Robbery on Thruxton Downs

The London Coach would leave `The George'
Early in the day,
And set-off along the beaten track that leads to Exeter and back,
Wherein the danger lay.

For oft upon a Summer's morn,
Dressed in sombre brown,
A Highwayman would lie in wait, for moneyed folk who drove in state
Over Thruxton Down.

John Dyer was a Salisbury man,
But far from Sarum Gate
He'd prey upon the travellers who, when then started out, well knew,
This could be their fate.

Lather streaks the horse's necks
In their headlong, frantic dash,
They strain to heed the driver's cry, their stride is long, they seem to fly,
As they feel the Coachman's stinging lash.

"Stand!"....was the cry that rent the air,
Upon the stage's fast approach,
The driver reined-back his valiant team, in all the noise one heard a scream,
That came from within the coach.

"How many do you carry?",
The coachman shouted, "Eight!"
One by one they tumbled out, at John Dyer's insistent shout,
Uncertain of their fate.

"Turn out your pockets and make it fast"
Dyer shouted at the group,
They cast their belongings on the track while the Coachman filled a sack,
And felt their spirits droop.

Dyer took hold the heavy sack,
But just before he fled,
A passenger picked-up a stone, which at thief he might have thrown,
But Dyer shot him...dead!