A version of this song is found in the DT as BONNIE BLACK BESS (2). It was taken from Cowboy Songs: and Other Frontier Ballads edited by John Avery Lomax (New YorK: The Macmillan Company, 1920), page 194, where it is called BONNIE BLACK BESS.

The following version is a composite of several broadsides found in the Bodleian collection, for example, Firth c.17(214).

I have boldfaced the words that are different from those in the DT:


MY POOR BLACK BESS

1. When Fortune, blind goddess, she fled my abode,
And friends proved ungrateful, I took to the road.
To plunder the wealthy, to aid my distress,
I bought thee to aid me, my poor Black Bess.

2. No vile whip or spur did thy sides ever gall,
For none did'st thou need; thou would'st bound at my call;
And for each act of kindness thou did'st me caress.
Thou wert never ungrateful, my poor Black Bess.

3. When dark, sable midnight its mantle had thrown
O'er the bright face of nature, how oft have we gone
To famed Houndslow Heath, though an unwelcome guest,
To the minions of fortune, my poor Black Bess.

4. How silent thou'st stood when a carriage I've stopped!
And their gold and their jewels its inmates have dropped.
No poor man I plundered or e'er did oppress
The widow or orphan, my poor Black Bess.

5. When Argus-eyed justice did me hotly pursue,
From London to York like lightning we flew.
No toll-bar could stop thee; thou the river did'st breast,
And in twelve hours reached it, my poor Black Bess.

6. But fate darkens o'er me; despair is my lot,
The law does pursue me through a cock which I shot.
To save me, poor brute, thou did'st do thy best.
Thou art worn out and weary, my poor Black Bess.

7. Hark! The bloodhounds approach; they never shall have
A beast like thee noble, so faithful and brave,
Thou must die, my dumb friend, though it does me distress,—
There! there! I have shot thee, my poor Black Bess.

8. And in after ages when I'm dead and gone,
This tale will be handed from father to son.
My fate some may pity, but all will confess
'Twas in kindness I killed thee, my poor Black Bess.

9. No one can say that ingratitude dwelt
In the bosom of Turpin,—'Twas a vice he ne'er felt.
I shall die like a man and soon be at rest;
Then farewell for ever, my poor Black Bess.