Chorus
And the Bishop says, “Sure as eggs is eggs,
This here’s the bold Turpin!”
II
Says Turpin, “You shall eat your words,
With a sarse of leaden bul-let;”
So he puts a pistol to his mouth,
And he fires it down his gullet.
The coachman he not likin’ the job,
Set off at a full gal-lop,
But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob,
And perwailed on him to stop.
Chorus (sarcastically)
But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob,
And perwailed on him to stop.
“I maintain that that ’ere song’s personal to the cloth,” said the mottled-faced gentleman, interrupting it at this point. “I demand the name o’ that coachman.”
“Nobody know’d,” replied Sam. “He hadn’t got his card in his pocket.”
“I object to the introduction o’ politics,” said the mottled-faced gentleman. “I submit that, in the present company, that ’ere song’s political; and, wot’s much the same, that it ain’t true. I say that that coachman did not run away; but that he died game—game as pheasants; and I won’t hear nothin’ said to the contrairey.”