FINISHER OF THE LAW
Alexander Green, for stealing a piece of brown stuff, the property of Mr James Sayer, mercer, from the shop of the said Mr Sayer, to be transported for the term of his natural life . . . Eddowes Salopian Journal, Wednesday, 21 January 1824
Hangin’ Eases the pain. Oncommon hangman, me. Made my livin’ from the dead. Aye, Rum dog. Fond o Greenhide tails to Stroke n knot, flog n chew. Danna flowed down Hangman Hill. But Wore a Top ‘at, Swallow-tail coat. Was a circus lad once, A crown tumbler. Then a tumbler Of crowns. Stretched rope, Soaped, sized up neck, Scragger’s weight, strength, rope’s length From the floor to fall straightways down The drop. Lags all Shivers an’ shakes, Prayers. Tied arms tight. Urged ‘Em up Jacob’s ladder to the Platform. Proddies Right side o’ drop, High Church croneys middle, Croppies left. Pulled white caps over Bowed nobs.
My first Scragging the worst. Two o’ the culls dropped sweet, But curse the rope that snapped the third What stared Hare’s eyes! Parson painted A better world while Law’s Will was done. Gave ‘im five minutes’ croakin’. Arm broke, When Tiernan, Bushranger pug, flung his Self, bound, mind, from scaffold to ground. Knocked me Flyin’ Fifteen feet down. Kid was dangled over The gallows, neck a-jerkin’, stretched, Strangled. So climbed Back to the trap, Dragged up the pop-eyed corpse, Sprang the lever and made the drop Proper. Sent to King’s Town, Norfolk. Scruffed fourteen cockatoos What thanked God for deliverance. Happy The dead. Them saved wrung their Mittens dammed. They’d burned to Hack Morisset to quarters n Flogger Fyans Boil for dinner. Lags were mustered afore Gallows Gate to watch me set ‘em Dancing.
My chops Was split open On a schooner. Was attacked An’ gashed by a prisoner’s axe. Scarred bad. Beglie, A scragger, preached Eve afore his snuffing, ‘God gives me strength!’ to the pinch-guts In cells. Next morn, Neath the drop, cur Preaches by his coffin. Gull found God, but mercy mine - he Died quick. Scourger Of the Barracks Once. Thick skins don’t cry out. You catted a cove on his scabs, He’d sing, Fall faint Or fevered. Blood Must flow. If he baits bribes, Tease not the kidneys, but tickle The breech. Nutbrown Phizz, cicatrized. Never stood no chance with Ladies of the Quality. Cut Me dead, Toffs. Nor Swapped neckerchiefs With a sweet convict bird. Fancied Bridget Horrigan, spit Of a Spitfire Spliced to a rogue. Tempted to slip my wind At old Sydney Gaol. Noosed my neck, Kicked down
The stool. Curse the cove what Cut the Finisher down. Hooded n hanged nigh five hundered Croakers. Enjoyed A big bustle Watch me bind arms, bag heads, Drop the trap while maggots still prayed Fierce. What’s life? Solitary. Mutton, damper, rum, gin, Molestin’ morts, sly dealin’s ‘bout The Rocks. I sticks Wild pigs amid Botany swamps, cut all Four paws off the bitch what dare lose A fight. In dogCarts rode coffins To Windsor. Last hanging Were first inside Darlinghurst walls, Private. Wits turn. All hangmans’ does. Madhouse at Tarban Creek, They stow me in a straitjacket, Tight bound. Shook by Catted screams. The Death bell tolls. My bolt be Drawn. God, you forsook me summat Rotten!
Michael Small
April 5-May 7, 2006