The Cherhill Gang

The Cherhill Gang was a group of highwaymen in the 18th century in England. They used to attack carriages of wealthy Londoners traveling the road from London to Bath in  a unique way by  carrying out their attacks completely naked. This was for two reasons: it was to distract the travelers and also so that they would not be identified by their clothing.

There is a painting in The Black Horse Inn in Cherhill depicting an attack by the naked highwaymen.

the naked highwayman

THE NAKED HIGHWAYMAN
(Steve Tilston)

As I rode out one summer’s day for profit and for pleasure,
I planned to rob the London coach and take it at my leisure.
A brace of pistols duly primed, a sabre fit to shave on,
I waited underneath the trees that lined the banks of Avon.

I didn’t hear her dainty step as she appeared before me:
A face to charm a singing bird with words that did implore me.
“Can you help me sir?” she said, “I fear the time is near run
For me to cross before the tide swells the banks of Avon.”

All you roving fellows listen, while you can,
Of the time that I became a naked highwayman. (repeat)

So gallantly I did dismount and walked into the water,
As she told me that she was a wealthy merchant’s daughter.
So I thought I’d try my luck and do my best to charm her.
Said I was the only son of a country farmer.

“Your hands they are as smooth as silk,
They never touched a plough sir
And I suppose these pistols help you milking of your cows.”
She looked at me with mocking eyes as coal-black as a raven
And then she fell into my arms beside the banks of Avon.

All you roving fellows listen, while you can,
Of the time that I become a naked highwayman. (repeat)

Her honeyed lips, I was beguiled, a lamb led to the slaughter,
Eventually I fell asleep in the arms of the merchant’s daughter.
When I awoke I was alone, my clothes and pistols token,
With just the leaves to hide my shame beside the banks of Avon.

In vain I tried to catch a glimpse of the city spires,
Running like a rabbit through the bushes and the briars.
Then I heard the London coach and I was all a-shiver;
A lady’s voice was calling out: “Stand-to and deliver!”

All you roving fellows listen, while you can,
Of the time that I became a naked highway man. (repeat)

“Your money or your life I’ll have, it’s all the same to me.
It’s hangèd for a sheep or murder in the first degree.”
She stood there in my overcoat, brandishing my pistol,
And relieved the London coach of the gold of Bristol.

And it’s up she’s mounted on my horse and rode into the distance
And I went naked to the coach begging for assistance.
No more I’ll play the highwayman, no more I’ll put the mask on,
I’ll leave it to the bright-eyed girl who roams the banks of Avon,

All you roving fellows listen, while you can,
Of the time that I became a naked highwayman. (repeat)

As I rode out one summer’s day for profit and for pleasure,
I planned to rob the London coach and rake it at my leisure.
A brace of pistols duly primed, a sabre fit to shave on,
I waited underneath the trees that lined the banks of Avon.

the highwayman

by  Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)

  The Highwayman

PART ONE

I

THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

V

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

VI

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.

PART TWO

I

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o’ the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

II

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love’s refrain .

VI

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

VIII

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

*           *           *           *           *           *

X

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Creative Writers in Kuwait

Hi Jewaira,

As an avid reader of your blog, I know you area a talented writer and perhaps can share some advice.

What can I do with an MFA in Creative Writing in Kuwait?

Can I teach at university level? Do you know of any writing circles I can perhaps join?

Are you aware of any other opportunities?

All feedback welcome.

Thanks,

N.

======================

Dear N,

Thank you for your message and your kind words.

Sorry I just dug your comments out of the spam box where they have wallowed for days.

I shall post your message here in the hopes that you will get some responses from people out there just like you or who share your same interest.

Jewaira

Lashings of Butter

One particular phrase that I have recently come across is the description of spreading butter on fresh-baked bread:

The woman said:
“That bread would be wonderful with lashings and lashings of butter”

It made me laugh with delight.

It was the first time for me to hear the application of butter described that way but it is not unusual if you look up definition and usage of the term.

In my opinion if you are a lover of freshly baked quality bread, then that description of lashing a thick slice of bread is simply mouthwatering especially with English butter.

 

Tantric Massage

I’m interested in hearing feedback from people who have had a tantric massage.

If you have had this kind of treatment before, it would be so helpful to share your experience: what to expect and whether or not you would recommend it.

Cruel to be kind

I don’t know what the video clip has to do with the lyrics but then again it’s not often the case. It’s the song I woke up singing this morning.

Cigarette Warnings

From the American Food & Drug Administration site:

“Beginning September 2012, FDA will require larger, more prominent cigarette health warnings on all cigarette packaging and advertisements in the United States.  These warnings mark the first change in cigarette warnings in more than 25 years and are a significant advancement in communicating the dangers of smoking.  The introduction of these warnings is expected to have a significant public health impact by decreasing the number of smokers, resulting in lives saved, increased life expectancy, and lower medical costs.”

In Kuwait we desperately need a public awareness campaign regarding the dangers of cigarette smoking. The lack of awareness and the complete disregard of smokers for non-smokers is both appalling and irritating.

Peaking

At the pinnacle,

at the  peak moment

of orgiastic pleasure,

the nightingale

outside my window

sang.

Bring out the animal in me

If your partner wanted to liven things up in the bedroom, would you be an animal?

“I’ve been married to my husband for 15 years. Our sex life was very good for several years and then dwindled. This put a great strain on the relationship so we agreed to experiment to regain some of the passion. At first things went well and our experiments were nothing too unusual. However, my husband has hinted that he would like me to imitate animals in the bedroom. I can understand getting on all fours and making noises etc, but things have got weird for want of a better term. Is this normal as I feel strange about it?” LINK

I’m sure people have all sorts of “problems” and when writing to an Agony Aunt, they want to gauge the normalcy of life situations.

If your intimate life is in the doldrums, spicing it up with a little animalistic sex might bring out the lion tamer in you.

What kind of animal would I like my partner to be? A stallion is clichéd but it never goes out of style.

This Orangina ad might give one a fresher perspective on things:

And more inspiration:

Regardless of any quirkiness, lovemaking should not always be seriously romantic business. Laughter uplifts the soul.

change is good

The sun appeared again like a burst of yellow in the bright blue sky. We smiled at each other. I squinted. The sun was too bright. When we had started out, it was pouring rain and I had  brought an umbrella but not sunglasses.

We sat across each other in the small cafe. In that interim, the sun shone and the seats filled up rather quickly around us. Two young men at elbow distance chatted across the table on my right. We were so engrossed in our conversation that we did not pay attention to what they were talking about.

A swanky couple stood on the edge of the cafe and waited impatiently for a place. He finally decided to sweep her into his embrace and engage her in a kiss to while away the moments.

Suddenly a middle-aged woman who had just settled on my left side got up to ask the young men on my right about their iced coffee: “Excuse me, ” she asked. “Is that good?”

It was unexpected and we all turned our heads to look at the young man’s drink which was yet untouched. It was a tall glass with a thick layer of cream over the iced coffee.  A series of brief looks were exchanged between us with jovial smiles and dancing eyes at the sudden question.

The query had been unexpected. The reaction was a brief pause, some thoughtful consideration, and a reply.

We continued talking and our discussion turned to politics as it was bound to at some point.

“Change is good,” I said.

I spoke freely, loudly, but then as ever, I was beset by paranoia. In peripheral vision, I warily followed the hand movements of  the young man who was sitting  on my left  with his mother. I thought I felt them pause as key words were uttered in our discussion. His hand was writing something down. My eyes turned to look for a nanosecond. Was he writing down what I was saying?

Two words: Dear Dad. On a greeting card. And I understood.

I turned back to my friend and continued our political discussion until  the wind became vigorous, the grey clouds gathered above, and plops of rain dropped onto the single mini eclair on the round white dish on our table.

Just as quickly as we had gathered al fresco under the sunshine, we now dispersed.

on cages

We both stood on the balcony.

I reached towards the bird’s cage and started to lift the top slightly to remove the newspaper on the bottom. It was a swift movement. The cage top was raised too high. The bird flew out and up into the sky, far, far away and the newspaper fluttered away in a bizarre random movement.

I felt free.

A matter for interpretation

It could be a fundamental issue of misinterpretation. When an infant cries, we might  immediately assume he is hungry so a nipple is readily slipped into his mouth to suppress further agitation. But what if that infant was crying because of something else? An itch can be maddeningly frustrating but an infant still does not have that sensory coordination to relieve that nor does he have the vocabulary to convey what is wrong. Crying is the only  means of communicating that itch and in return, he is not relieved of it but distracted by the nipple of nutrition and thus there is a confusion interpreting the signals even in later life I would venture to  suggest.

Of course an unreachable, unrelievable itch is only an example. The infant coud be suffering from some sort of pain anywhere in its body, or perhaps even reliving the emotional anguish of being squeezed out of his mother’s womb and then sliding down the birthing canal and wedged out with great difficulty. It is all possible. The point is, does misinterpretation of cries during infancy program our own responses to our physical signals in later life?

Let me explain further. Lying in bed, rocking in between that point of emerging consciousness and a defying somnolent tug, I am accosted by feelings in my stomach I initially interpret as hunger. But why would I feel so hungry at that hour? It was too early to wake up. I reasoned that it may be my stomach was busy digesting and processing whatever food was occupying it and all the raucous had woken me up, causing me to misinterpret the ongoing rumblings for hunger.

Perhaps it was not my stomach digesting either. It could be I was being nudged by a gradual physical arousal that had awakened all my senses and emerged from the center of my being, radiating towards outstretched arms, and to the tips of toes that had become so sensitive that the feeling of cool sheets had become pleasingly sensuous. The pleasurable vibrations bounced back towards the meridian, invoking further ripples of an erotic nature. At this point I become slightly confused by the changing physical message; was this a desire for food or for erotic sustenance? The symptoms become more pronounced as nipples become erect, and a wave of curiously sensuous contractions besets my groin area. Could I be so aroused for food, I wonder to myself in the half-somnolent mindset? Definitely at this point, the physical messages have become clear – listening to the bird tweeting melodically outside my open window, an awareness of the soft plushness of my bedding, and the wholesome vision of my body as a vehicle of pleasure responding to some deep-seated ache for satisfaction. And yes, there is pleasure in that ache,; that drive towards the pinnacle of desire and then onto an emotional plateau. The physical sensations have now been interpreted as an erotic arousal, and I swing like a pendulum between sensual sleep and a gradual awakening to the logical analysis of interpreting physical sensations that seemed to have emerged from my subconscious.

About

Should I love you

and leave you?

Or leave here

to love you?

Do I live

to love you

or wait for you

to love me?

It’s about you,

about love,

and about

nothing at all.

 

Insipid