THE WHITE (LIVERED) COMPANY.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume X, Issue 7, 18 February 1893, Page 159

THE WHITE (LIVERED) COMPANY.

A NONSENSE BALLAD OF NEW PLYMOUTH PLUCK. (Humbly dedicated to the eighteen men of New Plymouth who allowed the pseudo red-coated highway man to scare half their number and escape from the rest.—Sec daily papers, Monday 131 h.) Tell you the tale of our robber ? Well, sir, I don't know as I dare, For my legs still tremble with funk, sir, And the stiffness ain't out of my hair. We was only eighteen to one, sir, And the clank of liis sword was enough To stiffen at least half a dozen. For New Plymouth livers ain’t tough, But milk-white, and tender like chicken, And shake at the sight of a mask ; While to face a red coat, it would sicken The bravest to dream such a task. So we let him march inside the bar, sir, Scare the gill and do just as he willed ; First he pocketed fifteen and sixpence. Then a lot of good whisky he swilled. My God ! I can scarce tell the story ! Two pistols lie drew from his girth ; We knew that his purpose was gory. And took our last glimpse of the earth. Thus we stood, sir, it might be ten seconds, It seemed like ten hours to be true, When we saw a small chance of escape, sir, We were six— and he covered but two. There were four other men in the room, then, Mind, men and not cowards, I say, But we thought ’twould be cooler outside, sir, That place was too hot for to stay. Hiding behind one another, We managed to crawl to the door, And each one ran home to his mother, Noble ! brave ! ! courageful ! ! ! four. What ? Didn’t we try for his capture Lord, no, sir ; why, what do you mean ? Why, somebody’s skin had got hurt, sure ; He was one, mind, against our eighteen. Such a course would have been most foolhardy. And our chaps, sir, ain’t built on that plan ; It wasn’t a child or a woman To tackle we’d got, but a man. No, we let him get right clean away, sir, And nobody ventured pursuit, For the bravest New Plymouth man trembled, Remembering the robber could shoot. To the State we now cry for defence, sir, A policeman for each and wet nurse To protect us from naughty highwaymen Who menace our skins and our purse. W. G. Rathbone. February 14th, 1893.