BLACK BARt

Black Bart was a stagecoach robber in California in the late 1870’s to the early 1880’s. Some say he got his start when, as a joke, he used a stick for a gun and stopped a stage driven by a friend. To his surprise, they threw down the strongbox and fled in fear.

He later started using a shotgun, and with a flour sack over his head, usually topped off with a derby hat, he would order the box thrown down.

What set Bart apart from the other robbers of the day was his use of poetry. He would sometimes leave a note at the scene with a bit of verse on it. He would sign the notes “Black Bart, the PO8 (the poet)

One went like this:

“Here I lay me down to sleep,
To wait the coming morrow;
Perhaps success, perhaps defeat
And everlasting sorrow,

Let come what may I'll try it on,
My condition can't be worse --
And if there's money in that box
'Tis money in my purse.”

--Black Bart, the Po8

And of course, the Black Bart classic:

“I've labored long and hard for bread
For honor and for riches,
But on my corns too long you've tred
You fine-haired sons of bitches.”

I’ll bet that one caught the attention of the Wells-Fargo people!

Bart never robbed the passengers, once when a panicked woman tossed down her purse, he returned it and said, “Madame, I only want Wells-Fargo money”.

Bart was finally laid low by a handkerchief with a laundry mark on it he accidentally dropped at the scene of a robbery.

Wells Fargo detective James Hume and his agents traced the mark through the 91 San Francisco laundries to find that the handkerchief belonged to Charles E. Bolton, a respectable mine engineer who was staying at Room 40, 37 2nd Street, San Francisco. Hume had him arrested and in his report recorded that Black Bart was, "A person of great endurance. Exhibited genuine wit under most trying circumstances. Extremely proper and polite in behavior, eschews profanity."

He was sentenced to San Quentin Prison for six years but it was shortened to four years for good behavior. Reporters swarmed around him when he was released. They asked if he were going to rob any more stagecoaches. "No gentlemen," he smilingly replied, "I'm all through with crime." Another reporter asked if he would write more poetry. He laughed, "Now didn't you hear me say that I am through with crime?"*

Shortly afterward he disappeared into history.

In the tradition of doggerel already established here I offer this tribute to the spirit of Black Bart:

With empty purse

he wrote his verse

beside the dying fire

And with the dawn

he would be gone

to stir the lawman’s ire

He turned his thoughts toward the box

as he rode down to meet the trail

would he find fame and fortune there…

or just find himself in jail.

With apologies to poetry lovers everywhere,

Oldman

*The two paragraphs above are from:

http://www.zpub.com/sf/history/bart2.html

More Black Bart lore can also be found there.