CANT SONGS

Mists on the marsh are gathering thick, The shuddering woods are dim, My barker’s muzzle looks grim, Of boozing and delling and such I’m sick. Saddle my mare—my Marjorie— For Oliver’s glim is bright, And this is a snaffling night— Ho, my girl, for the nuttiest spree! We’ll make his Lordship tip us the bit, We’ll knuckle his mort’s fawnie, And a kiss, for we’re gay dogs, we, And love to fool with a comely chit. At morning’s dawn we will ride to our ken, And tipple, and count our swag, And of our flash spices brag, And rest the bodies of mares and men.

Oh lads that are quier on the rum-padding lay, That saddle your prancers at waning of day, That ride to the tavern at dawning, Take warning, For a dell with a scampsman the dickens ’ull play. In gaol a full dozen of rum-pads are lying, And for Dolly and Molly and Polly are sighing, But those very same troublesome fair Sent ’em there, And they’ll all curse their morts when it comes to the dying. Let the gemman who wants to bing wide of the crap Beware of his dell, for she’s certain to rap— There I’ve tipped you a deuced moral lay, So good day, I’m off to lie soft in my Barbara’s lap.

On the Pamunkey’s pine-fringed shore— Lord! how drear is the torrent’s roar! Sits the gentleman rum-pad, slave, Watching the leap of the restless wave, And sighing for his Jenny. Cast for lag was this scampsman bold, Flung in a slaver’s stinking hold, Kicked and flogged like a vagrant cur— That was hard on a gentleman, Sir, Who sighed for pretty Jenny. Bought by a planter and driven away Many a mile on a sweltering day, Lashed to a negro, foul and black, Each time I stumbled the whip on my back, Lord! how I sighed for Jenny. Set to work in the sugar canes, Hunger, thirst, and the sun’s hot pains, Bed at night with a filthy crew, Tumble and toss and sweat and stew, And wretched dreams of Jenny. Thus the miserable days go by, Grinding toil ’neath a torrid sky, Pain and hate, thirst and hunger wild, Tears at night like a beaten child— Pray for me, pretty Jenny!

Oh you fool, you! Who’d have thought it! Dangling like a dog on string. That poor spice, you’ve dearly bought it— Lad, how does it feel to swing? Did you kick when the hemp choked you, And your heels danced in the air, And the sweat of dying soaked you, Struggling on the three-legged mare? Swear you did! Your grin, my Billy, Is not what it ought to be, Thus to show your teeth is silly, And not over good to see. Dolly wouldn’t kiss that cheek, Sir, With the veins swelled out so black, Pretty Bab would squirm and shriek, Sir, At the scars upon your back— Which you had in gaol, my beauty, Ere you gambolled on the crap, Lud! the Sheriff did his duty, Ordered you both rope and strap. For you held the roads a-trembling, Billy with the face so black; Ah, I hear you—‘No dissembling! Tip the steven—don’t be slack!’ Blowens screamed, and gemmen cursed you, But you caved ’em with your pop, Now, alas! the hemp has burst you, Ere you reaped your nutty crop. Oh you fool, you! Who’d have thought it! Bowled out, trussed up, stark, and dead. Ruffler crack, Egad! you’ve caught it, Caught it fairly on the head.