| |
| INTO the Devil tavern | |
| Three booted troopers strode, | |
| From spur to feather spotted and splash’d | |
| With the mud of a winter road. | |
| In each of their cups they dropp’d a crust, | 5 |
| And star’d at the guests with a frown; | |
| Then drew their swords, and roar’d for a toast, | |
| “God send this Crum-well-down!” | |
| |
| A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks, | |
| Their sword blades were still wet; | 10 |
| There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff, | |
| As the table they overset. | |
| Then into their cups they stirr’d the crusts, | |
| And curs’d old London town; | |
| Then wav’d their swords, and drank with a stamp, | 15 |
| “God send this Crum-well-down!” | |
| |
| The ’prentice dropp’d his can of beer, | |
| The host turn’d pale as a clout; | |
| The ruby nose of the toping squire | |
| Grew white at the wild men’s shout. | 20 |
| Then into their cups they flung the crusts, | |
| And show’d their teeth with a frown; | |
| They flash’d their swords as they gave the toast, | |
| “God send this Crum-well-down!” | |
| |
| The gambler dropp’d his dog’s-ear’d cards, | 25 |
| The waiting-women scream’d, | |
| As the light of the fire, like stains of blood, | |
| On the wild men’s sabres gleam’d. | |
| Then into their cups they splash’d the crusts, | |
| And curs’d the fool of a town, | 30 |
| And leap’d on the table, and roar’d a toast, | |
| “God send this Crum-well-down!” | |
| |
| Till on a sudden fire-bells rang, | |
| And the troopers sprang to horse; | |
| The eldest mutter’d between his teeth, | 35 |
| Hot curses—deep and coarse. | |
| In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts, | |
| And cried as they spurr’d through town, | |
| With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cock’d, | |
| “God send this Crum-well-down!” | 40 |
| |
| Away they dash’d through Temple Bar, | |
| Their red cloaks flowing free, | |
| Their scabbards clash’d, each back-piece shone— | |
| None lik’d to touch the three. | |
| The silver cups that held the crusts | 45 |
| They flung to the startled town, | |
| Shouting again, with a blaze of swords, | |
| “God send this Crum-well-down!” | |
| |
