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!