The Penitent Gallant,
Being, An Account of a Gentleman who lay Condemn'd for the Murther
of his Friend, and pretended he could not dye till he had eas'd his Con-
science, in sending for thirteen Men, to beg their Pardons, whom he
had Cuckolded at Branford.
Tune of, Hide Park.
|
THere was, I must tell you, a Jocular Spark,
|
who Rambl'd and Revel'd at pleasure,
|
Young Women he often would kiss in the Dark,
|
and tickle their Giggs out of measure;
|
He being a wanton young frolicksom Blade,
|
He was so well skill'd in the Courtezan Trade,
|
That in seven Weeks he declar'd that he made
|
full thirteen poor Cuckolds in Branford.
|
As honest good Christians as ever broke Bread,
|
dear friends, I would have you believe it,
|
Tho' each Man had lusty large Horns on his Head,
|
alas! they could no way perceive it;
|
Concluding their Wives to be honest and Chaste,
|
Sweet Women, that hated a wanton Embrace;
|
Yet now after all you may pitty the Case
|
of the thirteen poor Cuckolds of Branford.
|
These Cuckolds did love this young Fop as their lives,
|
in Taverns they tippl'd together,
|
In Corners he kist, and made much of their Wives,
|
whose Heels was as light as a Feather;
|
They were not the Rabble, I'de have you to know,
|
But delicate Women as plump as a Doe,
|
Then listen a while and the Horns you'll hear blow
|
of the thirteen poor Cuckolds of Branford.
|
But if you wou'd know how this Mischief came out,
|
I pray now attend to the Ditty,
|
This Gallant he murther'd a Man brave and stout,
|
in cool Blood, the more was the pitty:
|
And while he in Prison Condemned did lye,
|
In sad Lamentation he often did cry,
|
He must ease his Conscience before he could dye,
|
concerning these Cuckolds of Branford.
|
He told them that he was tormented in mind,
|
the Guilt like sharp Arrows run through him.
|
Beseeching the Keeper he would be so kind,
|
as to send for these men to come to him;
|
Right earnestly he for this favour did plead,
|
The Keeper he could not deny him indeed,
|
And therefore to Newgate they sent for with speed,
|
the thirteen poor Cuckolds of Branford.
|
So soon as the Keeper he sent for them then
|
to come to the Gallant in Prison,
|
It was an astonishment to these poor Men,
|
who wonder'd what might be the reason,
|
But knowing him to be their Friend, they presume,
|
To mount Roan and Dobbin, for Newgate they come,
|
Not thinking that he had put Pope into Rome,
|
and made them the Cuckolds of Branford.
|
As these thirteen Cuckolds did enter the Goal,
|
it almost bereft them of Senses,
|
The Gallant he begg'd with a pittiful Tale,
|
a pardon for all his offenses,
|
Said he, an Extravagant Race I have run,
|
Forgive me the Injuries which I have done,
|
Alas! I have wronged you every one,
|
My Cronyes in private in Branford.
|
We know not wherein you have wrong'd us, they cry'd
|
the value or weight of a farthing;
|
But if you will tell us the Truth, they reply'd,
|
you shall have our absolute Pardon;
|
The Gallant did then on his marrow-bones fall,
|
And said, your good Wives they have been at my Call,
|
So that in a word I have Cuckold you all,
|
while I did inhabit at Branford.
|
With shaking their Noddles they turn'd them about,
|
the foremost was Cuthbert the Hatter,
|
Now as in a body they came trooping out,
|
the People cry'd, What is the matter?
|
A Keeper that follow'd, said clear the way wide,
|
Pray what do you think they should be, he reply'd,
|
But good honest Christians, not Men that are Try'd,
|
the thirteen poor Cuckolds of Branford.
|
|
|
|
|
|