KINCHEN FOR THE HALTER

   i  wuz

born devil

brung up bad

a norphan,  me

lord, wiv no famly

cept cly-fakers n old

prigs    i wuz a good buz

in London    traffickin in back

-parlours  at doors of spells we’d

‘ustle a rum stall in the push    i useter

draw a reader or wiper from the cly of ‘is

petersham,   ramp ‘im of ‘is montra from ‘is

garret n sting a swell mollisher for ‘er ‘addock

stuffed with beans,  fancy articles,  frisk ‘er cly for

‘er  fogle, pick the marks out wiv a needle    they wuz

prime flats    i fenced the swag for a few quid but i wuz a

rank spoon in them days an’ out-an’-out at staines    one darky,

when Oliver was down, me n me palls wuz wackin’ the blunt in some

lush-ken  lawks, some cross-cove must’ve blown upon us and give music

to the traps  an ‘orney wuz staggin’ us n done call the rollers  i wuz knapped

  seven pen’worth  for puttin’ me forks down  n  causin’ devil  n  all  ov trouble

                          Michael Small                January 24-28, 2004

HULKS’ BULKHEADS

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INDEX

                           Slanged is dedicated to the memory of

                                              James Hardy Vaux   
                               
                                                     Author of
               
                            A Vocabulary of the Flash Language

                                              and Eric Partridge

                                                      Author of

                 A Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English

                                                1       JACK SHEPPARD MILLS A QUOD OR TWO
                   2        HANGING FAIR
                   3        FAMILY PEOPLE
                   4        THE WHIT
                   5        DRUMMOSSIE TAE THE AMERICAS BOUND
                   6        SHOPPED
                   7        UNDERWORLD
                   8        AN OTTER’S TALE
                   9        LEAP I’ THE DARK
                  10    HULKS’ BULKHEADS
                  11    SUCH A RIOT AND RUMPUS
                  12    DARLINT EMMA
                  13    FLINT’S FIST
                  14    LIEUTENANT CHRISTIAN IN HIGH DUDGEON
                  15    SIRIUS AND SUPPLY
                  16    SHAME
                  17    OLD NUNKS
                  18    MY DEAR JEM
                  19    NEPTUNE’S NECKLACE
                  20    THE ARRIVAL OF THE SECOND FLEET
                  21    WATER-SNEAK FROM BOTANY BAY
                  22    BARK OF THE OLD SEA-DOGS
                  23    MARY BRYANT RECEIVES JAMES BOSWELL
                  24    MASTER OF THE HELL-FIRED BRITANNIA
                  25    JANE DUNDAS RYDS THE BACK O’ BEYONT 
                  26    CAPTAIN FOLGER’S APPARITION
                  27    WALKING DISTILLER
                  28    JAMES GROVE LAUNCHED INTO ETERNITY
                  29    BURGLARIOUSLY SCREWING IN CAMBRIDGE
                  30    BLACK MARY’S REVENGE
                  31    THAT OTHER EDEN
                  32    BOB GREENHILL BEYOND THE WESTERN TIERS
                  33    THE CROSSING OF ALEXANDER PEARCE
                  34    THIRTEEN VANDEMONIAN WOODCUTS
                  35    THE JACKETER
                  36    MR GREENWAY’S STONE DOUBLET
                  37    MARIA LORD THROWN OVER THE BRIDGE
                  38    CHEERING BRADY OVER THE DROP
                  39    ELIZA KICKS UP A LARK IN THE STOOP
                  40    ARTHUR RECKONS CONCILIATION
                  41    NORFOLK SOUNDINGS
                  42    KINCHEN FOR THE HALTER
                  43    A BREEZE IN YER BREECH
                  44    JOSEPH LYCETT CALLS SCENES TO MEMORY
                  45  CASH AND COMPANY AT EAGLEHAWK
                  46  THE WRECKING OF THE WATERLOO
                  47  FAREWELL TO TARA
                  48  FINISHER OF THE LAW
                  49  THE PRICE OF SUCH OFFENCES
                  50  ANTHEM FOR DOOMED LAG

                                                                Michael Small

THE WHIT

   

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S L A N G E D by MICHAEL SMALL

      S L A N G E D

                                by

                       Michael Small

Slanged is the author’s fifth full-length work.  Early in 2003, I tried my hand at writing a poem in what I imagined to be the slang of the convicts who came to Australia in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.  The result was ‘Thirteen Vandemonian Woodcuts’, which eventually made the short list of ‘Westerly’.  My second attempt, ‘The Crossing of Alexander Pearce’, was published by LiNQ in Queensland.  Almost a year later, having written a handful of other poems in more conventional vein, I found myself gravitating back towards the convict theme and with gathering enthusiasm wrote a further twenty-one poems in six months in different voices and diverse styles.  Now truly steeped in the project, I delved further into the underground slang spoken amongst the criminal classes in London in the early eighteenth century.  Consequently, these first poems set in Britain should provide a fascinating background to the arrival of the First Fleet (‘Such A Riot And Rumpus’), for the pieces in this collection are arranged chronologically from about 1720 in London to the1860s in Williamstown, Victoria.  Therefore I have endeavoured, thanks to the meticulously detailed 12-volume Oxford Dictionary and Eric Partridge’s ‘A Dictionary of Slang’, to make use of the language of the particular time in which each poem takes place.

Although I have conscientiously researched the historical setting and the lives of the historical personages who inhabit these pieces, my main purpose was to savour – indeed, preserve – the fresh and vivid imagery expressed in the stoical irony of defiance.  Consequently, these convict stories may be grim, but the vigour and humour of their language is something to marvel at in the face of shocking adversity.

Nevertheless, the language used in these poems may at times seem difficult to comprehend, though I trust that the context will help to clarify the meaning.  Sometimes I have employed the earlier eighteenth or nineteenth century spelling.  In addition, I hope that the physical shape and sounds of a somewhat archaic lexicon will afford the reader some pleasure in themselves.  In the early days of writing these pieces, I was gratified to discover Don Watson’s critique Death Sentence:  The Decay of Public Language, which chimed with my notion to find a ‘fresh’ diction to resuscitate metaphor from the dross of cliché.

I began my writing career in earnest in 1972, soon after emigrating from England.  My first two short stories were published in ‘The Sun-News Pictorial’ Short Story Competition in 1973 and 1974.  My first collection of short stories was published by Tamarillo Publishing in 1988 under the title of Her Natural Life and Other Stories.  I resumed writing poetry in 1990 and have had many pieces published in Australia, Canada, England, India and the United States.  My other books are as follows:  Films:  A Resource Book for Studying Film as Text’ with Brian Keyte, published by Longman Cheshire; Unleashed:  A History of Footscray Football Club with John Lack, Chris McConville and Damien Wright, published by Aus Sport Enterprises, 1996; and Urangeline:  Voices of Carey 1923 - 1997, published by Playwright Publishing, 1997.

As teacher of English, I have worked in England, Sweden, Canada and Australia.  Currently, I reside in Melbourne, Australia.

I hope that you enjoy at least some of the pieces in Slanged.

                                                                                            Michael Small

August, 2009

CAPTAIN FOLGER’S APPARITION

      29 September, 1789

          Our cargo of rum and gin at Hobart Town unloaded,

Our lust spent on the port-holes of palliasses, we

Sallied nor’-easterly across great southern seas

Quick and light as a swallow under the bowsprit,

Where blinding azure dabbed turquoise in soundings shallow;

Peacock plumes in a palette of azul.

Yet the boom-boom of distant rollers crashing bleached cays

Echoed battery cannonades across Boston Harbour

And flashes of parrots 'mid feathery palms raised Cain. 

To procure seal skins for the China trade our intent,

A flight of forked frigates acting escort.

One evening, despairing of water and fresh belly-cheer,

Stunned we were to observe in that longitude

A lateral smudge, a littoral of horizon haze,

Where no ribband of land was laid down.

Mirage?  we wondered.  Hunger of a June crow?

Or the mockery of the Devil?

We bent our course toward a floating table afar-off

Split atwain on the horizontal by a paler mantle above,

For such it seemed to our fancy.

But before the day was dead and done, imagine

Our joy to make out the figure and extent of an island, a

Bosky, ridge-backed plateau with lofty mount its extremity.

But in lightman’s fading embers our joy was snuffed.

Durst we bell the cat?  Rugged cliffs, giant breakers

Ruffling sheer black rocks, the lack of safe haven . . .

                       

We stood a full league out through darkmans,

When Captain Folger, who kept look-out at the mast-head,

Pointed to a ledge at an elevation of some hundred feet:

Blinks aglow like a scattering of silk-worms in a hedge!

We might pitch upon the natives for water on the morrow.

Before sun-rising we closed a small bay and dropped

Bower.  Through his glass, Captain Folger espied

A muster of figures on a narrow shelf of beach

Hard by a thatched hut.  A rude, palm-bowered track

Corkscrewed up the cliff-face and wisps of smoke

Rose behind a stand of trees from the ledge.

Lo and behold, young native scag-wags were sliding,

Aye sliding, across breakers on bellies; others

Shouldered canoes, such as we saw in Otaheite.

Quicker than hell would scorch a feather,

A double canoe was making a dash through

The boiling bubble of surf, plunging oars

Athwart the dragon’s gills.  Heart alive!  Two

Spindles of hollowed logs turning prow for the Topaz,

As if hunted by old Poger.  Noble Savages, indeed!

          Like winking, the canoe, tilting skywards on the crests,

Hurtling deep into troughs, had bumped alongside.

Three stout mermen waved short-hafted oars and hailed.

The tallest tar in the stern stood up to air his tongue.

Of dusky hue, about six feet in height, a shred of cloth

Girding his loins, knife tucked in belt, straw hat
Broad-brimmed stuck with black cock feathers.

       Wibout you gwen?  Wibout you come from?
       Dumbfoozled we were.  Flapped aghast.
       English he spoke uncommonly well, but in strange dialect.
       Come aboard, said Folger.  We will do you no harm

       Dar-de-way, said the chief.  Dars-et.

The Captain ordered two lines over the side.  These marmosets

Sprang up alongside, goggling about the deck’s tackle. 

Their full lips suddenly lapsed into smiles like a brewer’s horse.

In manner most pleasing:  good-natured, willing to be of service and

Artless of fubbery; thin as a purser’s grin all three, loose of limb,

Young hearties of good parts, dark leather; Polynesians, not full bred

But suspicion of the European about their countenance.

We were struck with admiration; they with curiosity.

                 What is the name of this island?  Captain Folger asked.
                  I larn you Peetcairn, sir,’ replied the leader, with laughing,
           black eyes.  Hattay.  Nor gwen?

      Were you born and bred here?

      Whaa?
      Are you English?
      Aye, Eengleesh.  Uclun, he said, encompassing his two
  bean-stick mates. Tulla me, you Eengleesh?

      No.  We are from America.

      Amereeca?  Is dat in Ayerland?

      No.  A long way from there.

       The boys’ faces clouded briefly, then lit up again. 
       Yorlyee?  Tull-story, no?
       Listen, said Folger, pointing to his ear.
       Da lug.
       No, listen.  What is your name?
       Me, Christian, sir.
       Wut a way you?  said one, giggling.  Know you Captain Bligh?  
       Captain Folger’s eyes widened, his voice trailed away.  Your
 name, he grated.  Who are you?
        The lad hesitated, flashed the ivories with a flourish of pride,
 then played the mischief:  Thursdee October Christian da First.

              
              Michael Small             November 29-December 8, 2003

THAT OTHER EDEN

                          by John Adams alias Alexander Smith

                                          October 18, 1814

Thursday has given me most disagreeable intelligence    i have been sorely afeared for many a year    nigh on a quarter of a century    the lad tripped like a billygoat down the sheer face of the rocks    with his customary expedition and warmth of heart    that he might hail them from his canoe    theres no anchorage off Pitcairn    unless youve converted to the one true faith

atop Look Out Ridge above the village    Adamstown    five houses ringed round by coconut trees    i can make out His Majestys two men o war    warping closer to our precipices of black rock    their officers will labour like lubbers from The Landing Place up the Hill of Difficulty to our village green    one hundred feet above sea level due north    a track as tortuous as Quintals mind

it were my intention to erect a simple stone morai amid my groves of orange and lemon and banana trees    alas i shall end my days impeached and strung up from a yardarm at Spithead    the yellow flag will summon every ship in the fleet to witness my disgrace    a blackguard and mutineer    leaving behind my good woman    wife  Paurai Adams    who is very old and stout and so blind that no deedoe nuts can light her way

nay i cannot expect the Kings pardon    i own i was wild once    Reckless Jack theyd call me    i am a criminal of the deepest dye    black as the sand in Matavai Bay    i jumped ship to sign up on the Bounty    a deserter that forged an alias    even stood sentry over my captain with a musket and fixed bayonet    couldve blown his brains out with a leaden pill    and was sorely tempted

what weighs heaviest with me is how all my messmates dreamed Otaheite as the Garden of Eden    but unbeknownst to us    the serpent hid under the glossy leaf of the breadfruit    the Devil tempted us tars with his most comely sirens    hair jet as a ravens wing with the fragrance of tefano    eyes that captured twinkling stars   skin smooth and soft to our rough hands    a brunette complexion most complaisant to the eye    joyous laughter never ending    so natural like giggly children    their perfeckt white teeth sparkled like pearls    one breast always bare in robes of tapa bark    how could we withstand such female allurements    such antic tricks

in truth we couldnt keep the Devil out of our heads    i axe you how could we not be tempted when young virgins danced the timorodee so wantonly as to incite our desire    every man jack of us    save Bligh damn his eyes    took a native wahine for a tayo    i formed an attachment with my Jenny    we tars performed the rites of Venus    swyngeing belly pieces without shame    in the shade of the banyan tree or by an emerald lagoon    often in publick    we soon forgot the poxy whores of Portsmouth    even when we turned rotten with pox ourselves    oh how i do repent me of Otaheite    Gomorrah of the South Seas

aye we soon forgot the maintenance of the Bounty    Bligh ordered me twelve lashes for not standing watch by the cutter   for the indians were thieves and pilferers    always pinching our iron tools and nails    even the quadrant   

yet these smiling natives were friends that spared nothing    no longer did we live off ships biscuit made from pea flour and bone dust crawling with weevils and maggots    and salt beef you could carve into likenesses    but suckling pig and yams    figs and palm hearts    hogs feasts    victuals fit for Farmer George

Bligh    insolent nagger    whod erupt in blazes like the volcano on Tofua    made us sweat for it though    till Mr Christian put an end to his high and mighty airs    we showed him    the Friendly Isles if im not mistook    his longboat that was top heavy and leaky as a sieve shouldve gone down in the briny    or the indians or sharks shouldve done for him

i judged Pitcairn my salvation    from the King’s Navy    this island furnished manna to the Israelites    man should eat his bread by the sweat of his brow but we nothing lacked    turning up the soil did not incommode us    i was partial to a drop of liquor then    for nigh on three years we were content in our wooden houses    our groves of fruit trees    then Morgan stirred the coals    demanded one of the native wives    what followed was wicked plotting and great jealousies    refusal by the natives to obey orders     murder most vicious    the six toutous we brought from Otaheite ran amok    we lost five souls including Mr Christian    Menalee discharged his musket even at me    his friend    the ball passed through my shoulder and the flesh of my neck    Paurai  bless her  pleaded mercy and nursed my leaden fever    six long year passed    me and Ned Young felled that rake-jakes Quintal with a hatchet   in self defence  you understand    i was filled with remorse    desperate black shame

William McKoy was next to go mad    he used to distil spirits from the root of the tea tree in Bountys copper kettle    the sot fastened a rock to his neck and threw himself over the cliff    below Mr Christians cave    i vowed never to touch grog no more 

one night i was blessed with a visitation from the Archangel Michael    he attacked me with a dart for my malingering    course i could scarce read or write    me being a cockney orphan from the poorhouse hard by Wapping Old Stairs    Ned Young    who was sinking with the asthma    undertook my instruction    rummaging through the old chests taken off the Bounty before she was broken up    i found her Bible and Prayer Book

i reared up the children on the Ten Commandments    read the church service every Sunday    would to God i had atoned for my sins    but i durst not expect His most gracious protection

now heres sighting of the Kings uniform    the officers blue coat greatly alarms me    so be it    my course is nearly run    would that i could take Purais hand in marriage in the eyes of God    i fall on my knees and ask Gods forgiveness    teach me to serve Thee better than ever i have done before    that i may be fitter to dwell in heaven    Amen

             Michael Small               November 15-29, 2003

THE CROSSING OF ALEXANDER PEARCE

        No man can tell what he will do

        when driven by hunger – Alexander Pearce

red raw my eyes    smarting    Kings River a scummy tannin

fetched up on this shoulder of sandy brush

a fish gutted    yellow jacket

could lie here till oblivion

sluiced by the wash    Lethewards to Monaghan

fatigued dreadful   scars lashed sore    whats the odds

faculties scarce keep in motion

ulcers off them bloody briars    cross-wise thickets

this was no slant    the ticker fails me

                     all ive got in this godforsook world is a bit o Cox    in my pocket

                that johnny newcome what pressed me to bolt upon the cross
           his fam    we bolted into the woods from Logans sawpit gang
       mynabs was working in irons    which Cox knocked off with his axe

got mittens n burnt rag for tinder and flour for skilly                                 
      we kep low in shrubby parts till we struck the beach
           three days out we intimidated at each other    fly cove
                 he crossed me  Cox    gammoned me over    gully couldnt swim
                      n i durst not pass them mountains again

how im weary sick o grass n nettle tops    mess wont rest on my stomach

not sick o boiled heart n liver but the notion

even the thick part of arms    delicious when youre nearly starved

i was obliged to take the axe to that coxcomb

him being the stronger    incorrigible crawler

three blows to the joskins noddle

n still he cries for mercys sake come back

n put me out of my misery    aye  that i did

n dealt his nabs one almighty mortal bruise

                                    i meant to keep the coast road round to Port Dalyrimple

no more a sevener  bond  but a clean potato  free

some dart    now a heavy burthen weighs like an iron collar

Greenhill watching me so narrowly    gripping the axe

fragments of flesh strung up on boughs    severed hands flapping

Traviss venomed black foot swelling like fly-blown pork

i nearly topped myself with a leather strap    then ate it

if we hadnt bled flogger Dalton he could scourge me senseless

always a battler  me    now im ready to cop it    n willing

since ive crossed t other side im not game no more    down pin
        ive took a purging    lifes road was but indifferent travelling
                beaks of swell street tipped me the short straw aright
                      needs rest awhiles    swim back    give myself up to the logs
                               kindle a signal fire for a pilots jolly boat
                      put on Coxs dry slops    traps sure to bait me with snowdropping
               i stood the hazard without no angel of mercy
       demon  my oath    a lifer in lags land
doomed to scrag

                                          Michael Small             February3-March 30, 2003

            published LiNQ, vol. 30, no. 2, James Cook University, Queensland

HANGING FAIR

Jack:                Struck of a heap, I am, by such immense mobbing.

                        What a press n push like hey-go-mad!

                        Should be easy to nick a dobbin.

Nell:                Newgate Fair day’s bigger n any Rag Fair.

                        All shapes o sharpers n charlatans come ‘ere.

                        Give ‘em the go-by.  Be leary!  Take care!

Jack:                Don’t you worry yer poll ‘bout Jack,

                        A rum kiddy, me nimbles too quick.

                        I’ll ne’er be choked for a crack.

                        But this roar’s vastly deaf’ning:  rattler’s wheels,

                        Beat o hooves, vendors’ cries n hand-bells,

                        Them saucebox balladers lip a chant n squeal.

Nell:                Look, Jack, a catgut-scraper!

Drownded by the booming bells of St Sepulchre.

Keep your squinters open for bruised fruit in the gutter.

Jack:                Next yond pump, that craven cully bleeds like a pig,

                        His crown cracked in cudgel play

                        By mighty whacks from stout sticks.

Nell:                That’s no game.  Quick!  The recruiting dealer!

                        He’ll have you put in the cart and heed you

Not.  Dive behind that furmity tent.  Them’s the gangers.

                        Those brawny-buttocks will bait and bleed you,

                        Chained through the tail like a maddened badger.

                        Amercy.  Too late!  I think they’ve seed you.

Captain            Run mad after that slang-boy, ye scum!

Skin:                I’ll be shot if I don’t press more volunteers.

                        Catch that skulker so full o piss n tantrums!

                        Two months’ wages on the nail!  Slops from the Purser!

Nell:                You cannot touch him.  We cannot offer nought.

The calf’s three years shy of eight and ten.

Lawks, that’s not lawed!

Captain            Here’s my warrant, harpy.

Skin:                He’s cock-and-breeches.  He’ll pass muster with a V.

                        Better one volunteer than three men pressed.

                        So, lad, you’ve just popped out of the parsley bed.

Jack:                Go shake your ears!  I ain’t going!

Captain            Faugh!  For the honour of manning His Majesty’s Ships,

Skin:                I shall give ye one shilling bounty.

                        Do ye know your knots and ropes?

                        Can ye reef and furl, matey?

Jack:                Catch me at it!

Captain            Hold hard!  Jockey’ll sling his hooks.

Skin:

Black Eye:       This pad’s as slippy as a eel! 
                        Blind my eyes, bugger’s scampered!

Captain Skin:    Hear ye, debtors n all!  ‘List in His Majesty’s Navy

                         And yer bones don’t rot in Marshallsea!

                         Sign ‘ere, ye rare dogs and Johnny Raws!

                         See action on the lower decks of a man o’ war!

Black Eye:       Cap’n will tan my hide.

Jack:                Psst, Nell!  Bin lurking by elms n limes.  Them cockers

                        Open shake-bags o black-reds n duckwings.  Tuppence for

Three throws n a broomstick.  Could’ve knocked over

The cock n seized it.  We could’ve supped like swells.

I could die for veal pie n plums n sugar n custard!

Sorry I skipped pell-mell.

Nell:                You did right to save your skin n scutter.

                        Think on a mad cock in the pit fighting to death,

                        Poll clipped close n scarred, talons sharped with silver spurs,

                        Scratching n clawing for all its worth till its last breath.

                        Better fortin’ than the goose, its neck greased thorough,

                        Hung by the legs from a rope.  Neath

                        Them, taking turns to prick their prads, the goose-riders

                        Gallop like the wind to pull off its napper.

Jack:                I was cast up an orphan ‘pon this gammy world,

                        A sickly pup n kept about the Dials.

                        Now you’re my pall, Nell, my pearl,

                        Like a big sister, learning me things,

                        ‘Cos I never knew no ma.

                        According as the fly stings,

                        I could’ve went for redcoat or canvas-actor,

                        Hang me if I didn’t turn cracksman,

                        Cos I fork with fast fingers.

Nell:                Not that long ago, pop comes my boman . . . with forked tongue.

                        Came-a-courting with vows n honeyed words.  All fudge!

                        Fie, what shame and ruin!  The devil’s very bung!

Rag-                Rags dog-cheap!  You buyin’ or sellin’?

Gatherer          If a louse misses its footin’

                       On your coat, it’ll break its neck.

Jack:                Huh, rags is all the rage.  S’pose we could go a-tatting.

Tom o’             Remember the poor!  God be your guide.

Bedlam:

Jack:                The cadging trick.  Faker!

                        What a good voice to beg bacon!

                        That caper weren’t done clean or got up clever.

Rat-Catcher:    Aha, a hick n whore married together.

                        Me thinketh the mort doth wear the breeches.

                        As is the goose, so is the gander.

                        What cheer, moll?  Be ye a buttock-broker?

Nell:                Go scrape, ye buffle-headed old lecher!

                        There’s no back-door work for ye.

                        Shake your trotters, Jack.  Ware these molly-kedgers!

Jack:                Just mark these set-outs of bub n grub.

                        My guts cry cupboard.

                        I must strike it quick upon the dub.

Nell:                Nay, Jack.  Don’t lark with the watch on Fair Day.

                       ‘Tis too dangerous.

                        Remember, just prig n buzz, the wipe lay.

           

                        Can ye spot a plump-in-the pocket in rumpus?

                        Cast yer winkers yonder.

                        What say ye to that well-oiled blunderbuss?

                        A goldfinch, I’ll wager, and cunny-hunter.

                        I’ll stall him up, you act the nipper.

Jack:                He’s worth a plum, to be sure.

Nell:                Beg your pardon, sir.

                        Can you spare a crust or quartern?

                        I’m just a poor cinder-grubber.

Squib:              I’m as full o money as a toad be of feathers.

                        Go to Hanover!

Nell:                 Kind sir, I’m willing to earn my tin.

Squib:              Why, you little breeches!

                         Diving into my salt-box sack.

                         I’ll see you hanged, you pair of leeches!

Jack:                 Leave me be, gobble-gut!

                         I’ll give ye a gob-full o claret!

Squib:              Let’s have no more of your gum.

                        Come along with me, my kinchen chum.

Nell:                Cry you mercy, sir!  We have mistook.

                        This chirper’s just a chip.

                        He only done it for a lark.

                        Prithee, sir, please don’t take the pip.

                        Let me die if I lie!

                        He faked an ill-timed dip

                        To keep the hunger down and solace me.

                        I’d do anything to be quit of our misery.

Squib:              Don’t faddle with me, missus.

                        I know decoy-ducks from dashers.

                        You faked the civil rig.

                        Mind, you twain’ll dance the Paddington jig.

Nell:                Hearken, kind sir.  We washes at pump or trough,

                        Doss neath haystacks or hedges, dreadful frozen.

                        Cause why I’ve got this churchyard cough.

                        My crony, Jack, is only five n ten.

                        Bald-rib and hardly treated.

                        He’s not Jack Ketch’s pippin.

‘Tis many a day since we’ve proper eated.

                        Forced to beat it –

Jack:                Aye, sir, we’re hoofing it on the monkery,

                        Nell n me.  Our blunt’s getting shy . . .

Squib:              For crying in the cemetery!

                        Here, take this groat.

                        Now shake your shambles, the pair o ye!

Jack:                O thank ye, kind sir!

Nell:                And God bless you!

Jack;                Like a sheep’s head – all jaw.

Nell:                Have you shook?

Jack:                Not even a snotter.

Ballad              The devil soon lays his hand on innocent travellers

Monger:           And maiden-wife-widows . . .

Beggar:            Remember poor Tom Cripples, boy.

                        The flea-flints stripped me bare.

                        Can ye flash the dibs for a glass o gin?

                        A fuddle o twain?

Jack:                You’re mops n brooms enough!

Beggar:            You’d skin a flint, you whoreson foist,

                        With your huff n ding.

                         If I were a fighting gill, I’d give ye a hoist!

Jack:                Where’s that groat?  I’ll pitch for vittles

                        Yond where gamblers set up tables for teetotum n dice

                        On the chance o winning at cockshies or skittles.

                        I’ll be damned!  You be damned!

                        Sorrow on us, Nell.  The stomach-worm still gnaws.

                        O what a fool-monger I am!

                       

Coachman:       Mind your backs!

Nell:                Let’s not have a breeze over the lost groat.

                        We should’ve gone snaps.

                        Why’s that fop-doodle looking goats

           

                        And monkey at me? 

P’raps he wishes to play at pully-hauley.

Let’s make him flap.

Jack:                Them’s the horristocracy.

Trembath:        Love to trim the buff of that bewitching brim.

                        Stop the carriage, Tim!

                        You there, hobbledehoy!  Are you goldie’s mackerel?

                        I fancy nothing better than quaffing cull.

Jack:                Snigs, he has crab on the rocks!

                        Nay, sir, she won’t have a brush with you.

                        She don’t play itch-buttocks.

Trembath:        Are you her brother-starling?

                        Or are ye twain buckled, patch?

                        Mistress, ride on my broomstick for a shilling?

Nell:                 Being wicked, ‘tis horrid for a poor lass.

                         Yet my belly is knocking agin my backbone.

                        ‘Tis beg, steal or starve without no mumper’s brass.

Trembath:        Will Columbine wriggle in cock-alley?

Jack:                Come away, Nell.  Leave this buck fitch.

                        I’m itching to nob him on the canister,

                        But like as not he’d turn snitch.

Trembath:        Why, you imp of the devil! 

                        You pitiful hop-o’-my-thumb coxcomb!

Nell:                Thou art such a yellow gloak, Jack.

                        We should a taken that chance.

                        Remember, thou art my squire of the placket!

                        Now that gen’leman had immense fine prancers.

                        Notice the blazes on his black-a-moor’s livery?

                        To nab a long purse, ‘tis the miller’s reel I must dance.

Jack:                What cares I if you lift your heels for a black catchfart,

                        A thundering rake or chatty dosser?

                        After three moons’ hoofing, ‘tis time for us to part.

Ballad              He that is at low tide at Newgate

Monger:           May soon be afloat at Tyburn . . .

Nell:                I’ll speak plain, Jack.  I know you be sweet on me.

                        We’ve lived jig by jowl, so let’s not break a straw.

                        You claw me and I’ll claw thee.

                        Tyburn Road is full o’ ruffians, sharps and, aye, whores,

                        So we whore, humbug or hunt the dummy.

                        Else we tramp half-hungered to the workhouse.

Dog-Catcher:  Now here’s a pretty filly, neat as ninepence.

Shaver:            D’ye twang, goldilocks?

Jack:                Go to Jericho, lobcocks!  Stay, Nell!

                        I spy a knot of knuckles by yon lime-kiln.

                        Next the dung-hill.  Some of ‘em ‘deed be swells.

Nell:                O what it is to come in clothed n shod

                        Proud as a lord’s bastard

                        Without so much as a nod to us poor cods.

Tar:                  How much to nug n join paunches?  Or tip the velvet?

                        A squid o pigtail to dive down to the Netherlands

                        N tease yer magnet.

Jack:                You’re three sheets in the wind, sea-crab!

Tar:                  Aye, aye, sir. 

But I sing more like a whore’s bird than a canary.

                       

Crone:             Are you young’uns waiting for the hangings n procession?

                        ‘Tis lovelier than Islington teagardens of a Sunday.

                        What with all them carts n coffins n mourning carriages

                        For the nobs, dragoons n all.  What a sport n spectacle!

                        It doth please me more n new heads spiked at Temple Bar

                        Or Wapping at low tide, where pirates what are scruffed swing

From the gibbet a-creaking in the wind till their bones rot.

Jack:                Why should I eat hemp-seed?

Crone:             In my time I’ve seed felon swells like Lord Ferrers,

                        What a dear charmer, pass by right royally

                        In open carriage n six, rigged out beautiful

                        In white wedding-suit.  Aye, he was, m’dears.

                        Mayhap a murderer, always a gen’leman, nay the less.

                        Now he was one to die game.  The crowd give rich applause.

                        But as for that rogue Jonathan Wild, the famous fence,

                        That got good robbings, well, I meantersay,

                        He went n took laudanum, acted hoodman blind.

                        Could not keep his feet.  He got the goose,

The likes o which you never heard, a dreadful thunder o boos.

Jack:                ‘Tis not my intended to ride backwards up Holborn Hill.

Crone:             They all but strung him up themsen.

The scapegrace was just coming out o his betwattled state,

When, lo, he seed the noose!  The jeers turned cheers.

Course, you hears the rattles, if you be close,

Cos they choke by fits n starts, as a hog pisseth, ha!

When their water runs down their gam,

Then you know the hanging’s over n done.

Jack:                I ain’t afeared.

Crone:             By the bye, can you spare somethin’ for a glass?

                        Gin n water.  Nothin’ beats a drop o crank

                        Afore the fatal drop.

Nell:                Sorry, old biddy, we be gripe-fists.

Crone:             Deary me!  When I feel sad, I must have a glass o fire-water.

Let me die in a ditch!

Jack:                Hoy, mind the rattle n pad!

Nell:                People n prads have drownded in such hasty puddings.

Swyvel:           This mort’s not a bona roba.

                        Pocked n plain as pump-water.

Sharkey:          Goose’s got chest n bedding n’s loose in the rump.

                        I hankle for a bit o fat.

                        Egad, I’d love a leg o mutton.

Jack:                These cuffins goggle at you like stuck pigs.

Swyvel:           Were ye born at Little Witham, short shanks?

Sharkey:          Scamp of a Tyburn Blossom.

                        Lose his arse if ‘twere loose.

Jack:                The dicers are shaking the elbow.  My hat

                        To a halfpenny, wenchers game with the sharps,

                        So I’ll gammon one o the flats.

Ballad              Money will make the pot boil,

Monger:           Though the devil piss in the fire . . .

Coster:             Watch yer backs!  Mind the barrow!

Bess o’             Givum’s dead n London’s very bad.

Bedlam:           Remember the poor loons!

Fingers             Last hanging fair I done six pence n two dills n a purse.

Smith:              Betwixt you n me, I can’t prig on a full belly.

Sharp:              I done a coupla cambrics.  Mopped up a shilling.

                       

Rum Dab:        The deuce take it! 

You’ve skinned me, but them dice is cogged!

Weighted for long odds, I’ll wager.

Sly Trick:        ‘Sblood!  Are ye accusing me o putting the doctors on?

Rum Dab:        Aye that I am!  An’ shall account for ye!

Nell:                ‘Sbodikins!  There’s a screw loose.

Make haste in the rumble, Jack.  Cut and run.

Gull:                Hey, come back, imp!  I’ve been finely fobbed!

                        Devil take him!

Squint:             Whose dog’s a-hanging?

Gull:                That natty lad with fast forks.  Stop thief!  My watch!

Jack:               ‘Twas my intended to smobble with Nell,

                        So she’d make legs with the ridge-montra.

Gull:                I’ll see thy neck as long as thy arm!

Jack:                What a pickle n hullabaloo!

                        I fox n play at hide n seek,

                        But still the hounds pursue.

                       ‘Tis all narrow down these lanes.

                        Barbers’ wig-boxes, sedans, uneasy stones,

                        Lamplighters’ ladders, stinks o drains,

                        Heaps o filth on broke pavements.

Sweeps with brushes, bags o soot.

Phew!  Nidgets have lost the scent.

Watchman:      Got yer, yer teeny toad of a footpad!

Jack:                Hands off o me!

Watchman:      Give us yer mauleys for these ‘ere clinkers.

Gull:                May he preach at Tyburn Cross, the cheekish hemp!

Jack:                Never once stood afore a beak.

                        Kept my pecker up when there weren’t no peck

                        To be had.  To live, I had to sneak.

                        Nell!

Nell:                Take yer paws off me, yer vinegar-pisser!

                        You’ve ragged me half to death!

Sly Trick:        You be a fine madam, you is.

I’ll darken your day lights!

This wagtail’s the kid’s gammon n trigry-mate.

Rum Dab:        I’ll cut her.  Give her character.

I seen ‘em together.

Jack:                Nell, dear pall, save me from these slinks n slags!

                        Tell ‘em, we be cruelly starved.

                        Desperadoes for peelings n rinds n cag-mags.

Nell:                Fico for thy friendship, neddy!

                        I know ye not nor figging-law.

                       ‘Tis nought to me you be not flush in ready.

Squint:             That rook will piss more n he drinks.

Nell:                Go to Vauxhall’s dark walks as nightingale, I must.

                        That kid’s arrest hurts like a Whitechapel needle.

                        There be other ways of earning a crust.

Anatomist:       Wait, the pericranium of yond Newgate saint.

What a fascinating sample!

                        One day soon we’ll cut down his corpse

For dissection, so stiff’un can grin in a glass case

In a scullery and act the Terror of the Example.

Newspaper      Get yer copy o Last Dying Speeches ‘ere!

Boy:

Jack:                Prithee, Nell, don’t shab!

                        Nell!

                        I don’t care a louse, d’yer hear!  Pox take yer, ye scab!

            Michael Small              March 7–April 13, 2006