Musa Pedestris

sionnach THE OATH OF THE CANTING CREW
1749

(From The Life of Bampfylde Moore Carew, by ROBERT GOADBY)

I, Crank Cuffin, swear to be
True to this fraternity;
That I will in all obey
Rule and order of the lay.
Never blow the gab or squeak;
Never snitch to bum or beak;
But religiously maintain
Authority of those who reign
Over Stop Hole Abbey green,
Be their tawny king, or queen.
In their cause alone will fight;
Think what they think, wrong or right;
Serve them truly, and no other,
And be faithful to my brother;
Suffer none, from far or near,
With their rights to interfere;
No strange Abram, ruffler crack,
Hooker of another pack,
Rogue or rascal, frater, maunderer,
Irish toyle, or other wanderer;
No dimber, dambler, angler, dancer,
Prig of cackler, prig of prancer;
No swigman, swaddler, clapper-dudgeon;
Cadge-gloak, curtal, or curmudgeon;
No whip-jack, palliard, patrico;
No jarkman, be he high or low;
No dummerar, or romany;
No member of the family;
No ballad-basket, bouncing buffer,
Nor any other, will I suffer;
But stall-off now and for ever
All outtiers whatsoever;
And as I keep to the foregone,
So may help me Salamon! (By the mass!) May 10, 2009

sionnach THE MAUNDER'S PRAISE OF HIS STROWLING MORT
1725

Doxy, oh! thy glaziers shine
As glimmar; by the Salomon!
No gentry mort hath prats like thine,
No cove e'er wap'd with such a one.

White thy fambles, red thy gan,
And thy quarrons dainty is;
Couch a hogshead with me then,
And in the darkmans clip and kiss.

What though I no togeman wear,
Nor commission, mish, or slate;
Store of strammel we'll have here,
And ith' skipper lib in state.

Wapping thou I know does love,
Else the ruffin cly the mort;
From thy stampers then remove,
Thy drawers, and let's prig in sport.

When the lightman up does call,
Margery prater from her nest,
And her Cackling cheats withal,
In a boozing ken we'll feast.

There if lour we want; I'll mill
A gage, or nip for thee a bung;
Rum booze thou shalt booze thy fill,
And crash a grunting cheat that's young.

May 9, 2009

sionnach THE RUM-MORT'S PRAISE OF HER FAITHLESS MAUNDER

Now my kinching-cove is gone,
By the rum-pad maundeth none,
Quarrons both for stump and bone,
Like my clapperdogeon.

Dimber damber fare thee well,
Palliards all thou didst excel,
And thy jockum bore the Bell,
Glimmer on it never fell.

Thou the cramprings ne'er did scowre,
Harmans had on thee no power,
Harmanbecks did never toure;
For thee, the drawers still had loure.

Duds and cheats thou oft hast won,
Yet the cuffin quire couldst shun;
And the deuseaville didst run,
Else the chates had thee undone.

Crank and dommerar thou couldst play,
Or rum-maunder in one day,
And like an Abram-cove couldst pray,
Yet pass with gybes well jerk'd away.

When the darkmans have been wet,
Thou the crackmans down didst beat
For glimmer, whilst a quaking cheat,
Or tib-o'-th'-buttry was our meat.

Red shanks then I could not lack,
Ruff peck still hung on my Back,
Grannam ever fill'd my sack
With lap and poplars held I tack.

To thy bugher and thy skew,
Filch and gybes I bid adieu,
Though thy togeman was not new,
In it the rogue to me was true.
May 9, 2009