An old trot

AN OLD TROT Dorothy Handland or Handlyn b. 1705 An old trot, her life in rags, a pedlar in toggery, Dorothy, a sevener of nigh on eighty-three, Being Albion’s stone jugs full to the bung.

Cold blows through her, she’s no spring chicken: Cheeks hollowed, face wrinkled, spindle-thin, Half-hungered, no grub, nor sopped bread even, She were never no artichoke, meaning Dorothy weren’t spiky nor tasty within, That night of such debauch off the Lady Penrhyn.

Many moons was she ironed in Woolwich hulks, What’s to pay for perjury rotting in sulks?

Then heaving up her heart upon heavy seas, So far from home without heart’s ease.

Did she quiver with cold first night ashore, Nigh naked mid heifers, a squad of whores?

When them shagrag sailors went a-wenching In a pelterer pishing needles, all cop a drenching.

As storm clouds bruise, don black rags, stage An orgy among ghoulish hags, might she scrag?

Did she stare at the rowdy-do like a stuck pig At lousy-looked lags dancing their jig, Stiff and stout, getting down to work, Bussing and biting their bit o’ pork, Having pissed tallow seven fallow months?

Gloaks what soaked their face with Mr Rum Grab molls with grog-blossoms and bosoms Heaving, busting bulwarks to moult their mouldies, Rut like stoats and Mother Cunny’s biddies, All amuck with slimy red clay their plackets, Bold blood red like lobsters’ jackets.

On such a foul and filthy, frenzied night, Was Dorothy struck dumb by thunder strikes?

Surely those sea-grey oglers couldn’t go hiding From the swells and troughs of such rough riding.

Did she tickle the cat’s tail, did she have her licks?

Or frail, ache with ague, scurvy and rheumatics?

Michael Small March 9-April 18, 2014