Classic Poem

Dear Martin Folkes, dear scholar, brother, friend,
And words of like importance without end,
This comes to tell you, how in Epping Hundred
Last Wednesday morning I was robbed and plundered.
Forgive the Muse who sings what, I suppose,
Fame has already trumpeted in prose;
But Fame's a lying jade: the turn of fate
Let poor Melpomene herself relate:
Spare the sad nymph a vacant hour's relief,
To rhyme away the remnants of her grief.

On Tuesday night, you know with how much sorrow
I bid the Club farewell--"I go tomorrow'--
Tomorrow came, and so accordingly
Unto the place of rendezvous went I.
Bull was the house, and Bishopgate the street:
The coach as full as it could cram; to wit,
Two fellow commoners, De Aula Trin,
And eke an honest bricklayer of Lynn,
And eke two Norfolk dames, his wife and cousin,
And eke my worship's self made half a dozen.

Now then, as fortune had contrived, our way
Through the wild brakes of Epping Forest lay:
With travellers and trunks, a hugeous load,
We crawled along the solitary road;
Where naught but thickets within thickets grew,
No house nor barn to cheer the wandering view;
Nor labouring hind, nor shepherd did appear,
Nor sportsman with his dog or gun was there;
A dreary landscape, bushy and forlorn,
Where rogues start up like mushrooms in a morn.

However since we, none of us, had yet
Such rogues but in a sessions paper met,
We joked on fear; though as we passed along,
Robbing was still the burden of the song.
With untried courage bravely we repelled
The rude attacks of dogs--not yet beheld,
With valorous talk still battling, till at last
We thought all danger was as good as past.
Says one--too soon, alas--"Now let him come,
Full at his head I'll fling this bottle of rum.'

Scarce had he spoken when the brickman's wife
Cried out, "Good Lord! he's here upon my life!'
Forth from behind the wheels the villain came,
And swore such words as I dare hardly name;
But you'll suppose them, brother, not to drop
From me, but him, "G--d d--n ye, coachman, stop!
Your money, z--ds, deliver me your money,
Quick, d--n ye, quick; must I stay waiting on ye?
Quick, or I'll send'--(and nearer still he rode)
"A brace of balls amongst ye all, by G--d!'

I leave you, Sir, to judge yourself what plight
We all were put in by this cursed wight.
The trembling females into labour fell;
Big with the sudden fear, they pout, they swell;
And soon delivered by his horrid curses,
Brought forth two strange and preternatural purses;
That looked indeed like purses made of leather;
But let the sweet-tongued Maningham say whether
A common purse could possibly conceal
Shillings, half-crowns and ha'pence by piecemeal.

The youth who threw the bottle at the knave
Before he came, now thought it best to waive
Such resolution, and preserve the liquor;
Since a round guinea might be thrown much quicker:
So with impetuous haste he flung him that,
Which the sharp rascal parried with his hat.
His right-hand man, a brother of our quill,
Prudently chose to show his own good will
By the same token, and without much scruple
Made the red-rugged collector's income duple.

My heart--for truth I always must confess--
Dropped down an inch exactly more or less.
With both my eyes I viewed the thief's approach,
And read the case of Pistol versus Coach;
A woeful case which I had oft heard quoted,
But ne'er before in all my practice noted.
So when the lawyers brought in their report,
Guinea per Christian to be paid in court,
"Well off,' thinks I, "from this son of a whore,
If he prefer his action for no more.'

"No more! why hang him; is not that much
To pay a guinea for his vile High-Dutch?
'Tis true his arguments are short and frank,
His action strong, to which he swears point-blank;
Yet why resign the yellow one pound one?
No, tax his bill and give him silver, John!
So said so done, when putting fist to fob
I flung the apparent value of the job,
An ounce of silver into his receiver,
And marked the issue of the rogue's behavior.

He, like a thankless wretch that's overpaid,
Resents, forsooth, the affront upon his trade,
And treats my kindness with a "This won't do;
Look ye here, Sir, I must ha' gold from you.'
To this demand of the ungrateful cur
Defendant John thought proper to demur.
The bricklayer, joining in the white opinion,
Tendered five shillings to Diana's minion,
Who still kept threatening to pervade his buff,
Because the payment was not prompt enough.

Before the women, with their purses each
Had strength to place contents within his reach,
One of his pieces falling downwards, drew
The rogue's attention hungrily thereto.
Straight he began to damn the charioteer:
"Come down, ye dog, reach me that guinea there.'
Down jumps the affrighted coachman on the sand,
Picks up the gold and puts it in his hand;
Missing a rare occasion, timorous dastard,
To seize his pistol and dismount the bastard.

Now while in deep and serious ponderment
I watched the motions of his next intent,
He wheeled about, as one full bent to try
The matter in dispute 'twixt him and I,
And how my silver sentiments would hold
Against that hard dilemma--balls or gold.
"No help?' said I, "no tachygraphic power
To interpose in this unequal hour!
I doubt--I must resign--there's no defending
The cause against that murderous fire-engine.'