Читать книгу The Collected Novels - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 78

Oliver whiddles — the tattler old!

Telling what best had been left untold.

Oliver ne’er was a friend of mine;

All glims I hate that so brightly shine.

Give me a night black as hell, and then

See what I’ll show to you, my merry men.

Oliver whiddles! — who cares — who cares,

If down upon us he peers and stares?

Mind him who will, with his great white face,

Boldly I’ll ride by his glim to the chase; Give him a Rowland, and loudly as ever Shout, as I show myself, “Stand and deliver!”

“Egad,” soliloquized Dick, as he concluded his song, looking up at the moon. “Old Noll’s no bad fellow, either. I wouldn’t be without his white face to-night for a trifle. He’s as good as a lamp to guide one, and let Bess only hold on as she goes now, and I’ll do it with ease. Softly, wench, softly — dost not see it’s a hill we’re rising. The devil’s in the mare, she cares for nothing.” And as they ascended the hill, Dick’s voice once more awoke the echoes of night.