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 Bawdy Verse for Bawdy Baiters (with extra pirates & grog

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Phil Yerboots
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Joined: 29 Oct 2009
Posts: 1342
Location: Back in Asena's sandbox


PostPosted: Tue Apr 26, 2011 1:30 pm Reply with quoteBack to top

Hi Folks!

A short while ago I wrote some historical style verse full of "Carry On" type bawdy humour and innuendo. The language, scenes places and facts, however are all 100% authentic built up over 10 years of research. The idea is a modern chapbook or broadsheet but written as though it was 250 years ago. That's why certain words are censored - just like they would have been in those days. There are a few tales. Here's the first. The second I'll post separately. Feel free to comment or question. Love Phil X


THE SCIENTIFICK LESSON
or a London spark is put out

BARTHOLOMEW RAKEHELL went out on a jaunt
To the Brothels of Bankside - his usual haunt.
In Bawdy-House Alley he came to a stop
At MRS COME-QUICKLY’s - his favourite shop
Where the Swells and the Fancy would oft’ spend the nights
After Drinkin’ and Gamblin’ at Boodles or Whites.
Her Wenches were comely, her rooms clean and tidy
Her Virgins were all guaranteed Bona Fide.
She’d ripe juicy Slatterns like Lombardy Grapes
Some Buxom, some Lithesome - all sizes and shapes.

Some Doxies were skilled in Particular Ways:
MISS PAYNE had a talent for Le Vice Anglais!
With Whip, Cane and Paddle she battered men’s bums
Her beatings made Debauchees cry for their Mums.
MISS SUCKLING, who versed in the Art of Fellatio
Could gobble a p—k regardless of Ratio
Bore off her patrons on Spumey Adventures
Due, on the whole, to complete lack of Dentures.
Equally good, tho’ not with her Gums
MISS PALM was a Marvel with fingers and thumbs.
Through Dexterous digits she turned Floppadicks
From Limp lettuce-leaves into Celery Sticks!
And lastly the Trollop they all called BLACK PEG
On account of her hair - and the odd Wooden Leg.
Which was shap’d like a Dildoe and was, thro’ the Winters,
As good as a Man - apart from the splinters.

But RAKEHELL’s insatiable Hunger was for
A fresh Country maid, not some clapp’d out old whore
So ‘twas ROSIE he pick’d and then pluck’d and deflower’d
But her Scented Embraces he sullied and sour’d.
A Vainglorious man, he used her with force
And show’d not a jot of regret or remorse.
“No time like the first time” he bellow’d with Pride
As ROSIE just lay there all wither’d and cried.
“Here’s twenty-five guineas” he said to the Mother
“And twenty-five more if you furnish another.
Let her be Fair and fifteen years of age
Bring her Tomorrow: I’ll double the wage!

Next morn’ went the Bawd to find him a mate
She took along Ribbands and Lace as her bait
To the Gardens of Vauxhall to seek out her Prey:
Innocent Lasses out for the day.
By Handel’s Statue she spotted a girl
With hair like spun Gold and skin white as Pearl.
Standing alone all agog at the Sights
In LONDON for maybe just one or two nights.
Not yet corrupted by City Diversions
She was just perfect for RAKEHELL’s Perversions.
“Good day, dear sweet child” the old Mistress said
“Are you newly arriv’d? Have you board? Have you bed?
If not there’s a place that I recommend
The rent’s somewhat dear but you’ll not need to spend
The least ‘Bit o’ Blunt’ - I mean money - you see
I own the Establishment. Come allow me
To give you these Prettying Trifles to wear
Here’s Lace for your Stomacher, Silk for your hair
And if you come later I’ll give you a Cap.
Shall we say Eight o’ clock? Very good. Here’s a Map!
Well, the poor girl was taken aback safe to say
But she bobbed a neat curtsy and answer’d “Good day.
My name is JENNY. From BRISTOL I’ve come.
Your Kindness is such that I’m almost struck dumb
I don’t know no-one and have nowhere to stay
How Lucky I am to have met you today.
Your generous offer I’d gladly accept
But how’d I repay you? I’d be in your debt.”
“I’ll think of a way”, said the Beldam “don’t fear.
Just come as arranged. Now there’s a good dear.”

The Stroke of Eight chimed with a knock at the door
“She’ll enter a maid but she’ll leave as a whore”
Cackled MRS COME-QUICKLY the raddled old b—h
Thinking of how, in an hour, she’d be rich.
In came poor JEN and was shown to a room
Little suspecting she went to her Doom.
The Villain was waiting The Trap had been set,
Just like a Linnet caught in a net,
Was how she’d been snared that day i’ th’ park
And now far from home she stood i’ th’ dark.
Lighting a candle to find out the bed
What did she see, but the Mad grinning head
Of BARTHOLOMEW RAKEHELL. “Sweetheart” he cried
“Tonight is our Wedding-Night. You are my Bride!
So Off with your Stays and Out with your Bubbies
And On with the game of Wifeys and Hubbies!”
He Grabb’d her and held her tight: harder and tighter
But lo and behold, Little JEN was a Fighter!
Bred down in BRISTOL her father’d won Prizes
The Art of the Pugilist held no surprises.
She twist’d and turn’d him and landed a Jab
He shriek’d like a Molly, he cried like a bab.
With Scientifick Precision she rain’d down her Blows,
The Rake tried to counter - she Bloodyed his Nose!
Thirty-Two rounds worth of Combat in One
Such were the flurry of Hits that she won.
Feignin’ and Feintin’ with flicks of her wrists
She taught him a lesson with Knuckles and Fists.
Finally Beaten, Batter’d and Bruis’d
His Wits were all Muddled his senses confus’d.
So forgettin’ the Rules and defyin’ the Odds
She gave him a Plum one - right in the Cods!
MRS COME-QUICKLY on hearin’ his cries
Couldn’t believe it and shriek’d “D—n my eyes
If the slut ain’t the best that I’ve ever heard.
He’s never made that Noise before, ‘pon my word!”
And started to think of the Money she’d make
From selling the girl to Rake after Rake.
Meanwhile, in the chamber, JEN scoop’d up his Gold
While BARTHOLOMEW lay on the floorboards out cold.
Then out o’ th’ window climb’d brave Little JEN
The Victorious Slayer of Miscreant Men.

Next day, RAKEHELL scream’d when he look’d i’ th’ glass
For his eyes were as black as Beelzebub’s A—e!
His Deforméd nose was like that o’ Cyrano
The low blow had turn’d him from Bass to Soprano.
So off went the Blackguard a-limpin’ with pain
Neither he nor his B——ks were e’er seen again.

The Moral is this: to all lusty young cocks
If visiting BRISTOL then learn how to box!

copyright Phil Yerboots 2011

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Last edited by Phil Yerboots on Sun May 01, 2011 11:55 am; edited 1 time in total
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Phil Yerboots
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PostPosted: Tue Apr 26, 2011 1:32 pm Reply with quoteBack to top

I've had to convert this from a PDF so apologies for the grammatical inconsistencies - but hey! That's authentic C18th too!!

This one is quite a long read so make sure you're sitting on a cushion or something!

THE LAND PIRATE
or a Firebrand meets her Match

Jenny Go-Sprightly had snatch’d up the gold
Of Bartholomew Rakehell that Villain so bold
and escap’d from an evil old harridan’s den
Of iniquity, coitus and deviant men.
The City of Bristol was where she was bound
For that was the place where her home could be found.
Her father, a Taverner, ran the King’s head
Tho’ chiefly for prizefighting he had been bred.
He’d fought Jack Slack the Butcher, The Battling Jew
Big Ben Brain and The Bully to name but a few.
and tho’ never a Champion, it has to be said,
a True Bristol man from his toes to his head.

Now Jenny, that chip from her father’s old block
Had escap’d from the brothel at nine o’ th’ clock
Only to find that the last coach had left
leaving her Stranded, forlorn and bereft.
Alone once again was the poor pretty maid
When the kindly old Innkeeper came to her aid.
“Come in from the cold” said the wizen’d old prune
“You may stay here the night ev’n tho’ there’s no room
For you’ll be in my bed and i’ll be on the floor
’Tho’ i may keep you up half the night—as I snore.
Have some supper and sit by the fire, my dear”
Said the lick’rish old goat with a wink and a leer.
“Your troubles are over, no need to be glum.”
“Your kindness is such that i’m almost struck dumb
I’ll have to repay you. I’ll be in your debt,”
Said Jen with a sigh, knowing what she might get.
But seeing that there could be no other way
She agreed. after all, it had been a long day.

Jenny woke the next morning rested, refresh’d
She Stretch’d and she yawn’d then got up and got dress’d.
She stepp’d o’er the Innkeeper flat on the floor
He’d been there all night just the way that he’d swore.
As quiet as a church mouse, as pure as The Pope
Help’d, there’s no doubt, by the gag and the rope.
Then of on her journey went Jen with a laugh
and the coach bounc’d along toward Bristol and Bath.

Her travelling companions along for the ride
Were a fat, florid Alewife ’bout four hogsheads wide
Her pale, reedy Sister who most of the time
Bore a countenance like she was sucking a lime.
(Stand them together thought mischievous Jen
and they’d look without doubt like a large number 10.)
a vain, preening Dandy all powder and frills
a dewlapp’d old Quack all nostrums and pills
and also a Parson who (easy to tell)
’Tho preaching of heav’n was destin’d for hell.

The countryside sounds of cuckoos and crickets
pass’d pleasantly by until Maidenhead Thickets
a notorious place where footpads would ply
Their nefarious trade with a shot and a cry
Of Stand and deliver the Highwayman’s Call
Tho’ the chances of robb’ry in daylight were small.
“Stand and deliver! ” a sudden voice said
“Or ye’ll all feel me pistols and choke on me lead!
i’ll Srip ye all naked and give ye both barrels
i’ll dance on yer graves while i sing Christmas carols!”
Well, the men sh—t their breeches, the women all spew’d
While Jen kiss’d goodbye all the cash she’d accru’d.

The carriage was ringing with screaming and sobs
Wet, tear-Sain’d cheeks and trembling gobs,
Whimpers of “O lord please save us, amen”
Fainting hysterics—and that was the men.

the Alewife was nervously guzzling gin
the Sister was Stuck in her chair like a pin
the Doctor was sick, the Parson blasphem’d
the Dandy’s whole wardrobe would have to be clean’d.

Up to the window the Highwayman leapt
Those in the carriage cower’d and wept.
Murdering eyes like those of a Viper
peer’d from under his hat and over his wiper.
Brandishing pistols he leant in the coach
Snarling “i’ll take that pocket-watch. Hand o’er that brooch!
i’ll wager ten guineas to one single groat
Ye’ve never before met a better cut-throat.
and just to be sure it’s the end of your trip
i’d be much oblig’d if ye’d get out and Strip!”

and so they alighted, each one of the pack
the Alewife, the Sister, the Fop and the Quack
the Parson, the Coachman, and Jen at the rear.
the Highwayman Stopp’d her and lull’d in her ear:
“petite fleur be assur’d that i mean you no harm
Mais sans pétales vous n’appellerez pas l’alarme.”

“all thieves rot in hell and you’ll hang with your brothers!”
Spat the Alewife; attempting to cover her udders.
Which wasn’t so easy whilst swatting at bees,
That, and the fact that they hung to her knees.
By contrast her Sister, the family runt
Was all skin and bones with a back like her front.
Standing alongside the miss and the madam
the Parson was clutching an oak-leaf, like adam
the Doctor ’twas plain had a dose of The Clap
and the Dandy just sat there all cover’d in crap.
the Coachman was equally naked of course
and bless’d with a tackle that rivall’d his horse.

now Jen to behold was a marvellous sight
Her hair was all flaxen, her skin milky-white
and as sot as a flurry of feathers or flakes
Her sun-dappl’d breasts were like Sally lunn’s cakes.
She made such a show that you could have sold tickets
For ev’n just a glimpse of HER Maidenhead Thickets.

the Highwayman gaz’d at this beauty of Bristol
a lassie to put lead in any man’s pistol
and gave her a wink once he’d sated his greed
Then leapt from the ground and mounted his Seed.
“i’ll wager a groat to anyone’s guinea
i’ll kill the first cove that escapes from this spinney”
The bold Villain cried as he dug in his spurs
leaving them there like a pack o’ wild curs.

To tell of the way that Jen finally reach’d home
Cannot be encompass’d in one single poem.
But suffice it to say the adventures she had
Were bitter and sweet and happy and sad
and while passing through Wiltshire dress’d as a boy
She was greatly mistook for a hobbledehoy.
Which came as a shock” said one fusty old lord
My lad had a scabbard instead of a sword!”
But one way or another she reach’d the King’s head
and her overjoy’d father (who thought she was dead)
Back to the land of Stingo and smoke
Home once again among genial folk.

’Twas only days later whilst pouring the beer
That Jenny was shock’d and astonish’d to hear
“i’ll wager a guinea to anyones shilling
i can go toe-to-toe with the landlord at milling.
For he’s naught but a fighter who’s long past his prime
and to take all your money won’t be any crime.”
She knew it was him as she peek’d in the snug
the Highwayman turn’d and she let fall the jug
With a Start, for she knew that in all of her life
To a prettier youth she could ne’er be a wife.

He was handsome and dark with a scar on his cheek
at the thought of his pistol full-cock, she went weak.
So quick as a flash, Jenny hatch’d out a plot
The outcome of which would be tying the knot.
“i’ll wager ten pounds to anyone’s penny
You’ll not last a minute” said bold little Jenny.
the Highwayman’s face on rememb’ring the girl
Was enough to make ev’n a watch-spring uncurl.
Jack knew in a blink he’d been nabbed by the mort
He’d be thrown in The Clink due to bragging and port.
and yet a large part of him didn’t much care
as he gaz’d at the maiden before him so fair
For the life of a land pirate’s merry but short
and ’tis only a matter of time ’fore you’re caught
and the last ride you take on the Three-legged Mare
leads you down from the gallows to lucifer’s lair.

“if i should lose the bout, promise me this
i’ll at least be rewarded by you—with a Kiss.”
Jack said with a wink, as he took of his shirt
“’Tis your turn to Strip now” said Jen, being pert.
and so Up to the Scratch stepp’d Jack Fox with a grin
and Jen’s father proceeded to bash his head in.
When he finally came to he’d accept’d his Fate
and thus Jenny got marry’d and Jacky went Sraight.

The Moral is this: to all the Fair Sex
Give men enough rope and they break their own necks.

copyright Phil Yerboots 2011

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PostPosted: Tue Apr 26, 2011 8:07 pm Reply with quoteBack to top

Thank you so much, I really enjoyed it. Can't wait to read about the pirate.
And I always suspected you are a feminist - now there's proof.

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PostPosted: Tue Apr 26, 2011 8:33 pm Reply with quoteBack to top

clapping clapping clapping

Again absolutely brilliant, Phil! Loved it - witty and bawdy and just wonderful. Truly great - I'm a fan and in love - will you marry me? Wink

Seriously, thanks for sharing and posting your verse. Encore! Looking forward to part 3 Smile

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PostPosted: Tue Apr 26, 2011 11:31 pm Reply with quoteBack to top

jump_4_joy

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Phil Yerboots
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PostPosted: Tue Apr 26, 2011 11:37 pm Reply with quoteBack to top

@Jeanette Thank you. It's true. I love women. Contrary to what it might seem in some of my baits! Embarassed Interestingly, (maybe) when I started writing Bartholomew Rakehell was going to be a dark anti-hero who was bad but likeable then I realised that it was more interesting to have him as the villain and Jenny as the main protaganist.

@Asena Thank you. From your comments I love you too and of course I'll marry you. What is your income? Do you live alone? And what are your bank account details? Wink

The pirates will be arriving soon. As well as a new hero - Timothy Tosspot (which in the C18th was a word for a drunkard - from tossing back the pot) also an adventure to Jamaica, happy news for Jenny and Jack and bad news for Rakehell.

Love Phil X

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PostPosted: Wed Apr 27, 2011 6:52 am Reply with quoteBack to top

Quote:
Timothy Tosspot (which in the C18th was a word for a drunkard - from tossing back the pot)

Coincidence or purpose: There was a medieval German pirate called "Klaus Stoertebeker" - meaning "toss the beaker".
Knowing you, I bet it is a reference to him.

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PostPosted: Wed Apr 27, 2011 9:02 am Reply with quoteBack to top

Ha ha! Brightened my day again. Laughing
I'm looking forward to more.

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PostPosted: Wed Apr 27, 2011 11:10 am Reply with quoteBack to top

Thanks Boris. Thanks Fowan.

@Jeanette - Very interesting. Of course I knew that Embarassed No, I didn't. Not that clued up on medieval pirates but the days of Teach, Kidd and of course Anne Bonney are fascinating.

Talking of pirates here's the first part of the next story. Apologies for the lack of any actual Pirate appearences but this tale is quite long. But they're on their way…

T H E M E R M A I D O F B R I S T O L (Part 1)
or a drunk is dropp’d in the drink

Mrs Fox (nee Go-Sprightly) and Jack had been wed
For almost two years. Her father was dead.
But it wasn’t the fisticuffs kill’d the old feller
His Fate had a date with the Steps of the cellar:
Cruel Fortune look’d down in his fiftieth year
And launch’d him headfirst through a barrel of beer.
So the tavern, now theirs for the rest of their lives
Was nam’d in his honour The old bunch of fives.

A happier hostelry ne’er could be found
Its spirits, wines, porters and ales were renown’d.
The agreeable air and avuncular host
Were the nunc est bibendum of loud, lusty toasts.
T’was truly a place where society mix’d
Where friendships were forg’d and enmities fix’d
Men could sit by the fire with a penn’orth of ’baccy
And puff with a Jack Tar, a Gent or his Lackey.
No scrimmages, scuffles nor scraps would Jen brook
All the bullies and dastards had met her right hook.

Of the Bucks and the Sparks who oft’ swill’d at the bar
One specific nose-painter outstripp’d them by far:
The admiral of ale, The boozy Grandee
He could drink enough belch-juice to empty the sea.
His round, hollow legs (like a nincumpoop’s pate)
Could hold enough sauce to make samson prostrate!
He could toss of ten bumpers and still cry for more
This Soldier of Bacchus, this Gladiator.
Crown him with laurels of barley and hops
The Conquistador of all milksops and fops.

Sprung from the pages of Mr. Defoe
His eyes were like raisins push’d into dough
In the midst of his phiz, he’d a nose like a Strawb’ry
And two ruddy cheeks of a similar daub’ry
His complexion was pock-mark’d from for’head to chin
A paean to the pleasures of swiving and gin.
His hair was the colour of piss-sodd’n Sraw
No finer coxcomb could Rowlandson draw.
There was no better plea for sobriety’s case
Than one candle-lit glance at his fermented face.
The deepest carouser in Somersetshire
Was undoubtedly Timothy Tosspot Esquire.

All thro’out Bristol, nay, all thro’ the West
He’d swum in most taverns and drown’d in the rest
As gen’rous to Strangers as friends with his purse
He was loyal and Seadfast for better or worse
A constant companion of laughter and mirth
And the Rarest of Creatures that weav’d o’er the earth.

He was often as drunk as a fiddler’s b—h
And many’s the time he had slept in a ditch
Or if not a ditch then the side of the Street
To awake with no Stockings or shoes on his feet
And once he’d come-to in a field with a Pig
Who was pompously sat masticating his wig.

To sum up, young Tim, neither pious or saint’d
Nor Lucifer’s friend. Just remotely acquaint’d.
One particular night he arriv’d at The ship
After many a slip-up betwixt cup and lip.
He’d been to The ostrich, The shakepeare, The Plough
The hatchet, The rummer, The llandoger Trow.
And now fuddl’d and fox’d like a Barbary Ape
He sway’d to the tune of the Grain and the Grape
Lurching Starboard to port like a rope-acrobat
As the vulgar would say: he’d a brick in his hat.


Finding a settle he slump’d with a cry:
“O Drawer bring forth! For my throat is as dry
As a side of salt beef that’s been let in the sun
I’d sooner be sober as marry a nun.
Who’ll share in a bottle of finest Madeira?”
He said for the good of a neighbourly hearer.
“I’ll join in a glass.” said a voice from the gloom
And as quickly sat down with “I beg to presume
For the rest here are thieves who will empty your purse
Insuf’rable dullards, or Welch, which is worse.
Smith is the name. Once a militiaman.
Fought for the King; but now I’m a fisherman.”
He said with a smile that suggested a frog
Eyeing a fly on an old mouldy log.
It look’d like his flesh had been pickl’d in brine
And his lank greasy hair hung like wet lengths of twine.
The bottle appearing, Smith rais’d the first toast
“To King George and Queen Charlotte and you, my kind host.”
So thus began a long ev’ning that flow’d
And was destin’d to leave Tosspot dead in the road.

When, Twenty toasts later, they’d both had their fills
And Tim was decidedly green round the gills
Smith seem’d quite sober, arise as it may
Perhaps he’d not swallow’d but pour’d it away?

The reckoning came for the wine they’d consum’d
And the Fisherman said with a smirk “I assum’d
As you’d ask’d to be join’d that the ev’ning was free
But I can’t fleece a friend. So come, please allow me
To furnish a morsel toward our fine feast
If you pay for the Grape then I’ll pay for the Yeast.”
At which they both laugh’d and concluding the billing
Smith drew from his waistcoat a shiny new shilling.

Holding the coin in the palm of his hand
“Take it,” he said, but you must understand
This token I give is a contract of sorts
Truly not one that would trouble the Courts
But a symbol of friendship that serves as a chain
To bind us together ’til we meet again.”
“Good Visherman, really, ’tis nod a requirement”
Slurr’d Tosspot, quite drunk, and past his retirement
“But I grapely accept and afore you leave town
Ones more we will drink to our Country and Crown!”
And so, all things settl’d, they left for the night
The hour was late with no watchman in sight
“Set course for the harbour then Steer homeward bound”
Said Smith rather jolly and singing this round:

A pirate was thrown o’erboard and let there for to drown
It was a thousand miles to shore and fifty fathoms down
No-one was there to hear his cries but d—n’d old Davy Jones
Now he sleeps amongst the fishies on a sea-bed made of bones.

The lanes and the alleyways echo’d this tune
As the travellers lurch’d by the light of the Moon
Tim languish’d in limbo: asleep and awake
A fractur’d repose of the real and the fake
Fever’d chimaeras, spectral tableaux
Quayside commotions and flick’ring flambeaux
Shouting and laughing and cries of delight
Then his friend’s voice was gone: swallow’d up by the night.

Morpheus now cradl’d Tim in his arms
On a voyage of slumber away from all harms:
Off to the islands of shadows and dreams
In a toy paper boat along rivers and Streams
Of Champagne and Madeira, Sack, Cider and Ale.
The cotton-thread rigging and handkerchief sail
Fill’d with the sighs of an hundred lost souls
Transported our heroe beyond Bristol’s shoals.

To be continued…

copyright Phil Yerboots 2011

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PostPosted: Thu Apr 28, 2011 7:55 am Reply with quoteBack to top

Must brush up my vocabulary urgently - nice incentive to do it!

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PostPosted: Thu Apr 28, 2011 9:44 am Reply with quoteBack to top

Phil, in a past life, were you Geoffrey Chaucer? Wink

"There was no better plea for sobriety’s case
Than one candle-lit glance at his fermented face."

^ Laughing


"And once he’d come-to in a field with a Pig
Who was pompously sat masticating his wig."

^Laughing Laughing Laughing

10 out of 10 from me! Smile

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PostPosted: Thu Apr 28, 2011 10:23 am Reply with quoteBack to top

@Jeanette. Online access to the complete Oxford Dictionary was a great help Very Happy

@Asena I wasn't Mr Chaucer but I did once play at being The Earl of Rochester. Now THERE was a bawdy, brilliant man.

WARNING best not to read the next bit if you're having your lunch.
Here come the pirates!!

THE MERMAID OF BRISTOL (part two)

Far out to sea now the gallants unfurl’d
Where the cold moon-lit sky meets the edge of the world
Then on through the darkness, the sleep of the dead
Enfolded young Tim like the sheets on a bed
Which he fill’d with siroccos: warm southern breezes
Of rank onion air and assortment of cheeses
And the senza sordina of snores in his slumber
Were musical scores to the creaking of lumber.

Timothy Tosspot awoke around six
His head had been beat’n with brickbats and Sticks
A military band played Tattoos in his brain
For a choir of Fishwives to scream the refrain.
His red, rheumy eyes were Stinging and hot
He smelt like a tavern-whore’s old chamber pot.
He tried to Stand still but a circular motion
Caus’d him to bob like a cork in the ocean
Inducing such surges of Retching and Heaving
Up came what he’d down’d from the previous evening:

A clamjamfrey of spirits, beer, perry and wine
A pork-pie, some oysters, a hard-to-define
A hodgepodge of pottage-broth, nutty and corny
A mish-mash of muscat and mulligatawny
A conglomeration of beefsteak and claret
A gallon of gruel and a cartload of carrot.
’Til all that remain’d was his Stomach’s dry air.
“That wasn‘t so bad.” Tim was heard to declare.
But surveying the scene of his melange legume
He twigg’d, only now, that this wasn’t his room.

Sunlight pour’d in from a hatch in the ceiling
Our heroe was gripp’d by a cold, sinking feeling
Of fearing the worst and smelling a rat
A voice cried nearby “Ho! You’ll swing for the cat
You d—n’d son of a b—h! If there’s ev’n a speck
Of yer guts on the floor then I’ll break yer d—n’d neck!”
A mop and a pail were then flung at his feet
And he realised, alas, he’d been press’d in The Fleet.

If only he hadn’t have drunk that last tot
He might be at home fast asleep in his cot.
A victim of victuals consisting of booze
His fate: human freight on an unwant’d cruise
Destin’d for Hell or God only knows where
There was naught he could do except offer a prayer:
“Save me, I promise, I’ll ne’er drink again
Or at least not as much, O sweet Jesus, amen.
And so to the sound of his own gentle sobbing
Timmy embark’d on his first lot of swabbing.
He mopp’d up his Stomach - knotted with fears
And topp’d up his bucket with saltwater tears.


The vessel which Tosspot had now to call home
Was one of the fastest to cut through the foam
The Mermaid from Bristol of one hundred tons
Was a two-masted schooner fair trimm’d of eight guns.
Captain Will Cuthroat was charg’d with her care
A season’d old seadog of winds foul and fair
A Formidable Foe who’d never shown fear
Tho’ missing an arm and a leg, and an ear
Most of his teeth, and one of his eyes.
Give the Devil his due, he’d been cut down to size.
By selling his soul without usual forestallments
The skipper was headed for hell in instalments.


Tho’ fond of the lash he was lov’d by the crew
He’d chas’d down and harry’d and boarded a few
Of the richest french merchantmen plying the sea
And the coffers now flow’d with their Froggy Booty.
Privateers such as these with a Royal commission
Were essentially Pirates with England’s permission
And employ’d in the act of Bloodthirsty Pursuits
They naturally went through a fair few recruits.
Cull’d from the taverns, these wretched landlubbers
Serv’d mainly as pot-monkeys, cooks and deck-scrubbers.
But when Battle commenc’d ’midst the cries and commotion
In a trice came the Prize of an instant promotion:
The lowliest swab could be Musket Deflector!
Cannonball Catcher! and Grapeshot Collector!
This was a life that was brutal and short
And this was The Trap in which Timmy was caught.


At the risk of a censure, your humble narrator
Continues our nautical tale a year later
For recording the passage of time on the seas
Would require the wood from a forest of trees
And tho’ paper and ink are not costly to make
Please pardon this lapse for his sanity’s sake.
No combats or melees or brawls have been cull’d
No skirmishes skipp’d or adventures annull’d
The truth of the matter is less than profound
Tim spent the whole year simply sailing around.
As tedious to read as it would be to write
He got no further south than the Isle of Wight.


But by then the old Mermaid had bolster’d her crew
She was fully rigg’d out in the bold Navy Blue
With Seventy men who were ready to sail
Through the eye of an Hurricane, sea-Storm or Gale
To run down The Spanish, The French or The Dutch
And to hazard their limbs and their lives for as much
Gold Doubloons, Silver Dollars or Pieces of Eight
As the Ship’s hold could carry and Still stand up straight.


The aforemention’d Cuthroat was Sill at the helm
Of his personal fiefdom—his own wooden realm.
Bosun Splice was the Prince of the upper-deck mates
And one, Mr Tosspot, was third in the rates.
In the space of a year he’d advanc’d through the ranks
No longer a swabber and scrubber of planks
But a fully-fledg’d Jack: a salty old dog
A Knotter of Knots and a Drinker of Grog.
But giv’n the choice he drank mainly small beer
Which the crew of The mermaid regarded as queer
But each to his own and live and let live
This uncommon virtue was theirs to forgive.
But for Tim no day pass’d without thoughts of escape
Or nights in his hammock where schemes could take shape
For as yet there had not been ev’n one opportunity
Of giving the slip to his matelot community.
He was biding his time till the moment was right
And then he would seize on his chance to take flight.

But as usual in histories told such as these
A sudden event caus’d young Tosspot’s unease
Cuthroat summon’d the crew and said “Sail for The West
We’ll capture the prizes and burn all the rest
Of old england’s enemies. Plunder and Slaughter!
We’ll drown out their cries with No Quarter! No Quarter!
I’ll keel-haul all cowards and favour the Brave
It’s treasure for all or a watery grave.
So heave-ho me lads and with Neptune to guide us
We’ll come back as Heroes and richer than Midas.”

to be continued…

copyright Phil Yerboots 2011

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PostPosted: Sat Apr 30, 2011 7:40 am Reply with quoteBack to top

The Mermaid of Bristol (part 3)

Three months or so later they enter’d the port
Of Kingston, Jamaica, a place where the sport
Of Drinking and Swiving and Gambling was Still
The principle pastime of each Jack and Jill.
The earlier harbour (of similar trade) is
Describ’d by some books as a level of Hades
For old Port Royal was to Pirates and Thiefs
What barnacles are to ships’ bottoms and reefs.
Destroy’d by a quake and then swallow’d by fire.
All servants are doom’d when the devil’s the squire.

But, to return to the scene of Tim’s plight,
The Cock inn, a place where a wench or a fight
Could be easily had whether asked for or no
Was the tavern where all the old Tars liked to go.
But it often fell out that when two rival crews
Gulp’d down their liquors they’d batter and bruise
Each other, the landlord, or even their mates
And the ale would then flow like the blood from their pates.
This was The Den to which Tim was now dragg’d
While shouting “Halloos” the men boasted and bragg’d
Of former bravadoes and who could go hang
Curses were thrown at the enemy gang:
The Dolphin of Chepstow who’d previously won
A wager to see who could reload a gun
In the quickest of times. The mermaid had lost
And The Dolphin had said that the thing which had cost
Their chance of success despite all Cuthroat’s wishes:
His crew were half women, the other half fishes.

Bosun Splice was the man who had felt most affront
His dander was up, he was out on the hunt
And any beach’d Dolphins he happen’d to find
He intended to kick where the sun never shin’d.
“If I do get my hands on them bastards”, he swore
“They’ll get woundy big blowholes where weren’t none before”
He spat as they got to the door of the Inn
He press’d down the latch and they tumbl’d within.
What greeted their eyes was all a-confusion
Creatures cavorting all drunk in profusion
Gambols and Sea Shanties, Bucklers and Swash
Scenes from the brush of Hieronymus Bosch.
Half-naked women who peep’d o’er the balustrade
(Keen connoisseurs of the cunny and phallus trade)
Pouted and giggl’d and flash’d their dark eyes
And flutter’d their fans heaving bosomy sighs.
The scrape of the fiddle and bang of the drum
Was a Beggar’s Concerto to ’baccy and rum
And there in the midst of this clamorous hall
Was Whitebeard the Pirate, landlord of them all.

Attended by bully-boys, catch-farts and flunkeys
He Stood like a pit-bear all cover’d in monkeys
As brown as a berry from life on the wrack
He’d whiskers as long as the hair down his back
Which was yellowy-white like a sailcloth grown old
And his teeth, when he grinn’d, were the colour of Gold.
On spying the infamous chief of the ’maid
He cried “Cuthroat you dog, d—n yer eyes you ain’t paid
For the last time you pitch’d up, you son of a whore.”
The Skipper reply’d “Kiss mine a—e, you old chaw.
You’re a rogue and a liar, go dance on the noose.”
They stood eye to eye-patch and traded abuse.
’Til Whitebeard roar’d out he could no more pretend
And they both laugh’d and hugg’d and hail’d each other "friend"
For their history together was long i’ th’ tooth
If they’d had any left in their heads, to tell truth.

So The Pirate, The Captain, The Bosun and Tim
With the rest of the crew fill’d their pots to the brim
And then Splice pledg’d a toast to his mistress and wife
With sincere hopes that neither would meet in his life.
Which set the whole table into an uproar
And prompted a war for the wittiest saw.
Which Timothy won with his mentioning that
’Twas Strange that at sea, dogs were thrash’d by a cat.
Which endear’d him Still further to all those assembl’d
Though unknown to them he Still schem’d and dissembl’d.
While everyone swallow’d their rum and their porter
He sat there quite sly, drinking tankards of water.

All of a sudden the merriment Stopp’d
For the door was flung open and pistols were popp’d.
The Captain and crew of The Dolphin were there
With a show of bravado intended to scare.
But their bubble was prick’d because Cuthroat just laugh’d
Saying “Close the door, ladies, you’re causing a draught.
And everyone drinking then spat out their beer
When Splice shouted upstairs “Girls, the night-shit is here!”

The ensuing brawl would have let many dead
If Whitebeard himself hadn’t jump’d up and said
“I’ll settle this matter without spilling blood
And put to a Stop all the flinging of mud.
The Dolphin and Mermaid are long bitter foes
To determine a victor without causing blows
Is best done with a contest, the loser of which
Immediately forfeits their ship without hitch
Including the cargo that’s down in the hold.
If Cuthroat agrees is Tom Hornpipe as bold?”

The Dolphin’s young captain then scratch’d at his chin
Knowing full well the tight spot he was in.
To say “no” and lose face would then brand him white-liver’d
His bottom was breach’d and his timbers were shiver’d.
While he paus’d, Bosun Splice, who was somewhat in cups
Said “D—n ye our boys are worth ten of yer pups
So whatever the task, competition or test
Well, our worst Jack will Sill get the best of your best
So choose any opponents from our crew and yours
Then name any d—n trial, you d—n’d offspring of whores!”
Tom was glad to accept with provisos like these
He knew without doubt they would win, and with ease.

“I consent.” Hornpipe said, “So prepare for a fight!
I choose mighty Bob Bullock to Stand on my right.”
A Behemoth appear’d Striding out from the crowd
So tall, round the top of his head was a cloud.
His arms were as big as Westphalian hams
Prompting all round the Inn murmur’d “blind me” and “d—ns.”
With a chest like a barrel and face like a plate
And a huge yawning gob like an old Tudor grate
He could scoff sides of mutton and ne’r draw a breath
And down a whole wine butt without fear of death.
“I AM BOB BULLOCK” the Leviathan said
And in lieu of a speech smash’d a plate o’er his head.

(last part coming soon…)

copyright Phil Yerboots 2011

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PostPosted: Sat Apr 30, 2011 11:22 pm Reply with quoteBack to top

Thanks for the tip about the Earl of Rochester, Phil - have Wiki-ed and will be reading more about him/his works.

And as for your bawdy verse, what can I say that I haven't already Laughing

clapping clapping clapping bow_down jump_4_joy Thumbs up Thumbs up Thumbs up

Superb.

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PostPosted: Sun May 01, 2011 11:33 am Reply with quoteBack to top

Careful Asena! Lord Wilmot is filthy - you'd be surprised (or not) at what they got up to in the 17th Century!! Wink And thanks for the encouraging words.

Here's the last part. (Please do not try the Pirate Drinking Game at home) Very Happy

The Mermaid of Bristol (part 4)

“The challenge is this", Hornpipe said in a rage
“Goliath and David: round two, we will Stage
But no slingshots or Stones are requir’d to play
Just livers and lights and a love of mêlée.
Winner takes all in a trifling game:
Who can drink the most Rum and remember their name?
And as an opponent for Bullock to beat
We choose yon boy who Still sucks at the teat
And can drink nothing Stronger than old Adam’s ale.”
He pointed at Tim, and Will Cuthroat went pale.

“The soberest man i’ th’ crew, nay, The Fleet?”
Cried Cuthroat, by now almost white as a sheet.
“Surely, by God, there is some other way?”
He implor’d, pasty-fac’d and the colour of whey.
But Hornpipe just laugh’d, then rubb’d salt in the wound
“The Mermaid is ours! Ye’ll be let here maroon’d.
Concede, if ye wish, then swim home from this club
Ye’re as welcome in here as a turd i’ th’ tub.

So the wager was settled. They spat then they shook
Hornpipe, his hand and Cuthroat, his hook.

On the table were placed ten full bottles of rum
And glasses as deep as the length of your thumb
Then The Mermaid and Dolphin, each one of the clan
Crowded the table to spur on their man.
To prove that he cared not a f—t nor a fig
Bob Bullock began with an almighty swig
As if bottles were thimbles, the barrel: a mug
His Stomach a bathtub a-missing a plug.
He belch’d like a drain, wip’d his mouth on his sleeve
And The Dolphin all cheer’d and made motions to leave.
It was time for young Tim to revert to a sot
Strike Drums and sound Fanfares for Sir Drinks-a-lot!
With a tray for his Shield and a pipe for his Sword
He’ll battle the Giant and win the reward.

Tim pick’d up a bottle and purs’d up his lips
And manag’d to make a few hesitant sips
At which Bob rais’d his arms and The Dolphin all laugh’d
But he empty’d the flask of its sugary draft.
“I’m reminded of thrice-water’d tea,” Tosspot said
It’s as old as your ship and as weak as your head.”

Now the crew of The Mermaid were shouting with glee
Will Cuthroat was hopping about on one knee
And the look of dismay on his rival was such
It was plain all his courage deriv’d from the Dutch.
“D—n yer eyes” Hornpipe said “For a scurvy old cheat
A liar, a knave, the best b—h of The Fleet
May yer hand turn to rust and yer leg turn to rot
May yer good eye go bad and yer good ear get shot
May you swing from the yardarm and hell take yer soul
May you dwell evermore in The Devil’s A—ehole.”

(To further recite all the insults and curses
Would fill up a book of additional verses
So suffice it to say they were coarse as the earth
And mainly concern’d the events of Will’s birth.)
This tirade was curtail’d by an almighty roar:
A bellowing Bullock was calling for more.
He threw back his head and decanted a bottle
And then, with a logic to fox Aristotle
Ran in a ring like a child with a hoop
Flapping his arms like the sails on a sloop.

But Timothy had one more trick up his sleeve
A surprise not yet seen in this recitative
He swallow’d two flagons then pick’d up a taper
Bullock Sopp’d dead in the midst of his caper
The crowd held its breath. What would Timothy do?
Something astounding was starting to brew.
“I’M TIMOTHY TOSSPOT! Remember my name.”
He said with a grin and then belch’d forth a flame.

A dumb-founded silence was all that occurr’d
Then the cheers and huzzahs were the loudest e’er heard
Hats were flung skywards and tables were thump’d
The crew of The Dolphin seemed thoro’ly trump’d
“Watch this” said Bob Bullock and copy’d Tim’s trick
But his eyeballs were glaz’d and his speech sounded thick
As the liquor spill’d out he look’d quite worse for wear
But he pick’d up a candle and Stood on a chair
“My name is—my name is—” he slurr’d, looking grey
His beard dripping rum and his feet turn’d to clay
“I’ve forgotten the first part,” he shamefully said
Then gave a hiccough and set fire to his head.

Never before in that clamorous Inn
Were such hullaballoos of combustion and din.
Men were Stopp’d dead in the midst of debauches
Those beside Bullock were cover’d in scorches
The women were wailing and screaming with shock
’Til a thunderous sound rang around the whole Cock.
Putting an end to the fighting and fuss
Stood Buccaneer Tim with an old blunderbuss.

Tosspot the Heroe, once wielder of mops
Next put out Bob’s head with a bucket of slops.
His cremated cranium, missing its thatch
Was blacken’d and fizz’d like a musketeer’s match.
Admitting defeat Hornpipe gave up his ship
But not before Cuthroat had had one last quip:
“Now The Mermaid and Dolphin have one, not two skippers
To England we’ll sail. What will you use? Your flippers?”
And with that, Tim was borne on the shoulders of Tars
And bestow’d with more back-slaps and hearty huzzahs.
Then off danc’d the mob to survey their new ship
And despite the peg-leg Will endeavour’d to skip.

With a skeleton crew now assembl’d on board
A cry soon went up: they’d discover’d a hoard
Of Coffee and Spices and Silver and Gold
From the stem to the stern it fair fill’d up the hold.
“We’re rich lads, we’re rich!” Captain Cuthroat declar’d
“And it’s all down to Tosspot how lucky we’ve fared
And so for that reason your Freedom I give
And the hand I’ve got left for as long as I live.
For devotion to duty, tho’ forc’d at the time
Your share of the loot will be equal to mine
And that, with the money we’ll get for this ship
I think, you’ll agree, is a sizeable tip.”

So The Mermaid and Dolphin both under one crew
Set sail the next day. O’er the ocean they flew
And the hornpipes and shanties and larking went on
Across the Atlantic and up the Avon
Around to the harbour and into the city
Where the men and the women are handsome and pretty
The birds sing all day and the sun always shines
Its merits too num’rous to set down in rhymes.

Or so it appeared to young Timothy’s sight
His travails were done, ’twas the end of his plight.
“Good luck to you, lad” said Cuthroat with a wink
You’re the best ever mate that was dropp’d i’ th’ drink
And we hope no hard feelings. Perhaps if you please
You’ll think kindly of us when we’re ploughing the seas.”

“One last thing” he then added “Some papers on board
Which I burn‘d, said the cargo belongs to a Lord.
A merchant adventurer Staking his all
On the safe passage home of what lies in the Stall.
Huggermugger we’ll keep ’til we sleep in our graves
’Tis the end of his days and the selling of slaves
For his ruin’s our gain and from castle to cell
Is a woundy short walk for some rogue call’d Rakehell.

And so Timothy took one last tour o’ th’ decks
In the eyes of his mates there appear’d to be flecks
Of dust or what not for they rubb’d ’em with fists
And his own soon began to be fill’d up with mists.

“I won’t say ’twas a pleasure you had me press-gang’d
But if I meet better pirates—I’ll live to be hang’d”
He said with a smile, being little ill-will’d,
For he’d had some adventures and no-one got kill’d.

“Farewell Mr. Tosspot” said Splice with a yell
As Tim stepp’d on the gang-plank, they rang out the bell
And he shed a small tear at their heartfelt tributes
Turn’d back and was fac’d with ten bare-a—sed salutes.

“Time for a beer and a pie,” he then thought
“And there’s only one place where the best can be bought.”
So to the King’s Head he next wended his way
With a spring in his Step and a heart feeling gay.
He open’d the door and stepp’d into the room
And an uproar arose like the last crack o’ doom
Shouts, and ovations and “Welcome home, Sir”
His friends were all there (for they usually were)
With a “where have you been?” and “what have you done?"
“Sit down by the fire and tell us old son”.

So Kitty the maid brought a pipe and a pot
And kept them a-coming as Tim told the lot.
This remarkable tale from beginning to end
Was as I’ve related to you, my dear friend.
Perchance ’twas embellish’d thro’ quaffing of beers
But these things I heard with my very own ears.

Then Jenny announc’d that they’d news of their own
And pointed to where her sweet belly had grown.
A new little Fox Cub was well on its way
And likely to come in a month and a day.
For which Tim rais’d his glass and gave one of his toasts
“Here’s to your labours—between the bedposts!”
The whole company laugh’d and Kitty the maid
Flash’d coy, girlish glances design’d to persuade
The heroe return’d, as she fill’d up his pot
That she heartily wish’d she was Mrs Tosspot.
For his time i’ th’ Navy had changed all his looks
He was fetching and strong (and a reader of books)
Nut-brown in complexion but cheerful and clear
From an ass to adonis in under a year.
His Fortune alone could have tempt’d a Duchess
But Kitty’s sweet charms kept him out of their clutches.
Her bosom was white and her brown hair was curl’d
And he wouldn’t have traded his Fate for th’ world.

Time flies; the sun sets on our lov’able crew
The sky’s all ablaze golden-crimson and blue.
Birds in their nests and dogs on the hearths
Lamp-lighters lighting the lamps on the paths
And spy’d thro’ the pane of a room in the Inn
A baby is cooing—chuck’d under the chin
And the parents are watching his Guardian hold
The hand of the boy in the crib, one year old.
Who they nam’d after Tim, being lov’d and respect’d
His money all spent on the poor and neglected
And no-one alive on the earth or the sea
Could possibly be more content than these three.
So I’ll blow out the candles and fasten the locks
As our heroes smile down upon young Tosspot Fox.

The moral is this: to the whole of mankind
To call someone Tosspot is very unkind.

copyright Phil Yerboots 2011

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PostPosted: Sun May 01, 2011 1:08 pm Reply with quoteBack to top

Very enjoyable, Phil

I was never keen on reading poetry, probably because I hadn't read anything like yours. Very Happy

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Jeannette
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PostPosted: Sun May 01, 2011 8:50 pm Reply with quoteBack to top

This is absolutely brilliant, Phil! Are you going to publish it in print?

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PostPosted: Tue May 03, 2011 9:27 am Reply with quoteBack to top

Thanks Seamless! It is quite…er…unique?

Thanks Jeanette! It was published in a very small amount, locally. The book has footnotes for all the historical bits and a glossary and some extra appendixes and illustrations.

Here's one of the extras:

This one is a short prose tale set in the 17th Century (so the language is much more arcane) - supposedly involving Rakehell's great-grandfather. It contains a number of old English Flower names. Some are obvious and still well-known today, others are more obscure. Knowing some forum members like a competition, if anyone reading this can spot all the flowers I'll gladly send them a signed copy of the book. Very Happy

THE PETTY MUGGET
or A Garden Rake is Stepp’d On

It was eleven o’clock in the forenoon and Sir Barnabas
Rakehell, a lusty red-faced rogue, had caroused since
afore cock-crow on sops in wine, butter and eggs and
codlins in cream with the rest of his drunkards.
Already in his cups, he chanced upon Bridget the village’s
little milkmaid. A black girl with hair like jet and skin like
cream, he had seen none so pretty as she.
Quoth the upstart: “Come hither bouncing Bet and ride
with me.” “Alack Sir, what would you take from me? ”
sobb’d the sullen lady. “Naught but thy lady’s mantle
and thy lady’s smock. Then perchance to have thy lady’s
cushion to lay my head upon” quoth this devil in the bush.
“Fie! Thou saucy jack o’ th’ butterie. Touch me not thou
jackanapes on horseback. I will have none of thee and thou
shalt have none of me” quoth Bridget in her bravery.
Now the fellow had the devil’s bit between his teeth and
bellow’d,“Nay, I do not so easily prick madam. I will catch
thy coney. Kiss me, or kiss goodbye to summer.”
At this poor Bridget feared for both her life and her
maidenhead, so she screwed up her courage and reason’d
only her wits would save her. Quoth the tearful maid:
“Sithins I shalt be stripp’d savage by thee, first sitt you
down, Sir. I hope thou wilt make a goodly shew and not
cast me down to a maiden’s ruin. Shoot me with cupid’s
dart and prove to me thy lad’s love is not love in idleness.
I charge thee, make me a summer’s bride, forget me not,
and I will always cull me to you a hearty "Welcome home
husband, tho’ never so drunk. I will honour and praise thee,
thou wilt make me a mother of thousands and we will live
until thou art an old man or I a mournful widow.”
At this the gallant buck quaked in his boots, for a bachelor
fears nothing so much as a woman’s nagging tongue with
only one word upon’t — marriage!
Next, Bridget (the cunning vixen) dealt the liquorish knave
a blow to the vulnerable part of a man which is held to be
most sensitive — his pride.

“Come Sir Love-a-Lot” quoth the maid “Off with those
batchelor’s buttons. ‘Twould be my heart’s ease to see Aaron’s
rod. Oftentimes the richness of a man’s cloth belies the
thrift beneath it. Is thy dyer’s rocket of a goodly length?
Joseph and Mary! Now I think me on, with honesty I say,
hell and come pain, give me seven year’s love in but one
sitting. Away with Adam’s flannel and let fly thy fantastikal
monster! O pray, let it have a gooseneck, a goat’s beard, a
snake’s head wearing a turk’s cap and carrying two shillings
in a sack.” And with this she detly remov’d his raiments
with her nimble fingers, then look’d and sigh’d,
“O floppadock! Here i’faith is a sad pageant. ‘Tis only a
poor goose tongue and two pennies in a purse! Hast thou
an head-ache, thou sleepy dick?”
Thus made mockery of the shame-faced sot slunk away:
his clothes all awry, his pride in pieces and his puppy’s tail
between his legs. As for Bridget, she was all the richer - for
he had left her virtue intact and his britches behind - with
money in both pockets.

This moral by her tale is meant:
A thing once giv’n can ne’er be lent.

copyright Phil Yerboots 2011

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PostPosted: Tue May 03, 2011 9:57 am Reply with quoteBack to top

Is the booklet still on sale?

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PostPosted: Tue May 03, 2011 11:06 am Reply with quoteBack to top

I have copies. It's more of a sumptuous, hardback, burgundy cloth, gold foil block lettering affair though. Very 18th Century looking and would grace any discerning library.

I'll have a word with the mods and see if I'm allowed to accept Westren Onion, MoneyScam or PayLad payments for those who'd like to have one. Wink

Image

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PostPosted: Tue May 03, 2011 1:34 pm Reply with quoteBack to top

YAY! I get to enjoy more verse later jump_4_joy Gotta dash, can't wait to read it later though Very Happy

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PostPosted: Wed May 04, 2011 10:03 am Reply with quoteBack to top

I'd like to buy the book. jump_4_joy

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PostPosted: Wed May 04, 2011 10:33 am Reply with quoteBack to top

^Me too, Jeannette. Have just PMed a list of flowers, but don't think that I can have spotted them all - the ones I did find were brilliantly hidden in the tale.

And still laughing about Tosspot Fox Laughing

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PostPosted: Thu May 05, 2011 3:16 pm Reply with quoteBack to top

@Jeanette
@Asena

Thanks for the PMs.

@anyone else please PM me.

Love Phil X

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