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!
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
No comments:
Post a Comment