When they brought home some ’special plunder;
Call’d them her darlings, and her white boys,
Her ducks, her dildings—­all was right boys—­
“Only,” she said, “my lads, have care
Ye fall not into BLACK BACK’S snare;
For, if he catch, he’ll maul your corpus,
And clapper-claw you to some purpose.” 
She was in truth a kind of witch,
Had grown by fortune-telling rich;
To spells and conjurings did tackle her,
And read folks’ dooms by light oracular;
In which she saw, as clear as daylight,
What mischief on her bairns would a-light;
Therefore she had a special loathing
For all that own’d that sable clothing.

Who can ’scape fate, when we’re decreed to ’t? 
The graceless brethren paid small heed to ’t. 
A brace they were of sturdy fellows,
As we may say, that fear’d no colours,
And sneer’d with modern infidelity
At the old gipsy’s fond credulity. 
It proved all true tho’, as she’d mumbled—­
For on a day the varlets stumbled
On a green spot—­sit linguae fides—­
’Tis Suidas tells it—­where Alcides
Secure, as fearing no ill neighbour,
Lay fast asleep after a “Labour.” 
His trusty oaken plant was near—­
The prowling rogues look round, and leer,
And each his wicked wits ’gan rub,
How to bear off the famous Club;
Thinking that they sans price or hire wou’d
Carry ’t strait home, and chop for fire wood.

’Twould serve their old dame half a winter—­
You stare? but ’faith it was no splinter;
I would not for much money ’spy
Such beam in any neighbour’s eye. 
The villains, these exploits not dull in,
Incontinently fell a pulling. 
They found it heavy—­no slight matter—­
But tugg’d, and tugg’d it, till the clatter
’Woke Hercules, who in a trice
Whipt up the knaves, and with a splice,
He kept on purpose—­which before
Had served for giants many a score—­
To end of Club tied each rogue’s head fast;
Strapping feet too, to keep them steadfast;
And pickaback them carries townwards,
Behind his brawny back head-downwards,
(So foolish calf—­for rhyme I bless X—­
Comes nolens volens out of Essex);
Thinking to brain them with his dextra,
Or string them up upon the next tree. 
That Club—­so equal fates condemn—­
They thought to catch, has now catch’d them.

Now Hercules, we may suppose,
Was no great dandy in his clothes;
Was seldom, save on Sundays, seen
In calimanco, or nankeen;
On anniversaries would try on
A jerkin spick-span new from lion;
Went bare for the most part, to be cool,
And save the time of his Groom of the Stole;
Besides, the smoke he had been in
In Stygian gulf, had dyed his skin
To a natural sable—­a right hell-fit—­
That seem’d to careless eyes black velvet.