if you like I’ll sing you a song about highwaymen.”
“I should like it of all things,” replied Titus, who entertained a very favorable opinion of Jack’s vocal powers, and was by no means an indifferent performer; “only let it be in a minor key.”
Jack required no further encouragement, but disregarding the hints and looks of Coates, sang with much unction the following ballad to a good old tune, then very popular — the merit of which “nobody can deny.”
A CHAPTER OF HIGHWAYMEN
Of every rascal of every kind,
The most notorious to my mind,
Was the Cavalier Captain, gay Jemmy Hind!7 Which nobody can deny.
But the pleasantest coxcomb among them all
For lute, coranto, and madrigal,
Was the galliard Frenchman, Claude Du-Val!8 Which nobody can deny.
And Tobygloak never a coach could rob,
Could lighten a pocket, or empty a fob,
With a neater hand than Old Mob, Old Mob!9 Which nobody can deny.
Nor did housebreaker ever deal harder knocks
On the stubborn lid of a good strong box,
Than that prince of good fellows, Tom Cox, Tom Cox!10 Which nobody can deny.
A blither fellow on broad highway,
Did never with oath bid traveller stay,
Than devil-may-care Will Holloway!11 Which nobody can deny.
And in roguery naught could exceed the tricks
Of Gettings and Grey, and the five or six
Who trod in the steps of bold Neddy Wicks!12 Which nobody can deny.
Nor could any so handily break a lock
As Sheppard, who stood on the Newgate dock,
And nicknamed the jailers around him “his flock!”13 Which nobody can deny.
Nor did highwaymen ever before possess
For ease, for security, danger, distress,
Such a mare as Dick Turpin’s Black Bess! Black Bess!
Which nobody can deny.
“A capital song, by the powers!” cried Titus, as Jack’s ditty came to a close. “But your English robbers are nothing at all, compared with our Tories14 and Rapparees — nothing at all. They were the raal gentlemen — they were the boys to cut a throat aisily.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Jack, in disgust, “the gentlemen I speak of never maltreated any one, except in self-defence.”
“Maybe not,” replied Titus; “I’ll not dispute the point — but these Rapparees were true brothers of the blade, and gentlemen every inch. I’ll just sing you a song I made about them myself. But meanwhile don’t let’s forget the bottle — talking’s dry work. My service to you, doctor!” added he, winking at the somnolent Small. And tossing off his glass, Titus delivered himself with much joviality of the following ballad; the words of which he adapted to the tune of the Groves of the Pool:
THE RAPPAREES
Let the Englishman boast of his Turpins and Sheppards, as cocks of the walk,
His Mulsacks, and Cheneys, and Swiftnecks15— it’s all botheration and talk; Compared with the robbers of Ireland, they don’t come within half a mile, There never were yet any rascals like those of my own native isle!
First and foremost comes Redmond O’Hanlon, allowed the first thief of the world,16 That o’er the broad province of Ulster the Rapparee banner unfurled; Och! he was an elegant fellow, as ever you saw in your life, At fingering the blunderbuss trigger, or handling the throat-cutting knife.
And then such a dare-devil squadron as that which composed Redmond’s tail! Meel, Mactigh, Jack Reilly, Shan Bernagh, Phil Galloge, and Arthur O’Neal; Shure never were any boys like ’em for rows, agitations, and sprees, Not a rap did they leave in the country, and hence they were called Rapparees.17
Next comes Power, the great Tory18 of Munster, a gentleman born every inch, And strong Jack Macpherson of Leinster, a horse-shoe who broke at a pinch; The last was a fellow so lively, not death e’en his courage could damp, For as he was led to the gallows, he played his own “march to the camp.”19
Paddy Fleming, Dick Balf, and Mulhoni, I think are the next on my list,
All adepts in the beautiful science of giving a pocket a twist;
Jemmy Carrick must follow his leaders, ould Purney who put in a huff, By dancing a hornpipe at Tyburn, and bothering the hangman for snuff.
There’s Paul Liddy, the curly-pate Tory, whose noddle was stuck on a spike,
And Billy Delaney, the “Songster,”20 we never shall meet with his like; For his neck by a witch was anointed, and warranted safe by her charm, No hemp that was ever yet twisted his wonderful throttle could harm.
And lastly, there’s Cahir na Cappul, the handiest rogue of them all,
Who only need whisper a word, and your horse will trot out of his stall;
Your tit is not safe in your stable, though you or your groom should be near,
And devil a bit in the paddock, if Cahir gets hould of his ear.
Then success to the Tories of Ireland, the generous, the gallant, the gay!
With them the best Rumpads21 of England are not to be named the same day! And were further proof wanting to show what precedence we take with our prigs, Recollect that our robbers are Tories, while those of your country are Whigs.
“Bravissimo!” cried
