I was a highwayman of ill fame.
P’raps you even know my name:
Black Jack was I from Liverpool.
Aye, for a while I had ‘em fooled,
Robbing coaches on the Prescot road;
But I never kilt no one that wuz my code.
Crinolined ladies handed me jewels.
Gents shook in their boots, the fools!
I aimed my pistols at ‘em, cocked;
The coach driver fumbled to unlock
The strongbox, filled my pouches
With gold guineas, other riches.
Yes, I had ‘em all dead to right
Until one bleak, moonless night
I for once made a rare mistake.
As I rode on a moor bare awake,
The Sheriff caught up with me.
In short, all was up, d'you see?
Set to hang at Lancaster assizes,
For Black Jack, no more prizes!
They hung my body from a gibbet,
A lesson to all: now, don’t forget it.
By Christopher T. George