HANGING FAIR
Jack:
Struck of a heap, I am, by such immense mobbing. What a press n push like heygomad! Should be easy to nick a dobbin.
Nell:
Newgate Fair day’s bigger n any Rag Fair. All shapes o sharpers n charlatans come ‘ere. Give ‘em the goby. Be leary! Take care!
Jack:
Don’t you worry yer poll ‘bout Jack, A rum kiddy, me nimbles too quick. I’ll ne’er be choked for a crack. But this roar’s vastly deaf’ning: rattler’s wheels, Beat o hooves, vendors’ cries n handbells, Them saucebox balladers lip a chant n squeal.
Nell:
Look, Jack, a catgutscraper! Drownded by the booming bells of St Sepulchre. Keep your squinters open for bruised fruit in the gutter.
Jack:
Next yond pump, that craven cully bleeds like a pig, His crown cracked in cudgel play By mighty whacks from stout sticks.
Nell:
That’s no game. Quick! The recruiting dealer! He’ll have you put in the cart and heed you Not. Dive behind that furmity tent. Them’s the gangers. Those brawnybuttocks will bait and bleed you, Chained through the tail like a maddened badger. Amercy. Too late! I think they’ve seed you.
Captain Skin:
Run mad after that slangboy, ye scum! I’ll be shot if I don’t press more volunteers. Catch that skulker so full o piss n tantrums! Two months’ wages on the nail! Slops from the Purser!
Nell:
You cannot touch him. We cannot offer nought.
The calf’s three years shy of eight and ten. Lawks, that’s not lawed! Captain Skin:
Here’s my warrant, harpy. He’s cockandbreeches. He’ll pass muster with a V. Better one volunteer than three men pressed. So, lad, you’ve just popped out of the parsley bed.
Jack:
Go shake your ears! I ain’t going!
Captain Skin:
Faugh! For the honour of manning His Majesty’s Ships, I shall give ye one shilling bounty. Do ye know your knots and ropes? Can ye reef and furl, matey?
Jack:
Catch me at it!
Captain Skin:
Hold hard! Jockey’ll sling his hooks.
Black Eye:
This pad’s as slippy as a eel! Blind my eyes, bugger’s scampered!
Captain Skin: Hear ye, debtors n all! ‘List in His Majesty’s Navy And yer bones don’t rot in Marshallsea! Sign ‘ere, ye rare dogs and Johnny Raws! See action on the lower decks of a man o’ war! Black Eye:
Cap’n will tan my hide.
Jack:
Psst, Nell! Bin lurking by elms n limes. Them cockers Open shakebags o blackreds n duckwings. Tuppence for Three throws n a broomstick. Could’ve knocked over The cock n seized it. We could’ve supped like swells. I could die for veal pie n plums n sugar n custard! Sorry I skipped pellmell.
Nell:
You did right to save your skin n scutter. Think on a mad cock in the pit fighting to death, Poll clipped close n scarred, talons sharped with silver spurs, Scratching n clawing for all its worth till its last breath.
Better fortin’ than the goose, its neck greased thorough, Hung by the legs from a rope. Neath Them, taking turns to prick their prads, the gooseriders Gallop like the wind to pull off its napper. Jack:
I was cast up an orphan ‘pon this gammy world, A sickly pup n kept about the Dials. Now you’re my pall, Nell, my pearl, Like a big sister, learning me things, ‘Cos I never knew no ma. According as the fly stings, I could’ve went for redcoat or canvasactor, Hang me if I didn’t turn cracksman, Cos I fork with fast fingers.
Nell:
Not that long ago, pop comes my boman . . . with forked tongue. Cameacourting with vows n honeyed words. All fudge! Fie, what shame and ruin! The devil’s very bung!
Rag Gatherer
Rags dogcheap! You buyin’ or sellin’? If a louse misses its footin’ On your coat, it’ll break its neck.
Jack:
Huh, rags is all the rage. S’pose we could go atatting.
Tom o’ Bedlam:
Remember the poor! God be your guide.
Jack:
The cadging trick. Faker! What a good voice to beg bacon! That caper weren’t done clean or got up clever.
RatCatcher: Aha, a hick n whore married together. Me thinketh the mort doth wear the breeches. As is the goose, so is the gander. What cheer, moll? Be ye a buttockbroker? Nell:
Go scrape, ye buffleheaded old lecher! There’s no backdoor work for ye. Shake your trotters, Jack. Ware these mollykedgers!
Jack:
Just mark these setouts of bub n grub. My guts cry cupboard. I must strike it quick upon the dub.
Nell:
Nay, Jack. Don’t lark with the watch on Fair Day. ‘Tis too dangerous. Remember, just prig n buzz, the wipe lay. Can ye spot a plumpinthe pocket in rumpus? Cast yer winkers yonder. What say ye to that welloiled blunderbuss? A goldfinch, I’ll wager, and cunnyhunter. I’ll stall him up, you act the nipper.
Jack:
He’s worth a plum, to be sure.
Nell:
Beg your pardon, sir. Can you spare a crust or quartern? I’m just a poor cindergrubber.
Squib:
I’m as full o money as a toad be of feathers. Go to Hanover!
Nell:
Kind sir, I’m willing to earn my tin.
Squib:
Why, you little breeches! Diving into my saltbox sack. I’ll see you hanged, you pair of leeches!
Jack:
Leave me be, gobblegut! I’ll give ye a gobfull o claret!
Squib:
Let’s have no more of your gum. Come along with me, my kinchen chum.
Nell:
Cry you mercy, sir! We have mistook. This chirper’s just a chip. He only done it for a lark.
Prithee, sir, please don’t take the pip. Let me die if I lie! He faked an illtimed dip To keep the hunger down and solace me. I’d do anything to be quit of our misery.
Squib:
Don’t faddle with me, missus. I know decoyducks from dashers. You faked the civil rig. Mind, you twain’ll dance the Paddington jig.
Nell:
Hearken, kind sir. We washes at pump or trough, Doss neath haystacks or hedges, dreadful frozen. Cause why I’ve got this churchyard cough. My crony, Jack, is only five n ten. Baldrib and hardly treated. He’s not Jack Ketch’s pippin. ‘Tis many a day since we’ve proper eated. Forced to beat it –
Jack:
Aye, sir, we’re hoofing it on the monkery, Nell n me. Our blunt’s getting shy . . .
Squib:
For crying in the cemetery! Here, take this groat. Now shake your shambles, the pair o ye!
Jack:
O thank ye, kind sir!
Nell:
And God bless you!
Jack;
Like a sheep’s head – all jaw.
Nell:
Have you shook?
Jack:
Not even a snotter.
Ballad
The devil soon lays his hand on innocent travellers
Monger:
And maidenwifewidows . . .
Beggar:
Remember poor Tom Cripples, boy. The fleaflints stripped me bare. Can ye flash the dibs for a glass o gin? A fuddle o twain?
Jack:
You’re mops n brooms enough!
Beggar:
You’d skin a flint, you whoreson foist, With your huff n ding. If I were a fighting gill, I’d give ye a hoist!
Jack:
Where’s that groat? I’ll pitch for vittles Yond where gamblers set up tables for teetotum n dice On the chance o winning at cockshies or skittles. I’ll be damned! You be damned! Sorrow on us, Nell. The stomachworm still gnaws. O what a foolmonger I am!
Coachman:
Mind your backs!
Nell:
Let’s not have a breeze over the lost groat. We should’ve gone snaps. Why’s that fopdoodle looking goats And monkey at me? P’raps he wishes to play at pullyhauley. Let’s make him flap.
Jack:
Them’s the horristocracy.
Trembath:
Love to trim the buff of that bewitching brim. Stop the carriage, Tim! You there, hobbledehoy! Are you goldie’s mackerel? I fancy nothing better than quaffing cull.
Jack:
Snigs, he has crab on the rocks! Nay, sir, she won’t have a brush with you. She don’t play itchbuttocks.
Trembath:
Are you her brotherstarling? Or are ye twain buckled, patch? Mistress, ride on my broomstick for a shilling?
Nell:
Being wicked, ‘tis horrid for a poor lass. Yet my belly is knocking agin my backbone. ‘Tis beg, steal or starve without no mumper’s brass.
Trembath:
Will Columbine wriggle in cockalley?
Jack:
Come away, Nell. Leave this buck fitch. I’m itching to nob him on the canister, But like as not he’d turn snitch.
Trembath:
Why, you imp of the devil! You pitiful hopo’mythumb coxcomb!
Nell:
Thou art such a yellow gloak, Jack. We should a taken that chance. Remember, thou art my squire of the placket! Now that gen’leman had immense fine prancers. Notice the blazes on his blackamoor’s livery? To nab a long purse, ‘tis the miller’s reel I must dance.
Jack:
What cares I if you lift your heels for a black catchfart, A thundering rake or chatty dosser? After three moons’ hoofing, ‘tis time for us to part.
Ballad Monger:
He that is at low tide at Newgate May soon be afloat at Tyburn . . .
Nell:
I’ll speak plain, Jack. I know you be sweet on me. We’ve lived jig by jowl, so let’s not break a straw. You claw me and I’ll claw thee. Tyburn Road is full o’ ruffians, sharps and, aye, whores, So we whore, humbug or hunt the dummy. Else we tramp halfhungered to the workhouse.
DogCatcher: Now here’s a pretty filly, neat as ninepence. Shaver:
D’ye twang, goldilocks?
Jack:
Go to Jericho, lobcocks! Stay, Nell! I spy a knot of knuckles by yon limekiln. Next the dunghill. Some of ‘em ‘deed be swells.
Nell:
O what it is to come in clothed n shod Proud as a lord’s bastard Without so much as a nod to us poor cods.
Tar:
How much to nug n join paunches? Or tip the velvet? A squid o pigtail to dive down to the Netherlands N tease yer magnet.
Jack:
You’re three sheets in the wind, seacrab!
Tar:
Aye, aye, sir. But I sing more like a whore’s bird than a canary.
Crone:
Are you young’uns waiting for the hangings n procession? ‘Tis lovelier than Islington teagardens of a Sunday. What with all them carts n coffins n mourning carriages For the nobs, dragoons n all. What a sport n spectacle! It doth please me more n new heads spiked at Temple Bar Or Wapping at low tide, where pirates what are scruffed swing From the gibbet acreaking in the wind till their bones rot.
Jack:
Why should I eat hempseed?
Crone:
In my time I’ve seed felon swells like Lord Ferrers, What a dear charmer, pass by right royally In open carriage n six, rigged out beautiful In white weddingsuit. Aye, he was, m’dears. Mayhap a murderer, always a gen’leman, nay the less. Now he was one to die game. The crowd give rich applause. But as for that rogue Jonathan Wild, the famous fence, That got good robbings, well, I meantersay, He went n took laudanum, acted hoodman blind. Could not keep his feet. He got the goose, The likes o which you never heard, a dreadful thunder o boos.
Jack:
‘Tis not my intended to ride backwards up Holborn Hill.
Crone:
They all but strung him up themsen. The scapegrace was just coming out o his betwattled state, When, lo, he seed the noose! The jeers turned cheers. Course, you hears the rattles, if you be close, Cos they choke by fits n starts, as a hog pisseth, ha! When their water runs down their gam, Then you know the hanging’s over n done.
Jack:
I ain’t afeared.
Crone:
By the bye, can you spare somethin’ for a glass? Gin n water. Nothin’ beats a drop o crank Afore the fatal drop.
Nell:
Sorry, old biddy, we be gripefists.
Crone:
Deary me! When I feel sad, I must have a glass o firewater. Let me die in a ditch!
Jack:
Hoy, mind the rattle n pad!
Nell:
People n prads have drownded in such hasty puddings.
Swyvel:
This mort’s not a bona roba. Pocked n plain as pumpwater.
Sharkey:
Goose’s got chest n bedding n’s loose in the rump. I hankle for a bit o fat. Egad, I’d love a leg o mutton.
Jack:
These cuffins goggle at you like stuck pigs.
Swyvel:
Were ye born at Little Witham, short shanks?
Sharkey:
Scamp of a Tyburn Blossom. Lose his arse if ‘twere loose.
Jack:
The dicers are shaking the elbow. My hat To a halfpenny, wenchers game with the sharps, So I’ll gammon one o the flats.
Ballad
Money will make the pot boil,
Monger:
Though the devil piss in the fire . . .
Coster:
Watch yer backs! Mind the barrow!
Bess o’ Bedlam:
Givum’s dead n London’s very bad. Remember the poor loons!
Fingers Smith:
Last hanging fair I done six pence n two dills n a purse. Betwixt you n me, I can’t prig on a full belly.
Sharp:
I done a coupla cambrics. Mopped up a shilling.
Rum Dab:
The deuce take it! You’ve skinned me, but them dice is cogged! Weighted for long odds, I’ll wager.
Sly Trick:
‘Sblood! Are ye accusing me o putting the doctors on?
Rum Dab:
Aye that I am! An’ shall account for ye!
Nell:
‘Sbodikins! There’s a screw loose. Make haste in the rumble, Jack. Cut and run.
Gull:
Hey, come back, imp! I’ve been finely fobbed! Devil take him!
Squint:
Whose dog’s ahanging?
Gull:
That natty lad with fast forks. Stop thief! My watch!
Jack:
‘Twas my intended to smobble with Nell, So she’d make legs with the ridgemontra.
Gull:
I’ll see thy neck as long as thy arm!
Jack:
What a pickle n hullabaloo! I fox n play at hide n seek, But still the hounds pursue. ‘Tis all narrow down these lanes. Barbers’ wigboxes, sedans, uneasy stones, Lamplighters’ ladders, stinks o drains, Heaps o filth on broke pavements.
Sweeps with brushes, bags o soot. Phew! Nidgets have lost the scent. Watchman:
Got yer, yer teeny toad of a footpad!
Jack: Watchman:
Hands off o me!
Gull:
May he preach at Tyburn Cross, the cheekish hemp!
Jack:
Never once stood afore a beak. Kept my pecker up when there weren’t no peck To be had. To live, I had to sneak.
Give us yer mauleys for these ‘ere clinkers.
Nell! Nell:
Take yer paws off me, yer vinegarpisser! You’ve ragged me half to death!
Sly Trick: You be a fine madam, you is. I’ll darken your day lights! This wagtail’s the kid’s gammon n trigrymate. Rum Dab:
I’ll cut her. Give her character. I seen ‘em together.
Jack:
Nell, dear pall, save me from these slinks n slags! Tell ‘em, we be cruelly starved. Desperadoes for peelings n rinds n cagmags.
Nell:
Fico for thy friendship, neddy! I know ye not nor figginglaw. ‘Tis nought to me you be not flush in ready.
Squint:
That rook will piss more n he drinks.
Nell:
Go to Vauxhall’s dark walks as nightingale, I must. That kid’s arrest hurts like a Whitechapel needle. There be other ways of earning a crust.
Anatomist:
Wait, the pericranium of yond Newgate saint.
What a fascinating sample! One day soon we’ll cut down his corpse For dissection, so stiff’un can grin in a glass case In a scullery and act the Terror of the Example. Newspaper Boy:
Get yer copy o Last Dying Speeches ‘ere!
Jack:
Prithee, Nell, don’t shab! Nell! I don’t care a louse, d’yer hear! Pox take yer, ye scab!
Michael Small
March 7–April 13, 2006