style="font-size:15px;"> Full many coffins have I seen — have seen them deep or flat,Fantastical in fashion — none fantastical as that.”
And saying so, with heavy blow, the lid he shattered wide,
And, pale with fright, a ghastly sight that sexton gray espied;
A miserable sight it was, that loathsome corpse to see,
The last, last, dreary, darksome stage of fall’n humanity.
Though all was gone, save reeky bone, a green and grisly heap,
With scarce a trace of fleshly face, strange posture did it keep.
The hands were clenched, the teeth were wrenched, as if the wretch had risen,
E’en after death had ta’en his breath, to strive and burst his prison.
The neck was bent, the nails were rent, no limb or joint was straight;
Together glued, with blood imbued, black and coagulate.
And, as the sexton stooped him down to lift the coffin plank,
His fingers were defiled all o’er with slimy substance dank.
“Ah, welladay!” that sexton gray unto himself did cry,
“Full well I see how Fate’s decree foredoomed this wretch to die;
A living man, a breathing man, within the coffin thrust,
Alack! alack! the agony ere he returned to dust!”
A vision drear did then appear unto that sexton’s eyes;
Like that poor wight before him straight he in a coffin lies.
He lieth in a trance within that coffin close and fast;
Yet though he sleepeth now, he feels he shall awake at last.
The coffin, then, by reverend men, is borne with footsteps slow,
Where tapers shine before the shrine, where breathes the requiem low;
And for the dead the prayer is said, for the soul that is not flown — Then all is drowned in hollow sound, the earth is o’er him thrown!
He draweth breath — he wakes from death to life more horrible;
To agony! such agony! no living tongue may tell.
Die! die he must, that wretched one! he struggles — strives in vain;
No more Heaven’s light, nor sunshine bright, shall he behold again.
“Gramercy, Lord!” the sexton roared, awakening suddenly,
“If this be dream, yet doth it seem most dreadful so to die.
Oh, cast my body in the sea! or hurl it on the shore!
But nail me not in coffin fast — no grave will I dig more.”
It was not difficult to discover the effect produced by this song, in the lengthened faces of the greater part of the audience. Jack Palmer, however, laughed loud and long.
“Bravo, bravo!” cried he; “that suits my humor exactly. I can’t abide the thoughts of a coffin. No deal box for me.”
“A gibbet might, perhaps, serve your turn as well,” muttered the sexton; adding aloud, “I am now entitled to call upon you; — a song! — a song!”
“Ay, a song, Mr. Palmer, a song!” reiterated the hinds. “Yours will be the right kind of thing.”
“Say no more,” replied Jack. “I’ll give you a chant composed upon Dick Turpin, the highwayman. It’s no great shakes, to be sure, but it’s the best I have.” And, with a knowing wink at the sexton, he commenced, in the true nasal whine, the following strain:
ONE FOOT IN THE STIRRUP
OR TURPIN’S FIRST FLING
Cum esset proposita fuga Turpi(n)s. —Cicero.
“One foot in the stirrup, one hand in the rein,
And the noose be my portion, or freedom I’ll gain!
Oh! give me a seat in my saddle once more,
And these bloodhounds shall find that the chase is not o’er!”
Thus muttered Dick Turpin, who found, while he slept,
That the Philistines old on his slumbers had crept;
Had entrapped him as puss on her form you’d ensnare,
And that gone were his snappers — and gone was his mare.
Hilloah!
How Dick had been captured is readily told,
The pursuit had been hot, though the night had been cold,
So at daybreak, exhausted, he sought brief repose
Mid the thick of a corn-field, away from his foes.
But in vain was his caution — in vain did his steed,
Ever watchful and wakeful in moments of need,
With lip and with hoof on her master’s cheek press —
He slept on, nor heeded the warning of Bess.
Hilloah!
“Zounds! gem’men!” cried Turpin, “you’ve found me at fault,
And the highflying highwayman’s come to a halt;
You have turned up a trump — for I weigh well my weight —
And the forty is yours, though the halter’s my fate. Well, come on’t what will, you shall own when all’s past, That Dick Turpin, the Dauntless, was game to the last. But, before we go further, I’ll hold you a bet, That one foot in my stirrup you won’t let me set. Hilloah!
“A hundred to one is the odds I will stand, A hundred to one is the odds you command; Here’s a handful of goldfinches ready to fly! May I venture a foot in my stirrup to try?” As he carelessly spoke, Dick directed a glance At his courser, and motioned her slyly askance:— You might tell by the singular toss of her head, And the prick of her ears, that his meaning she read. Hilloah!
With derision at first was Dick’s wager received,
And his error at starting as yet unretrieved;
But when from his pocket the shiners he drew,
And offered to “make up the hundred to two,”
