Poem by William Harrison Ainsworth

Will Davies and Dick Turpin

Hodie mihi, cràs tibi. – SAINT AUGUSTIN.

One night, when mounted on my mare,
To Bagshot Heath I did repair,
And saw Will Davies hanging there,
Upon the gibbet bleak and bare,
            With a rustified, fustified, mustified air!

Within his chains bold Will looked blue,
Gone were his sword and snappers too,
Which served their master well and true;
Says I, “Will Davies, how are you?
            With your rustified, fustified, mustified air!”

Says he, “Dick Turpin, here I be,    
Upon the gibbet, as you see;
I take the matter easily;
You’ll have your turn as well as me,
            With your whistle-me, pistol-me, cut-my-throat air!”

Says I, “That’s very true, my lad;
Meantime, with pistol and with prad,
I’m quite contented as I am,
And heed the gibbet not a d–n!
            With its rustified, fustified, mustified air!”

For never more shall Bagshot see
A highwayman of such degree,
Appearance, and gentility,
As Will, who hangs upon the tree,
            With his rustified, fustified, mustified air!

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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