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, etc.
Two pages were there by my side, upon two little ponies,
Decked out in scarlet uniform, as spruce as maccaronis;
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, etc.
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, etc.
I told them a long rigmarole romance, that did not halt a
Jot, that they beheld in me a real knight of Malta!
Tom à 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, etc.
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, etc.
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, etc.
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, etc.
At the trial of some smugglers next, one thing I rather queer did,
And the justices upon the bench I literally bearded;
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, etc.
This last assertion, I must own, was somewhat of a blunder,
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.
The knight sat down amidst the general plaudits of the company.
The party, meanwhile, had been increased by the arrival of Luke and the sexton. The former, who was in no mood for revelry, refused to comply with his grandsire's solicitation to enter, and remained sullenly at the door, with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed upon Turpin, whose movements he commanded through the canvas aperture. The sexton walked up to Dick, who was seated at the post of honour, and, clapping him upon the shoulder, congratulated him upon the comfortable position in which he found him.
"Ha, ha! Are you there, my old death's head on a mop stick?" said Turpin, with a laugh. "Ain't we merry mumpers, eh? Keeping it up in style. Sit down, old Noah—make yourself comfortable, Methusalem."
"What say you to a drop of as fine Nantz as you ever tasted in your life, old cove?" said Zoroaster.
"I have no sort of objection to it," returned Peter, "provided you will all pledge my toast."
"That I will, were it Old Ruffin himself," shouted Turpin.
"Here's to the three-legg'd mare," cried Peter. "To the tree that bears fruit all the year round, and yet has neither bark nor branch. You won't refuse that toast, Captain Turpin?"
"Not I," answered Dick; "I owe the gallows no grudge. If, as Jerry's song says, I must have a hearty choke and caper sauce for my breakfast one of these fine mornings, it shall never be said that I fell to my meal without appetite, or neglected saying grace before it. Gentlemen, here's Peter Bradley's toast, 'The scragging post—the three-legg'd mare,' with three times three."
Appropriate as this sentiment was, it did not appear to be so inviting to the party as might have been anticipated, and the shouts soon died away.
"They like not the thoughts of the gallows," said Turpin to Peter. "More fools they. A mere bugbear to frighten children, believe me; and never yet alarmed a brave man. The gallows, pshaw! One can but die once, and what signifies it how, so that it be over quickly. I think no more of the last leap into eternity than clearing a five-barred gate. A rope's-end for it! So let us be merry, and make the most of our time, and that's true philosophy. I know you can throw off a rum chant," added he, turning to Peter. "I heard you sing last night at the hall. Troll us a stave, my antediluvian file, and, in the meantime, tip me a gage of fogus,51 Jerry; and if that's a bowl of huckle-my-butt52 you are brewing, Sir William," added he, addressing the knight of Malta, "you may send me a jorum at your convenience."
Jerry handed the highwayman a pipe, together with a tumbler of the beverage which the knight had prepared, which he pronounced excellent; and while the huge bowl was passed round to the company, a prelude of shawms announced that Peter was ready to break into song.
Accordingly, after the symphony was ended, accompanied at intervals by a single instrument, Peter began his melody, in a key so high, that the utmost exertion of the shawm-blower failed to approach its altitudes. The burden of his minstrelsy was—
THE MANDRAKE53
The mandrake grows 'neath the gallows-tree,
And rank and green are its leaves to see;
Green and rank, as the grass that waves
Over the unctuous earth of graves;
And though all around it be bleak and bare,
Freely the mandrake flourisheth there.
Maranatha—Anathema!
Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasy!
At the foot of the gibbet the mandrake springs,
Just where the creaking carcase swings;
Some have thought it engendered
From the fat that drops from the bones of the dead;
Some have thought it a human thing;
But this is a vain imagining.
Maranatha—Anathema!
Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasy!
A charnel leaf doth the mandrake wear,
A charnel fruit doth the mandrake bear;
Yet none like the mandrake hath such great power,
Such virtue resides not in herb or flower;
Aconite, hemlock, or moonshade, I ween,
None hath a poison so subtle and keen.
Maranatha—Anathema!
Dread is the curse of mandragora!
Euthanasy!
And whether the mandrake be create
Flesh with the flower incorporate,
I know not; yet, if from the earth 'tis rent,
Shrieks and groans from the root are sent;
Shrieks and groans, and a sweat like gore
Oozes and drops from the clammy core.
Maranatha—Anathema!
Dread is the curse of mandragora.
Euthanasy
Whoso gathereth the mandrake shall surely die;
Blood for blood is his destiny.
Some who have plucked it have died with groans,
Like to the mandrake's expiring moans;
Some have died raving, and some beside—
With penitent prayers—but all have died.
Jesu! save us by night and day!
From the terrible death of mandragora!
Euthanasy!
"A queer chant that," said Zoroaster, coughing loudly, in token of disapprobation.
"Not much to my taste," quoth the knight of Malta. "We like something more sprightly in Canterbury."
"Nor to mine," added Jerry; "don't think it's likely to have an encore. 'Pon my soul, Dick, you must give us something yourself, or we shall never cry Euthanasy at the Triple Tree."
"With all my heart," replied Turpin. "You shall have—but what do I see, my friend Sir Luke? Devil take my tongue, Luke Bradley, I mean. What, ho! Luke—nay, nay, man, no shrinking—stand forward; I've a word or two to say to you. We must have a hob-a-nob glass together, for old acquaintance, sake. Nay, no airs, man; dammee you're not a lord yet, nor a baronet either, though I do hold your title in my pocket; never look glum at me. It won't pay. I'm one of the canting crew now; no man shall sneer at me with impunity, eh, Zory? Ha, ha! Here's a glass of Nantz; we'll have a bottle of black strap when you are master of your own. Make ready there, you gut-scrapers, you shawm-shavers; I'll put your lungs in play for you presently. In the meantime—charge, pals, charge—a toast, a toast! Health and prosperity to Sir Luke Rookwood! I see you are surprised—this, gem'men, is Sir Luke Rookwood, somewhile Luke Bradley, heir to the house of that name, not ten miles distant from this. Say, shall we not drink a bumper to his health?"
Astonishment prevailed amongst the crew. Luke himself had been taken by surprise. When Turpin discovered him at the door of the tent, and summoned him to appear, he reluctantly complied with the request; but when, in a half-bantering vein, Dick began to rally him upon his pretensions, he would most gladly have retreated, had it been in his power. It was then too late. He felt he must stand the ordeal. Every eye was fixed upon him with a look of enquiry.
Zoroaster took his everlasting pipe from his mouth.
"This ain't true, surely?" asked the perplexed Magus.
"He has said it," replied Luke, "I may not deny it."
This was sufficient. There was a wild hubbub of delight amongst the crew, for Luke was a favourite with all.
"Sir Luke Rookwood!" cried Jerry Juniper, who liked a title as much as Tommy Moore is said to dote upon a lord. "Upon my soul I sincerely congratulate you; devilish fortunate fellow. Always cursed unlucky myself. I could never find out my own father, unless it were one Monsieur des Capriolles, a French dancing-master, and he never left anything behind him that I could hear of, except a broken kit and a hempen widow. Sir Luke Rookwood, we shall do ourselves the pleasure of drinking your health and prosperity."
Fresh bumpers, and immense cheering.
Silence being in a measure restored, Zoroaster claimed Turpin's promise of a song.
"True, true," replied Dick; 'I have not forgotten it. Stand to your bows, my hearties."
THE GAME OF HIGH TOBY
Now Oliver54 puts his black nightcap on,
And every star its glim55 is hiding,
And forth to the heath is the scampsman56 gone,
His matchless cherry-black57 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 tol58 by his side, and his pops59 in his pocket.
CHORUS
Then who can name
So merry a game,
As the game of all games—high toby?60
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,61 and off with the bit,62
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?
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 plumbs63 give the go-by;
And what if, at length, boys, he come to the crap!64
Even rack punch had some bitter in it,
For the mare-with-three-legs,65boys,
I care not a rap,
'Twill be over in less than a minute!
GRAND CHORUS
Then hip, hurrah!
Fling care away!
Hurrah for the game of high toby!
"And now, pals," said Dick, who began to feel the influence of these morning cups, "I vote that we adjourn. Believe me I shall always bear in mind that I am a brother of your band. Sir Luke and I must have a little chat together ere I take my leave. Adieu!"
And taking Luke by the arm, he walked out of the tent. Peter Bradley rose, and followed them.
