Eliza, the Taverner’s Daughter

Here’s a tale that I’ll share
Of Sir Bostick the heir
And a pub called the Lamb and the Slaughter,
Where he frequently came
And demanded by name,
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

Now, Sir Bostick was vicious,
But he thought her delicious—
The only real reason he sought her:
She was quick with the wink,
And she knew how to drink—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

She was just seventeen;
She was low, she was mean,
And she sold all the trinkets he bought her,
Then she turned him down flat,
And he couldn’t stand that—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

Thus, Sir Bostick did dream
Up a dastardly scheme:
It was out by the stable he caught her,
But she used every claw
And she clamped down her jaw—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

She was rather petite,
But she kicked with both feet—
She was shockingly strong, but he fought her,
And it grieves me to say,
She was carried away—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

So he took her at last
To his mansion, so vast;
To a room in the basement he brought her;
She was tied to a chair,
Only Bostick knew where—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

She was bound hand and feet,
Given nothing to eat—
Not even a glass of cold water:
In a room with no fire,
Oh, her prospects were dire—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

But she somehow found hope
And she slipped from the rope,
With a trick her grandfather had taught her;
She could hear Bostick snore,
As she crept passed his door—
Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

She made fast for a farm,
Where she raised the alarm—
She was tougher than Bostick had thought her,
And that motley farm crew,
All agreed what to do
For Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

Bostick cried, “Let me live!”
But she would not forgive,
Though he groveled and begged and besought her:
Now he hangs from that tree,
Very much to the glee
Of Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.

Private justice like this
Is entirely amiss,
And if you don’t oppose it, you ought-ter;
But, upon cool reflection,
I’d allow an exception
For Eliza, the taverner’s daughter.