From a contemporary woodcut.
Another story tells how he was pursued in Whitefriars, London, the old-time Alsatia of rogues and vagabonds behind Fleet Street. He shot dead a butcher who tried to stop him, but was tripped up and secured, at the corner of Salisbury Court and Fleet Street, where he was afterwards hanged, December 20th, 1689, in his sixty-fourth year: or, by another account, December 20th, 1690. His body was afterwards hanged in chains on the threshold of his own house at Bagshot.
On a broadsheet ballad, published on the occasion of his execution, entitled The Golden Farmer's Last Farewell, a rude woodcut appears at the head of the verses, in which you see a very small figure hanging most comfortably from a gallows-tree, with a thoroughly happy expression upon his face, while a small crowd (assorted sizes) contemplates his sad end with a variety of emotions, ranging from amusement to contempt. The verses are typical of the penny literature of the age, and do not necessarily follow his career with any slavish regard to truth:
Unto you all this day,
my faults I do declare,
Alas! I have not long to stay,
I must for Death prepare;
A most notorious Wretch,
I many years have been,
For which I now at length must stretch,