
She answered,—” Mr. William Kneebone,
Of me, sir, you shall never be bone.”
With a foodie doo!
V.
“Thames Darrell has my heart alone,
A noble youth, e’en you must own:
And, if from him my love could stir,
Jack Sheppard I should much prefer.”
With a foodie doo!
KING FROG AND QUEEN CRANE.
OLD King Frog, he swore begar!
Croakledom cree! — croakledom croo!
That he with Queen Crane would go to war,
Blusterem boo! — thrusterem through!
With that, he summon’d his fiercest Frogs,
With great cock’d hats, and with queues like logs,
And says he, “Thrash these Cranes, you ugly dogs!
Sing, Ventre-saint-gris! — Parbleu!”
To fight they went; but alack! full soon,
Croakledom cree! — croakledom croo!
Messieurs the Frogs they changed their tune,
Of blusterem boo! — thrusterem through!
For Queen Crane had a leader stout and strong,
With a bill like a fire-spit, six feet long,
And the Froggies he gobbled up all day long,
With their “Ventre-saint-gris! — Parbleu!”
MARLBROOK TO THE WARS IS COMING.
MARLBROOK to the wars is coming!
I fancy I hear his drumming;
‘Twill put an end to the mumming
Of our priest-ridden Monarque!
For the moment he enters Flanders,
He’ll scare all our brave commanders,
They’ll fly like so many ganders,
Disturb’d by a mastiff’s bark.
He comes; and at SCHELLENBERG licks ‘em,
At BLENHEIM next, how he kicks ‘em,
And on RAMILIES’ plain how he sticks ‘em
With bay’net to the ground!
For, says he, “Those saucy Mounsecrs,
I’ll thoroughly — thoroughly trounce, sirs,
As long as there’s an ounce, sirs,
Of powder to be found.
Now he’s gone home so jolly,
And we’re left melancholy,
<
br /> Lamenting of our folly
That such a part we took.
“For bitterly has he drubb’d us,
And cruelly has he snubb’d us,
And against the grain has rubb’d us,
This terrible Turk, MARLBROOK.
We hope he will never come back, sirs,
Our generals to attack, sirs,
And thrash them all in a crack, sirs,
As he has done before.
But in case QUEEN ANNE should send him,
We trust she’ll kindly lend him
Some Tories to attend him,
Then lie’ll return no more!
THE BOOTS OF MARLBROOK.
I.
FOUR marshals of France vow’d their monarch to guard,
Bragging BOUFFLERS, vain VILLARS, VILLEROY, and TALLARD;
These four gasconaders in jest undertook
To pull off the boots of the mighty MARLBROOK.
Brush — brush away!
II.
The field was first taken by BOUFFLERS and VILLARS,
But though they were the chaffers, yet we were the millers;
BONN, LIMBURGH, and HUY, soon our general took, —
’Twas not easy to pull off the boots of MARLBROOK.
Brush — brush away!
III.
TALLARD next essayed with BAVARIA’S Elector,
But the latter turn’d out an indifferent protector;
For he SCHELLENBERG lost, while at BLENHEIM both shook
In their shoes, at the sight of the boots of MARLBROOK,
Brush — brush away
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 848