Poem by William Harrison Ainsworth

The Scampsman

Quis verè rex?
		SENECA.

There is not a king, should you search the world round,
So blithe as the king of the road to be found;
His pistol’s his sceptre, his saddle’s his throne,
Whence he levies supplies, or enforces a loan.
							Derry down.
 
To this monarch the highway presents a wide field,
Where each passing subject a tribute must yield;
His palace – the tavern! – receives him at night,
Where sweet lips and sound liquor crown ail with delight.
							Derry down.

The soldier and sailor, both robbers by trade, 
Full soon on the shelf, if disabled, are laid; 
The one yet a patch, and the other a peg, 
But, while luck lasts, the highwayman shakes a loose leg!
							Derry down.

Most fowl rise at dawn, but the owl wakes at e’en,
And a jollier bird can there nowhere be seen;
Like the owl, our snug scampsman his snooze takes by day,
And, when night draws her curtain, scuds after his prey!
							Derry down.

As the highwayman’s life is the fullest of zest, 
So the highwayman’s death is the briefest and best; 
He dies not as other men die, by degrees!
But AT ONCE! without wincing, and quite at his ease!
							Derry down.

1. One Foot in the Stirrup, or Turpin's First Fling
2. The Game of High Toby
3. The Modern Greek
4. The Legend of Valdez
5. The Soul-Bell

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