The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770

After a Squabble, as too usual among Convicts, Scape-Rope & Cutpurse challenge one another to sing, & make their Shipmate Shoat Judge of the Performance.— If the Poetry of this Eclogue seems in some Places worse than ordinary, you must consider how hard it is, to make such Persons Speak in Character.

Scape-Rope, Cut-Purse, Shoat
Scape-Rope:
Ho! Cutpurse, say, whose starveling Kine are these?

Cutpurse:
My Master Foists;—They brousing on the Trees.

Scape-Rope:
Ay, so it seems, while any slut he'll court,
Who picks his Pocket, & laughs at him for't
You, Scoundrel as you are, his Corn destroy,
And the few Cows he has with Hunger die.

Cutpurse:
Good Words become you; or I'm much mistaken;
Who late was caught a filching Dobson's Bacon?

Scape-Rope:
Rascal! I did not kill my Neighbour's Trees;
They're Rogues like you, that play such Pranks as these.

160

Cutpurse:
Not you, be sure—poor Hodges best can tell;
'Cause he his Master pleas'd & serv'd him well;
A Jacket his Reward—You, envious Wight!
To Pieces tore it, purely out of Spite.

Scape-Rope:
Sirrah! I caught thee late—thou know'st, I did.
The Dog betray'd thee—in the Bushes hid;
And when I cried; Beward the Turkies,

Turkies surprisingly plentiful & the best I ever eat in my life.

ho!
Aside the Rails you scamper'd—Is't not so?

Cutpurse:
The Turkey's mine; twas by a Song I won it;
And tho' he kept it from me, Bumpkin own'd it.

Scape-Rope:
Heigh! thou pretend to sing—sure never yet
Cou'd Voice like thine one Tart by singing get,
Tis true, thou scar'st the Wild-Cats by thy yell;
For thy shrill Roar's enough to frighten Hell.

Cutpurse:
Ha! darst thou try, which of us best can sing?
This Dog I prize 'bove any earthly Thing;
Better than ought of thine—yet this I'll lay—
Tis plain, thou dar'st not—dar'st thou, Scoundrel, ha!

Scape-Rope:
Dogs I have none; My Mistress well you know
To Dogs e'er since her Loss has been a Foe;
By them her hapless Lover was betray'd,
And thro' her Husband's Rage an Eunuch made;
And now she hates them with the utmost Spite,
And the least Howl still puts her in a Fright.

A true story, & just as it is related here.

But since thou art resolv'd the Fool to play;
The only Thing I have, I'm free to lay:
This Knife, last Instance of that nimble Art,

161

Which liked to have plac'd me in the fatal Cart
This I have valued long—& yet I'll stake it,
And if thou win'st it from me, thou must take it.

Cutpurse:
And I've a Spoon too, Sukey to me gave,
That last sad Day we took our parting Leave;
O keep it for my Sake, she fondly cry'd,
While round her neck the Noose the Hangman tied,
Yet tho' I value't much, you see, I stake it,
And if you win it from me, you must take it.

Scape-Rope:
Agreed!—I'll make thee own thy Folly soon,
And to my Knife will add thy Sukey's Spoon
See Shoat, that grinning Knave does trudge this Way,
Let him be judge, who sings the better song.

Cutpurse:
Begin then Strait, thy very awkward Song;
I promise, not to be behind thee long.
Come neighbour Shoat, tis not of little Weight;
Mind which of us sings best; & judge aright.

Shoat:
Ay, ay, My Lads; begin; so cold's the Day,
No Danger that your Cows too far will stray;
Or if they do, they'll come to feed at night.

There is no tending of Cattle in the summer after April, but they range at Liberty, where they will; And about the middle of November they begin to feed them night & morning; at which Time the Season begins to grow cold.

Come make a Fire, & let us all sit by't;
You, Cutpurse, first; then you, in answer sing;
And I'll soon tell which merits most the String.

Cutpurse:
Be Rum

Rum suppos'd to destroy as many here for the number of the People, as Spirits of all Kinds do at Home.

'bove ev'ry Earthy Thing my Choice;
Rum makes me work & animates my Voice.

Scape-Rope:
To me good Cyder's the more welcome Draught;
If I've enough of that, I'm thankful for't.

162

Cutpurse:
'Tis me black Juno pats, the wanton Queen;
Then hides herself, & twitters to be seen.

Scape-Rope:
But Jenny oft aside with me has gone;
Myself not to my Cows am better known

Cutpurse:
Ribbons to Juno, fine Ones I design;
Ribbons I'll buy her, when the money's mine.

Scape-Rope:
Kerchiefs to Jenny I've already given;
Tho' yet she 'as had but three, I'll make 'em even.

Cutpurse:
O what kind Whispers from the Slut I've heard;
Tho! lest her Dame shou'd catch her, much afraid.

Scape-Rope:
When on poor Jenny's Hide the Lash I hear;
Her Smart's not less, tho' I the Torment Share.

Cutpurse:
Soon shall I have my Dues; ye Lasses, come
And Jovial Lads; I'll glut you all with Rum.

When the Convicts have serv'd out their seven years they have certain dues allow'd them by an Act of Parliament; which they very commonly spend in an Entertainment on their Friends.

Scape-Rope:
I shall in Time be free—Arriv'd the Day;
Ye Lads & Lasses, we wll sing & play.

Cutpurse:
My Overseer I've oft a Cuckold made,
And his Wife tells me, I'm a clever Lad.

163

Scape-Rope:
And dost thou brag of that; thou silly Elf;
My Master out, I kiss my Dame herself.

A Case common among the lower Tribe of Planter's wives. Nay indeed, not twenty years ago the major Part of a whole Bench of justices in a Certain County were not only open adulterers, but as remarkable Cuckolds!

Cutpurse:
My Master loves to hear My Fecund Song,
For this I work with Pleasure all Day long.

Scape-Rope:
My Master sings himself; so glad's his Heart,
That in each drunken Catch he'll bear a Part.

Cutpurse:
Who loves the honest Planter, may he swill
In Bumbos

A common Word in Maryland.

& in Cyder, when he will.

Scape-Rope:
And he who likes the man that sings unwell;
Let him d[a]mn'd & Anthems chant in Hell.

Cutpurse:
Ha! Rascals, while you lurk to steal all Night
Take Care you do not get a Whipping by't.

Scape-Rope:
Forbear my Lads, in Time, & be not mad;
For I now suffer for the filching Trade.

Cutpurse:
Ho! Sambo, drive those oxen from the Spring;
Myself will Time enough their Fodder bring.

Scape-Rope:
Lads, feed the Cows; if they Shou'd once go dry;
Milk wou'd be wanting to our Huomini.

Hominee of two Sorts; the Small Hominee eat with Milk.

164

Cutpurse:
L-as! see yon butting Bull is wondrous lean;
Love makes the Herdsman & the Herds look thin.

Scape-Rope:
That's not the Cause the Yearlings are so poor;
They're sure bewitch'd by some old ugly Whore.

Cut-Purse:
Tell us the reason when we at home again,
We yet our itching Fingers can't restrain.

Tis been observed that even those Convicts that have Liv'd honestly here, & have prov'd good and faithful Servants to their masters, have, when they have gone Home, either been hang'd or return'd, in a short Time; & I myself have known two or three, who had a good character of their masters, & who have sold the dearest from that Character, a third Time brought into the Country.

Scape-Rope:
Say, when the Girls with eating Chalk are pale,
Say, what will make them ruddy fresh & hale.

Shoat:
You've both perform'd so ill, I can't say which
Doest most deserve the Honours of the Switch.
Might I advise, who first of you shall sing,
Shall make his Exit in a hempen String.
For shame! ha' done—I ne'er heard such before;
And Heav'n forefend, I e'er should hear you more.

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Ecloga 3

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