FELONIOUSLY TAKING FROM HER PERSON

          Mary Ann Wade, 1777-1859

 Going of eleven, Mary Wade was the youngest canary

on board the all-female prison barque, the Lady Juliana.

With a besom to earn her keep, she would sweep the streets,

the stones of London, and cry for a starveling’s crust.

A ragged beggar smirched in dust, her glowering mug in smuts,

On the sharp her squinty eye espies a skulking Mary Phillips,

a runt aged eight and just the muggins, the chance to bully,

filling a bottle with water close by the Treasury’s privy.

Alongside her chum, Jane Whiting, nigh fourteen, Mary did gloat.

She stood over this nipper, stripped her petticoats and other clouts:

a linen tippet value tuppence, a linen cap tuppence, a dark cotton

frock worth three shillings.  Left chilled, the child kept sobbing.

‘Twas the broker who tipped the theft to an officer of law,

who saw the tippet-de-witchet in Mary’s cubby stowed.

So Mary Wade was cobbed and clinked in Bridewell Prison,

the wretched wench sentenced to scrag upon the squeezer.

Says Mrs Wade: ‘I never brought her up to go a-begging.’

The frock they’d pledged in pawn for eighteen pence.

The judge’s verdict: Death!  Robbery was a hanging offence.

Despite her tough but tender years, Mary, unrepentant, found

guilty of robbery void of violence; yet ‘I was in a good mind

to have chucked the child down the necessary,’ Mary owned,

with some snotty-nosed sneering. ‘And I wish I had done so.’

Michael Small

May 4-8, 2014

In March, 1789 Mary received a sudden reprieve.  King George III was apparently cured of a mental disease.  All those women in the condemned cells had their sentence commuted to penal transportation to Australia.  After an eleven-month voyage, the Lady Juliana docked in Sydney Cove.  Mary settled near the Hawkesbury River, where she gave birth to twenty-one children.  At her death she had three hundred descendants in Australia.

PRINCE OF ROGUES

                  George Barrington, 1755-1804

Aged sixteen he chivved a fellow student, was flogged

by his masters, and fled to turn a prigging rogue.

A Dubliner, George Barrington, with a lilting oirish brogue,

an old file upon the town with a gift for gabble, a candied tongue,

a vain flamer who rather fancied himself, a sprig.

With a penchant to gallivant, he joined a troupe of strolling players

who also went a-prigging.  Price, their leader, a purse-emptier,

was a sharp, till he copped the transport to penal America.

More than passing fair an actor, George, his pall, loved drama,

the game of gam.  He would fake a gentry-cove with genteel manners,

nail the swell’s montra in the push, knuckling from the waistcoat or

breeches, but acted not the fawney-dropper or silk snatcher.

For he was a boman prig with rum fish-hooks, a smooth bung-diver

with sleight of fams, a cool charmer at humbugging.

And what confidence to pass himself off as surgeon

and pilfer purses from familiar peers in the gammon!

To tip off the blarney with histrionics was his style,

‘Twas in the infamy of his name, he revelled.

In London he guised in clerical vestures, delighting in nicking

a snuffer inlaid with sparklers from the pocket of Prince Orlov,

of all swells, a racket not to be sniffed at, yet the Prince did baulk.

When pinched, George was sentenced to three years in the hulks,

 but heeding not the lesson went knocking up the larks. 

 At Drury Lane, during interval, the breaking-up of the spell,

 he would prove a night walker with cool theatrical skill.

                                                                                                                              

Then he copped a packet at Enfield racecourse and was undone

 

for speaking to the tattler, lifting a gold watch and chain.

Tried at the Old Bailey for this lagging matter, he held his own

defence, teazing tears from judge and jury.  Tho’ he gammoned

the twelve in prime twig, he knapped seven pen’worth.

Before trying to abscond from Newgate attired in his wife’s clothes, 

he condoled old chums sailing to the black man’s land,

for he wore not a stitch and lacked pockets with purses to pick.

The old fox arrived on the Active, a two-masted brig, in September, 1791.

In Toongabbie he was praised for Irreproachable Conduct.  Trusted even,

appointed Superintendent of Convicts and granted a pardon

absolute, the first Emancipist, acknowledged by Governor John Hunter,  

so impeccable his behaviour as Chief Constable of  Parramatta.

Now owner of his house and two land grants, he bought sixty acres

on Hawkesbury plains to farm with shepherd lags and labourers.

Round the camp fire did these coves ever hear his fancy stories?

Or envy him his black gin, Yeariana, ‘my most scrupulous statuary’?

Soon enough he died from Infirmity, some suspected lunacy.

                                                                                              Michael Small 

April 16-May 2, 2014