The Black Country Highwaymon

This is the tale of a highwaymon He was Black Country born and bred, He was strong in the arm, with a fair bit of charm But like his dad, he was easily led.

His old man died at the gallows He’d bin a bit wayward and wild. He’d faced the noose, for stailen a goose Leavin’ a mother, with child.

He was born in Halesowen, near the gibbet Where folk like his dad met their fate, There was never no hope, just a long piece of rope No trial, no chance, no debate.

Now yow could say Dick was a little bit thick But he was never short in ambition And as he got older, he got bolder and bolder And yearned to improve his position.

A thief from the start, broke his poor mother’s heart And the poor wench was aiken and fraught. Her would kneel down and pray, and dreaded the day That Dick, like his dad, ’ud get caught.

Dick ad heard of Dick Turpin, the legend The elusive and infamous robber And his only aim, was to be just the same But he couldn’t afford all the clobber.

So he started as a young footpad That’s a robber who robs yer and runs, But he ’ad to move fast, if he wanted to last Course he adn’t an ’oss, or a gun.

He used to say stond and deliver With an ankerchief over ’is thumb And because the poor folks won frightened ter jeth They thought he was pintin’ a gun.

Well he worked realy hard as a footpad And put most of his taikens aside And he’d soon enough dosh to buy him an ’oss And two pistols to hang by his side.

And so he became an ’ighwaymon No longer a fast mewvin’ footpad When he said he was leavin’ his poor mom was grievin’ ’Er said ‘I ope yo doh dote follow yer dad.’

So he bought the full monty in clobber Dick Turpin, he would’ve bin proud And he practised his stond and deliver In Black Country dialect, out loud.

He’d a tunic of red, a cocked hat on his yed And his double-edged sword was a whopper. He’d gauntlets of leather, a big plume of feathers A lump ommer, pole axe and chopper.

He worked between Kiddy and Gornal And his bad reputation spread. But if he went out of the district They day underston wot he said.

One day he went over to Worcester And the folks they just stood theer and loffed. They day understond the dialect So they tode him he’d better clear off.

Well his job was to rob and to earn a few bob So he set off at a canter, to Gornal. He’d bin pushen the boat out at Christmas And he’d spent a bit mooer than normal.

But Gornal was dead, so he tried Dudley instead But after an hour and half’s search He done what he’d done Easter Monday He took the poor box from Dudley Top Church.

Well the parson catched him in the act And said, ‘Yo’me rotten to the core

Not only do you rob the rich You also rob the poor’

Dick slowly lowered his pistols And said, ‘Vicar, you listen ter me. That poobox theer is fer the poor folk An there ay many poorer than me.’

He emptied the contents onto the flooer. And said, ‘This place is in decline. There’s onny twenty-eight farthins And what looks like an ode Spanish kine.’

Well somehow he felt a bit guilty And it was quite a nice afternoon So he picked up the twenty-eight farthings And gid the vicar the Spanish doubloon.

Next he held up a butchers in Cradley With his usual Stond and Deliver But he butcher went grey, he said ‘I’ve ad a bad day Will yer tek some sausage and liver?’

Well Dick day tek kindly to barterin’ A robber needs silver and gold He ’as ter provide for the winter And the Black Country winters am code.

So he took all the sausage and liver And cos the butcher wort lookin’ well He loosed him off with a caution And took the wick’s taikens as well.

In the meantime he’d gorra find a livin’ to mek In ways he cared not to mention Well he needed to med a bit extra ya see Cos e’d gorra provide his own pension.

He met Meg the gypsy, who studied his palm He sez, ‘Sir, yower onds am like leather.’ Yo’m gooin’ ter marry a gypsy wench’ And next day they moved in together.

Her was true to Dick through thin and thick And what he done, the wench never asked Er’d cook his food and saddle his oss And fasten the hooks on his mask.

But one mornin’ in May, halfway through the day Dick’s boozin’ ad left a sooer yed. Well Meg let fly, and blackened his eye And cussed him for lyin’ a-bed.

So he jumped on his steed, and with a good turn of speed He vanished out into the fog. His yed was a saggen, he couldn’t stond the naggen And he needed the hair of the dog.

He pulled up at Ye Olde Whitley Hotel Cos it was a bostin’ pint o’ beer. He ripped down the poster nailed to the wall Which said ‘Black Spot for robbers, round here.

He went into the snug, to partake of a jug Of a drap of the tonic that cheers He swilled down a gill, took some change out the till And slipped out the dooer at the rear.

But a pistol cocked and ready Was pressed to his yed He’d diced with death a thousand times But was now as good as jed.

Dick was undone, he’d had his run But today his wires ’ad crossed. He’d bin recognised by a cast in his eye By th bloke who’d sold him his oss.

They strung him up at the gibbet And as the old church clock struck one His mother prayed, Dick jerked, then swayed And the higwaymon had gone.