Life’s risk for our mistress’s praise is a trifle; And each purse as a trophy our homage attests. Then toss off your glasses to all girls of spirit, Ne’er with names, or with number, your memories vex; Our toast, boys, embraces each woman of merit, And, for fear of omission, we’ll drink the Whole Sex.
“Well,” replied Dick, replenishing King’s rummer, while he laughed heartily at his ditty, “I shan’t refuse your toast, though my heart don’t respond to your sentiments. Ah, Tom! the sex you praise so much will, I fear, prove your undoing. Do as you please, but curse me if ever I pin my life to a petticoat. I’d as soon think of neglecting the four cautions.”
“The four cautions,” said King; “what are they?”
“Did you never hear them?” replied Dick. “Attend, then, and be edified.”
THE FOUR CAUTIONS
Pay attention to these cautions four,
And through life you will need little more,
Should you dole out your days to threescore
Beware of a pistol before!
Before! before!
Beware of a pistol before!
And when backward his ears are inclined,
And his tail with his ham is combined,
Caution two you will bear in your mind:
Beware of a prancer behind!
Behind! behind!
Beware of a prancer behind!
Thirdly, when in the park you may ride,
On your best bit of blood, sir, astride,
Chatting gay to your old friend’s young bride:
Beware of a coach at the side!
At the side! at the side!
Beware of a coach at the side!
Lastly, whether in purple or gray,
Canter, ranter, grave, solemn, or gay,
Whate’er he may do or may say,
Beware of a priest every way!
Every way! every way!
Beware of a priest every way!
“Well,” said Tom King, “all you can sing or say don’t alter my good opinion of the women. Not a secret have I from the girl of my heart. She could have sold me over and over again if she had chosen, but my sweet Sue is not the wench to do that.”
“It is not too late,” said Dick. “Your Delilah may yet hand you over to the Philistines.”
“Then I shall die in a good cause,” said King; “but
The Tyburn Tree
Has no terrors for me,
Let better men swing — I’m at liberty.
I shall never come to the scragging-post, unless you turn topsman, Dick Turpin. My nativity has been cast, and the stars have declared I am to die by the hand of my best friend — and that’s you — eh? Dick?”
“It sounds like it,” replied Turpin; “but I advise you not to become too intimate with Jack Ketch. He may prove your best friend, after all.”
“Why, faith, that’s true,” replied King, laughing; “and if I must ride backwards up Holborn Hill, I’ll do the thing in style, and honest Jack Ketch shall never want his dues. A man should always die game. We none of us know how soon our turn may come; but come when it will, I shall never flinch from it.
As the highwayman’s life is the fullest of zest,
So the highwayman’s death is the briefest and best;
He dies not as other men die, by degrees,
But at once! without flinching — and quite at his ease!
as the song you are so fond of says. When I die it will not be of consumption. And if the surgeon’s knife must come near me, it will be after death. There’s some comfort in that reflection, at all events.”
“True,” replied Turpin, “and, with a little alteration, my song would suit you capitally:
There is not a king, should you search the world round,
So blithe as the king’s king, Tom King, to be found;
Dear woman’s his empire, each girl is his own,
And he’d have a long reign if he’d let ’em alone.
Ha, ha!”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Tom. “And now, Dick, to change the subject. You are off, I understand, to Yorkshire to-night. ‘Pon my soul, you are a wonderful fellow — an alibi personified! — here and everywhere at the same time — no wonder you are called the flying highwayman. To-day in town — to-morrow at York — the day after at Chester. The devil only knows where you will pitch your quarters a week hence. There are rumors of you in all counties at the same moment. This man swears you robbed him at Hounslow; that on Salisbury Plain; while another avers you monopolize Cheshire and Yorkshire, and that it isn’t safe even to hunt without pops in your pocket. I heard some devilish good stories of you at D’Osyndar’s t’other day; the fellow who told them to me little thought I was a brother blade.”
“You flatter me,” said Dick, smiling complacently; “but it’s no merit of mine. Black Bess alone enables me to do it, and hers be the credit. Talking of being everywhere at the same time, you shall hear what she once did for me in Cheshire. Meantime, a glass to the best mare in England. You won’t refuse that toast, Tom. Ah! if your mistress is only as true to you as my nag to me, you might set at naught the tightest hempen cravat that was ever twisted, and defy your best friend to hurt you. Black Bess! and God bless her! And now for the song.” Saying which, with much emotion, Turpin chanted the following rhymes:
BLACK BESS
Let the lover his mistress’s beauty rehearse,
And laud her attractions in languishing verse;
Be it mine in rude strains, but with truth to express,
The love that I bear to my bonny Black Bess.
From the west was her dam, from the east was her sire,
From the one came her swiftness, the other her fire;
No peer of the realm better blood can possess
Than flows in the veins of my bonny Black Bess.
Look! Look! how that eyeball grows bright as a brand!
