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 cornfield, 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 check 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,”
There were havers in plenty, and each whispered each,
The same thing, though varied in figure of speech,
“Let the fool act his folly—the stirrup of Bess!
He has put his foot in it already we guess!”
Hilloah!
Bess was brought to her master—Dick steadfastly gazed
At the eye of his mare, then his foot quick upraised:
His toe touched the stirrup, his hand grasped the rein—
He was safe on the back of his courser again!
As the clarion, fray-sounding and shrill, was the neigh
Of Black Bess, as she answered his cry hark-away!”
“Beset me, ye bloodhounds! in rear and in van;
My foot’s in the stirrup, now catch me who can?”
Hilloah!
There was riding and gibing mid rabble and rout,
And the old woods re-echoed the Philistines’ shout!
There was hurling and whirling o’er brake and o’er brier,
But the course of Dick Turpin was swift as heaven’s fire.
Whipping, spurring, and straining, would nothing avail,
Dick laughed at their curses, and scoffed at their wail;
“My foot’s in the stirrup!”—thus rang his last cry;
“Bess had answered my call; now her mettle we’ll try!”
Hilloah!
Uproarious applause followed Jack’s song, when the joviality of the mourners was interrupted by a summons to attend in the state room. Silence was at once completely restored; and, in the best order they could assume, they followed their leader, Peter Bradley. Jack Palmer was amongst the last to enter, and remained a not incurious spectator of a by no means common scene.
Preparations had been made to give due solemnity to the ceremonial. The leaden coffin was fastened down, and enclosed in an outer case of oak, upon the lid of which stood a richly-chased massive silver flagon, filled with burnt claret, called the grace-cup. All the lights were removed, save two lofty wax flambeaux, which were placed to the back, and threw a lurid glare upon the group immediately about the body, consisting of Ranulph Rookwood and some other friends of the deceased. Doctor Small stood in front of the bier; and, under the directions of Peter Bradley, the tenantry and household were formed into a wide half-moon across the chamber. There was a hush of expectation, as Doctor Small looked gravely round; and even Jack Palmer, who was as little likely as any man to yield to an impression of the kind, felt himself moved by the scene.