There's a hue and a cry through the County of Kent, And in chase of the cut-throats a Constable's sent, But no one can tell the man which way they went, There's a little Foot-page with that Constable goes, And a little pug-dog with a little pug nose.
In Rochester town, At the sign of the Crown, Three shabby-genteel men are just sitting down To a fat stubble-goose, with potatoes done brown; When a little Foot-page Rushes in, in a rage, Upsetting the apple-sauce, onions, and sage. That little Foot-page takes the first by the throat, And a little pug-dog takes the next by the coat, And a Constable seizes the one more remote; And fair rose-nobles and broad moidores, The Waiter pulls out of their pockets by scores, And the Boots and the Chambermaids run in and stare; And the Constable says, with a dignified air, "You're wanted, Gen'lemen, one and all, For that 'ere precious lark at Tappington Hall!"
There's a black gibbet frowns upon Tappington Moor, Where a former black gibbet has frown'd before: It is as black as black may be, And murderers there Are dangling in air, By one!—by two!—by three!
There's a horrid old hag in a steeple-crown'd hat, Round her neck they have tied to a hempen cravat A Dead Man's hand, and a dead Tom Cat! They have tied up her thumbs, they have tied up her toes, They have tied up her eyes, they have tied up her limbs! Into Tappington mill-dam souse she goes, With a whoop and a halloo!—"She swims!—She swims!" They have dragg'd her to land, And every one's hand, Is grasping a faggot, a billet, or brand, When a queer-looking horseman, drest all in black, Snatches up that old harridan just like a sack To the crupper behind him, puts spurs to his hack, Makes a dash through the crowd, and is off in a crack!— No one can tell, Though they guess pretty well, Which way that grim rider and old woman go, For all see he's a sort of infernal Ducrow; And she scream'd so, and cried, We may fairly decide That the old woman did not much relish her ride!
Moral. This truest of stories confirms beyond doubt That truest of adages—"Murder will out!" In vain may the blood-spiller "double" and fly, In vain even witchcraft and sorcery try: Although for a time he may 'scape, by-and-by He'll be sure to be caught by a Hugh and a Cry!
One marvel follows another as naturally as one "shoulder of mutton" is said "to drive another down." A little Welsh girl, who sometimes makes her way from the kitchen into the nursery, after listening with intense interest to this tale, immediately started off at score with the sum and substance of what, in due reverence for such authority, I shall call—