“Ha! now they’ll grill you, lean or fat;
I knew what games you were always at;
And told you before what harm you would hatch
Now the old Gentleman’s found you out,—
He’ll put us all in the Round-about.”
Let us be off ere they call for “the watch!”
A troop of Factory nymphs having been depatched [sic] by the tutelar divinity of chaste Elysium, in to the adjacent groves, to pursue the rural occupation of cutting brooms, contrived, one and all, to give their trusty Argus the slip, and away they flew to the race course, pursued by their guardian who calling to his aid all the pursuers within hail, soon the bewildered damsels dispersed themselves over the field.
They hear a breath in every wind —
And snatch a fearful Joy!
Some took refuge among the booths, and tried the efficacy of various disguises. Others disguised in liquor, fearlessly exposed themselves to the constable’s gripe, exhibiting the debasing spectacle of human nature sunk far beneath the brute creation.
We regret to have to observe that similar instances of female debasement, are not always limited in this Colony to women out of the Factory. Three of the most daring and profligate of the reckless runaways on the present occasion actually rode by the Governor’s carriage, one seated on horseback behind “the flying pye-man,” [JAMES McCULLOCH*] and the other two, one on each side of his companion—a certain noted horse-dealer. Not without some difficulty we hear, the entire troop of nymphs or nearly, were finally retaken, and are now most likely doing penance for their “spree,” with the luxuries of vestal seclusion and “short commons.”
* a.k.a. NATHANIEL McCULLOCH
See Original: “Racing Rigs,” The Australian (Sydney, NSW: 1824 – 1848), Friday 20 April 1832, p.3