The Midnight Ride Of Barbara Moore

[Barbaria1]

Barbara Moore's Morning Rescue

He watches, sees her hanging there,
Whipped and ravished, her brunette hair,
Hanging soft across her back,
Slashed and marked by an artless hack......

To be continued when Pp can find some quiet time in a busy home though it might not end as safely as Barbara might wish.

"artless hack"?....ohhhh, Wragg insulted already in the fourth line...can't wait to read more...

 

[Wragg]

"artless hack"?....ohhhh, Wragg insulted already in the fourth line...can't wait to read more...

We can hang you back up again while we fight it out?

 

[Primus pilus]

"artless hack"?....ohhhh, Wragg insulted already in the fourth line...can't wait to read more...

Pp will fix that.....Wragg will get his share later....something about balls drained by a blonde-haired tart who ...

Needs work to get it into the structure to match the original, but, when Wrag passes the baton, Pp had to think of a start at least.
Pp also needs to remind himself of Barb's sleight on his ancestry to develop the best ending.

 

[Primus pilus]

We can hang you back up again while we fight it out?

More likely hang her up while Wragg and Pp consult, discuss and debate like the rational adults they pretend to be.

 

[thehangingtree]

They will find her again and string her up a little more fatally...

...there are collateral damages in every rebellion and revolution...



Tree

...sorry, Barb

 

[Primus pilus]

Very clever Eul !!!

"And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled,
Who'll come a-whipping Barbaria with me?" ​

Pp might rewrite the whole of that old ballad. It has an interesting history and AB "The Banjo" Paterson wrote the words to fit the tune of The Craigielee March, a military march itself based on the Scottish Celtic folk tune "Thou Bonnie Wood of Craigielea".

 

[Primus pilus]

Have begun constructing a genealogical chart, labeled at the top...."Whip-Happy Aussie"

And Pp wonders whether Barb might have a convict ancestor. He recalls reading a chronicle set in 1834 beginning out of Bristol on the HMS Malevolent bound for Macquarie Harbour........he could say Moore....

 

[Barbaria1]

And Pp wonders whether Barb might have a convict ancestor. He recalls reading a chronicle set in 1834 beginning out of Bristol on the HMS Malevolent bound for Macquarie Harbour........he could say Moore....

Someone has been rummaging about in the archive....teehee...

Those were the good old days....

Macquarie Harbour has never been the same since.

 

[Primus pilus]

Someone has been rummaging about in the archive....teehee...

Those were the good old days....

Macquarie Harbour has never been the same since.

Pp has been to the west coast of Tassie in recent years but, since he hasn't reached the end yet of the lascivious exploits of Barbara and Catherine, he really cannot compare.

 

[Barbaria1]

Pp has been to the west coast of Tassie in recent years but, since he hasn't reached the end yet of the lascivious exploits of Barbara and Catherine, he really cannot compare.

"Tassie" ... is that what what the locals call it? Or just a nickname for one of Pp's whips?

 

[Primus pilus]

"Tassie" ... is that what what the locals call it? Or just a nickname for one of Pp's whips?

Tassie is the local term......and, given it is a triangular shape in the south of Australia, coarser locals sometimes make reference to a woman's map of Tasmania.
His whips? Pp needs to keep some things private.

 

[Barbaria1]

Tassie is the local term......and, given it is a triangular shape in the south of Australia, coarser locals sometimes make reference to a woman's map of Tasmania.
His whips? Pp needs to keep some things private.

Hmmmm...think about that one over a little wine.

 

[Primus pilus]

View attachment 187985 Hmmmm...think about that one over a little wine.

Well placed! A better alternative to the original reference base. Pp trusts it is a well-crafted shiraz though he would prefer to drink from the correct Riedel.

 

[phlebas]

Pp has only one bastard ancestor (in the word's more established meaning) and that was in, he recalls, the 17th century where the mother's occupation is cheerfully described in parish records as a "bad woman".

Your ancestor would fit right in here, PP.
As do you (in the nicest sense)

 

[Eulalia]

Pp might rewrite the whole of that old ballad. It has an interesting history and AB "The Banjo" Paterson wrote the words to fit the tune of The Craigielee March, a military march itself based on the Scottish Celtic folk tune "Thou Bonnie Wood of Craigielea".

Craigielea is one of the tunes played on the Town Hall clock in Paisley ​

 

[Eulalia]

Tassie is the local term......and, given it is a triangular shape in the south of Australia, coarser locals sometimes make reference to a woman's map of Tasmania.
His whips? Pp needs to keep some things private.

talking of which

 

[Primus pilus]

Wragg's Wremorse?

And then that devilish Lord Wragg
O’ercome with deep remorse was he
That lovely woman on her tree
No more to love (no more to shag).
Outside his tent, ‘twas bitter cold
How long would Barb’ra last in this?
Her raven hair would start to frizz!
Her lovely bones would not grow old!


And so he called Pp, his man
He woke him from his slumber, deep -
“Oi! What about my beauty sleep?”
“Shut up! I have a cunning plan!
“For during these colonial treks
“A woman’s touch I’ve hardly felt
“I’ve hardly loosed my trouser belt!
“In short, I need a bit of sex!”

“You randy bugger, what d’you mean?
“”You scored last night in that old town
“With whatshername, yes! Dotty Brown!
“I heard you pant, I heard her scream!
“I know she was a lovely sight
“Her tits were much to be admired
“But that is why I’m very tired!
“I didn’t sleep a wink last night!”

“The racket that your Lordship made
“You bonked and shagged the whole night long!
“The sound of her orgasmic song
“The whole street knew that she’d got laid!
“So piss off, mate, and go to bed
“Let Barb’ra stay right where she hangs
“Zip up your fly and curb your pangs
“I reckon she’s already dead!”

His master followed this advice
And went and found his sleeping bag
For he was quite a tired Wragg
His bed was warm, and it was nice!
And Barb’ra’s plight he just ignored
Forgot that she was hanging there
All naked in the cold night air.
He rolled upon his back, and snored.

But Barb’ra, hanging all alone
She heard a rustle near at hand
Felt someone cut her binding bands
She uttered just one grateful groan.
Her saviour? Twas too dark to see
‘Not Wragg,’ she hoped, ‘a dreadful choice!’
But then she heard a friendly voice
“Don’t worry, Barb! It’s me, Pp!”

Pp is not a poet but worked away at trying to rescue the rebel Barbara in Longfellow's style. He realised she would die, freezing, as the sun rose so he fell back on a style more familiar.

Pp’s Morning Rescue......or Out of the Frying Pan?

He'd been asleep when his Colonel sent,
To tell him of his cunning bent,
To fill his bed on colonial treks,
Ensure him of his dose of sex.

But he knew Wragg had a local tart,
That drained his balls at ev’ry start,
And followed him from town to town,
What’s her name, hmm, Dottie Brown.

Let Barbara stay just where she hangs,
Let Dottie curb your nightly pangs,
You have no use for rebel Moore,
Pp will fix her as you snore.

He watches, sees her hanging there,
Whipped and ravished, her brunette hair,
Hanging soft across her back,
Slashed, marked by an untrained hack.

Wragg’s not to blame for the careless hack,
That roughly tore and marked her back,
How to control the whip strikes raining,
Was never part of a Redcoat’s training.

The crowd’s long gone, they left her hang,
As they close up tight, last shutters bang,
No one to hear his whispered voice,
Pp? Barb thinks, a safer choice.

He wraps his arms, his hands caressed,
Her bruis’ed ribs, her tattered breast,
He cuts her down, a blanket drape,
And steals her from the morn sun’s rape.

She pushes back to his warm embrace,
And he spirits her away to a better place,
Where he tends her wounds, hot tea and food,
Then all goes black as he pulls a hood.

Over Barb’s eyes and she hears him feeling,
For a rope that binds her, tightly, kneeling,
What is his plan? She thought herself safe,
As she felt herself melt in Pp’s embrace.

He’s done his time in the 14th Foot,
A Captain who has stashed some loot,
To stay behind when the Redcoats go,
And colonials control the show.

He has a plan for a business bold,
To train paying clients when nights are cold,
To warm a woman without a fire,
To play them to intense desire.

To meet his plan he needs a stable,
Of subjects game, he thinks her able,
To endure the whip when he has her broke,
To take the sting of the whip’s cruel stroke.

He’ll keep her locked away from the crowd,
It will take some time for a rebel proud,
To be broken down, to starve then fill,
But Pp knows she’ll bend to his will.

He’ll need a number of subjects willing,
P’raps Messa, Siss and others thrilling,
Pk he hears can quench a thirst,
Then Barbara knows..........she’s but the first.

 

[Barbaria1]

Pp is not a poet but worked away at trying to rescue the rebel Barbara in Longfellow's style. He realised she would die, freezing, as the sun rose so he fell back on a style more familiar.

Pp’s Morning Rescue......or Out of the Frying Pan?

He'd been asleep when his Colonel sent,
To tell him of his cunning bent,
To fill his bed on colonial treks,
Ensure him of his dose of sex.

But he knew Wragg had a local tart,
That drained his balls at ev’ry start,
And followed him from town to town,
What’s her name, hmm, Dottie Brown.

Let Barbara stay just where she hangs,
Let Dottie curb your nightly pangs,
You have no use for rebel Moore,
Pp will fix her as you snore.

He watches, sees her hanging there,
Whipped and ravished, her brunette hair,
Hanging soft across her back,
Slashed, marked by an untrained hack.

Wragg’s not to blame for the careless hack,
That roughly tore and marked her back,
How to control the whip strikes raining,
Was never part of a Redcoat’s training.

The crowd’s long gone, they left her hang,
As they close up tight, last shutters bang,
No one to hear his whispered voice,
Pp? Barb thinks, a safer choice.

He wraps his arms, his hands caressed,
Her bruis’ed ribs, her tattered breast,
He cuts her down, a blanket drape,
And steals her from the morn sun’s rape.

She pushes back to his warm embrace,
And he spirits her away to a better place,
Where he tends her wounds, hot tea and food,
Then all goes black as he pulls a hood.

Over Barb’s eyes and she hears him feeling,
For a rope that binds her, tightly, kneeling,
What is his plan? She thought herself safe,
As she felt herself melt in Pp’s embrace.

He’s done his time in the 14th Foot,
A Captain who has stashed some loot,
To stay behind when the Redcoats go,
And colonials control the show.

He has a plan for a business bold,
To train paying clients so if nights are cold,
They can warm a woman without a fire,
To play them to intense desire.

To meet his plan he needs a stable,
Of subjects game, he thinks her able,
To endure the whip when he has her broke,
To take the sting of the whip’s cruel stroke.

He’ll keep her locked away from the crowd,
It will take some time for a rebel proud,
To be broken down, to starve then fill,
But Pp knows she’ll bend to his will.

He’ll need a number of subjects willing,
P’raps Messa, Siss and others thrilling,
Pk he hears can quench a thirst,
Then Barbara knows..........she’s but the first.

Wow...Pp is more of a poet than he allows! So nice to be saved; I was freezing out there. But what kind of deliverance is this? What kind of man is this? Did Pp do his time in the 14th foot, or did they toss him out, or did he desert? Obviously a man who knows his way around a whip, unlike that careless hack Wragg. But, does he know what he has taken on? I'll not easily be broken down, just to take the sting of his whip's cruel stroke, or become the centerpiece of a bold new business venture that promises (or threatens) to pull my dear sisters into its diabolical embrace. He will find this rebel's heart and spirit a difficult one to tame, I can promise him that.

 

[Primus pilus]

Wow...Pp is more of a poet than he allows! So nice to be saved; I was freezing out there. But what kind of deliverance is this? What kind of man is this? Did Pp do his time in the 14th foot, or did they toss him out, or did he desert? Obviously a man who knows his way around a whip, unlike that careless hack Wragg. But, does he know what he has taken on? I'll not easily be broken down, just to take the sting of his whip's cruel stroke, or become the centerpiece of a bold new business venture that promises (or threatens) to pull my dear sisters into its diabolical embrace. He will find this rebel's heart and spirit a difficult one to tame, I can promise him that.

He has enough cash to resign his commission from the 14th so his depature will be honourable.
Pp looks forward to the rebel Barbara's challenge.....though he thanks the saints that high heels are yet to be invented.

 

[Wragg]

Pp is not a poet but worked away at trying to rescue the rebel Barbara in Longfellow's style. He realised she would die, freezing, as the sun rose so he fell back on a style more familiar.

Pp’s Morning Rescue......or Out of the Frying Pan?

He'd been asleep when his Colonel sent,
To tell him of his cunning bent,
To fill his bed on colonial treks,
Ensure him of his dose of sex.

But he knew Wragg had a local tart,
That drained his balls at ev’ry start,
And followed him from town to town,
What’s her name, hmm, Dottie Brown.

Let Barbara stay just where she hangs,
Let Dottie curb your nightly pangs,
You have no use for rebel Moore,
Pp will fix her as you snore.

He watches, sees her hanging there,
Whipped and ravished, her brunette hair,
Hanging soft across her back,
Slashed, marked by an untrained hack.

Wragg’s not to blame for the careless hack,
That roughly tore and marked her back,
How to control the whip strikes raining,
Was never part of a Redcoat’s training.

The crowd’s long gone, they left her hang,
As they close up tight, last shutters bang,
No one to hear his whispered voice,
Pp? Barb thinks, a safer choice.

He wraps his arms, his hands caressed,
Her bruis’ed ribs, her tattered breast,
He cuts her down, a blanket drape,
And steals her from the morn sun’s rape.

She pushes back to his warm embrace,
And he spirits her away to a better place,
Where he tends her wounds, hot tea and food,
Then all goes black as he pulls a hood.

Over Barb’s eyes and she hears him feeling,
For a rope that binds her, tightly, kneeling,
What is his plan? She thought herself safe,
As she felt herself melt in Pp’s embrace.

He’s done his time in the 14th Foot,
A Captain who has stashed some loot,
To stay behind when the Redcoats go,
And colonials control the show.

He has a plan for a business bold,
To train paying clients when nights are cold,
To warm a woman without a fire,
To play them to intense desire.

To meet his plan he needs a stable,
Of subjects game, he thinks her able,
To endure the whip when he has her broke,
To take the sting of the whip’s cruel stroke.

He’ll keep her locked away from the crowd,
It will take some time for a rebel proud,
To be broken down, to starve then fill,
But Pp knows she’ll bend to his will.

He’ll need a number of subjects willing,
P’raps Messa, Siss and others thrilling,
Pk he hears can quench a thirst,
Then Barbara knows..........she’s but the first.

Wow, Pp - superb! Wragg's been off with the fairies and missed what you were up to.

But he's awake again now, and you're in trouble, my lad, sneaking off to Barbaria like that!