mandrake grows ‘neath the gallows-tree,And rank and green are its leaves to see;
Green and rank, as the grass that waves
Over the unctuous earth of graves;
And though all around it lie bleak and bare,
Freely the mandrake flourisheth there.
Maranatha — Anathema! Dread is the curse of mandragora! Euthanasy!
At the foot of the gibbet the mandrake springs;
Just where the creaking carcase swings;
Some have thought it engendered
From the fat that drops from the bones of the dead;
Some have thought it a human thing;
But this is a vain imagining.
Maranatha — Anathema! Dread is the curse of mandragora! Euthanasy!
A charnel leaf doth the mandrake wear,
A charnel fruit doth the mandrake bear;
Yet none like the mandrake hath such great power,
Such virtue resides not in herb or flower;
Aconite, hemlock, or moonshade, I ween,
None hath a poison so subtle and keen.
Maranatha — Anathema! Dread is the curse of mandragora! Euthanasy!
And whether the mandrake be create
Flesh with the power incorporate,
I know not; yet, if from the earth ’tis rent,
Shrieks and groans from the root are sent;
Shrieks and groans, and a sweat like gore
Oozes and drops from the clammy core.
Maranatha — Anathema! Dread is the curse of mandragora! Euthanasy!
Whoso gathereth the mandrake shall surely die;
Blood for blood is his destiny.
Some who have plucked it have died with groans,
Like to the mandrake’s expiring moans;
Some have died raving, and some beside —
With penitent prayers — but all have died. Jesu! save us by night and day! From the terrible death of mandragora! Euthanasy!
“A queer chant that,” said Zoroaster, coughing loudly, in token of disapprobation.
“Not much to my taste,” quoth the knight of Malta. “We like something more sprightly in Canterbury.”
“Nor to mine,” added Jerry; “don’t think it’s likely to have an encore. ‘Pon my soul, Dick, you must give us something yourself, or we shall never cry Euthanasy at the Triple Tree.”
“With all my heart,” replied Turpin. “You shall have — but what do I see, my friend Sir Luke? Devil take my tongue, Luke Bradley, I mean. What, ho! Luke — nay, nay, man, no shrinking — stand forward; I’ve a word or two to say to you. We must have a hob-a-nob glass together for old acquaintance sake. Nay, no airs, man; damme you’re not a lord yet, nor a baronet either, though I do hold your title in my pocket; never look glum at me. It won’t pay. I’m one of the Canting Crew now; no man shall sneer at me with impunity, eh, Zory? Ha, ha! here’s a glass of Nantz; we’ll have a bottle of black strap when you are master of your own. Make ready there, you gut-scrapers, you shawm-shavers; I’ll put your lungs in play for you presently. In the meantime — charge, pals, charge — a toast, a toast! Health and prosperity to Sir Luke Rookwood! I see you are surprised — this, gemmen, is Sir Luke Rookwood, somewhile Luke Bradley, heir to the house of that name, not ten miles distant from this. Say, shall we not drink a bumper to his health?”
Astonishment prevailed amongst the crew. Luke himself had been taken by surprise. When Turpin discovered him at the door of the tent, and summoned him to appear, he reluctantly complied with the request; but when, in a half-bantering vein, Dick began to rally him upon his pretensions, he would most gladly have retreated, had it been in his power. It was then too late. He felt he must stand the ordeal. Every eye was fixed upon him with a look of inquiry.
Zoroaster took his everlasting pipe from his mouth.
“This ain’t true, surely?” asked the perplexed Magus.
“He has said it,” replied Luke; “I may not deny it.”
This was sufficient. There was a wild hubbub of delight amongst the crew, for Luke was a favorite with all.
“Sir Luke Rookwood!” cried Jerry Juniper, who liked a title as much as Tommy Moore is said to dote upon a lord. “Upon my soul I sincerely congratulate you; devilish fortunate fellow. Always cursed unlucky myself. I could never find out my own father, unless it were one Monsieur des Capriolles, a French dancing-master, and he never left anything behind him that I could hear of, except a broken kit and a hempen widow. Sir Luke Rookwood, we shall do ourselves the pleasure of drinking your health and prosperity.”
Fresh bumpers and immense cheering.
Silence being in a measure restored, Zoroaster claimed Turpin’s promise of a song.
“True, true,” replied Dick; “I have not forgotten it. Stand to your bows, my hearties.”
THE GAME OF HIGH TOBY
Now Oliver78 puts his black nightcap on, And every star its glim79 is hiding, And forth to the heath is the scampsman80 gone, His matchless cherry-black81 prancer riding; Merrily over the common he flies, Fast and free as the rush of rocket, His crape-covered vizard drawn over his eyes, His tol82 by his side, and his pops83 in his pocket.
CHORUS
Then who can name So merry a game, As the game of all games — high toby?84
The traveller hears him, away! away!
Over the wide wide heath he scurries;
He heeds not the thunderbolt summons to stay,
But ever the faster and faster he hurries.
But what daisy-cutter can match
