University of Virginia Library

SPUNKY TIM,

OR THE LAST OF THE CHARTISTS.

I were niver wot yer might call a scholar;
An I aint no better now;
But I knows the wuth of the cussèd dollar,
An am kinder fond of a row—
Won the coats goes off, an the stones comes flyin,
Like the hail in a winter morn—
Won the women weeps an the kids is crying—
Fur I were ter the manner born.
And I fust seed light in a London cellar,
Won the wolf howled at the gate,
Won the Chartist boys raised the red umbreller,
In the glorious forty-eight.
An I hearn the tale, not frum lyin journals
As is paid fur party spells,
But frum lads that cracked the nuts fur kernels,
Though they only got the shells.
It were fine an fast while the runnin lasted,
But the pace too hot ter stay;
Yet they singed the bigwigs they'd ha blasted,
If they'd gone the proper way.
An the nobs turned out, an that Frenchy feller,
Louis Nap frum cross the flood,
Who went in ter fight with his face all yeller,
Got the tiger taste fur blood.
I remember that April, by thes token,
As I entered the earth too quick,
An my dad had his smellin-bottle broken,
By a blow frum a special's stick.
But he says, says he, that he were a martyr,
And the wuld were out of joint;
While he med me swear ter keep the Charter,
An ter stan by every point.
An I kep it wull, in spite of hunger,
Though it niver did me no good,
An I b'lieved it too won days was younger,
With the faith as is human food.
An a hate fur them bloated upper classes,
With ther clothes-pegs of gran silk,
With ther jewelled swine an crownèd asses,
I sucked in with my mother's milk.
So the times wagged on, an I were at seven
Fur a rivolootion ripe:
An I dreamed my dreams of the Chartist heaven,
As I puffed at my daddy's pipe.
Thin they brought in a Bill ter starve us under,
An ter stop the Sunday trade;
An they mistook it fur the Jedgment thander,
Cause a pulpit donkey brayed.
So we rose agin at Dicky Grosvenor,
I went out myself that June,
An I lef my mark (as they calls a sovenir),
While we danced the Devil's tune;
Fur we smashed no end of palace winders,
An we riddled Grosvenor Place;
An if it was not chawed up ter cinders,
'Twern't us as given it grace.
Fur the fire it hung an only sputtered,
An the flame it would not stick;
But poor Dicky Grosvenor's bread were buttered,
With the broken glass an brick.
Ther were thin a long dead starvin quiet,
An they offered us sugared sops;
As if men would rest content ter diet,
On the likes of lollipops.
But it were no use ter tickle ailins,
While we lay in that slavish fix,
An we walked slap over Hyde Park railins,
In the summer of sixty-six.
But we split no heads, if we bust the fences—
Though we stirred a precious storm—
Ter show we was tired of sham pretences,
An we would have real Reform.
It seemed childer's work, an not meat fur artists,
Who had battles starn ter win;
But we helped the game along, us Chartists,
An I were the foremust in.
An the folks what scowled behind ther glasses,
Who was blin ter the bleedin sights,
Found a kinder kick in the downtrod masses,
As was goin to hev ther rights.
They kep chuckin bones, an crusts, an “measures,”
Won we wanted a decent coat;
An the swells went on at ther own derned pleasures,
With ther grip on the labourer's throat,
Won our hands it was as were all ther ladder,
That they scorned because we was poor,
While they climbed on us and us grew sadder,
An the wolf niver lef the door.
But they bragged, an ther words dropt sweet as honey,
That they'd cheapened the people's bread;
But the loaf's no meal without the money,
An it won't bring back yer dead.
So the years they pass'd, and our needs waxed riper,
An they dolin us crumbs an sich;
But the workin-man allers paid the piper,
An no hoppin med him rich.
An it were no grist jest ter call him brother,
If he only had things ter pay;
Won they give with one hand, with the other
They took better goods away.
Es, the bread were cheap, and the work were cheaper,
An the labourer did'nt look up;
Fur the honest arm as were the reaper,
Couldn't get a bite or sup.
Whar's the fun of they prices lower fallin
An a fiddlin we is free,
Won a chap who will can't ply his callin,
An there aint no Trade ter see?
I were niver wot yer might call a scholar,
But I knows extremes won't mix;
An agin with the boys I off my collar,
In the blesséd eighty-six.
It were time, fur matters turned all contráry,
An us thousands had the sack,
In the second week of Febuàry,
On the Monday they names Black.
But them plaguey thieves with their dirty manners,
As can only steal an shout,
They has lef a stain on our bright banners,
Which can sceercely be washed out
'Twas ther stones as killed that carriage beauty,
An not one of our Chartist pals;
I'd hit any man (fur I sticks ter duty),
But I niver struck the gals.
An I reckon ef Tim had nailed the varmint,
He'd a message which he culd tell,
An the cur that spiled her purty garment,
Would hev passed in his checks ter hell.
Fur my name it be Tim, as it's known ter Nunky,
Though I weren't baptized ter it,
An my mates purfixes likewise Spunky,
Along of my cussed grit.
But I can't git over that murdered woman,
Her as died the most frum fright;
Fur my heart be warm an I's very human,
An I'd like ter hev said “Good night.”
An it done no good, ef the rogues med plunder,
Though I cannot go out no more;
The fools is above an the slaves is under,
An the times as they was before.
Fur the bleak black fog it has stuck in my bellers,
An I notice is sarved ter quit,
Nor be life so kin' ter the workin fellers,
As they should object ter flit.
I hev fought my best, an said my notion
About men an maids an all,
An I guess it be arned this here purmotion,
If it were the Capting's call.
Fur I've starved below, like a fly in amber,
As has died fur an outward shove;
An I b'lieve this move's ter the Upper Chamber,
Leastways the great House above.
Though I've not sot foot in them pious borders,
Nor yet troubled my brains with Church,
I niver once disobeyed my orders,
Nor a comrade lef in the lurch.
I'd a mind fur the chapel meetins, rather
Then the parsons wot comed round;
An I on'y sings one tune, “Our Father,”
Though ther aint no sweeter sound.
I weren't the shape of yer prayin people,
With religion cut an dried;
I know more of the tiles of the parish steeple,
Nor the texes as is inside.
But I hopes the Lord, ef He beant no viction,
Won't furgit how I tried ter be
As a man should live, in his danged affliction,
An will chalk that down ter me.
An I niver shammed, nither shirked my labour,
Excep won I's on the shelf;
An I done my duty by my neighbour
Wot's more nor he done by myself.
I hev laid no finger on a hussy,
Nor picked pockets the ways ef some—
An I hearn as Christ on all souls has mussy—
An of sich is the Kingdom Come.
These is curous times, and the wuld be rollin
In permiscus sort of ruts;
Ther's knells in the air as of death-bells tollin,
An ther's Jestices an Butts.
Yer marks coves an coves, an some is bastards,
As goes shakey in ther jints,
Med of drunken sots an knaves an dastards,
An particler ter ther “pints.”
But they ben't the Five of the gran ole Charter,
Which was lights wharby ter steer;
An these swillin-tubs ther soles would barter,
Fur as many “pints” of beer.
They're a class of goods as is not negotiable,
Them Socialists yer sees,
As is all that's splash, but derned unsociable,
An nary man agrees.
I hev writ my name, with reformin artists,
On the ballot and sich like boons;
An, mebbe, I's the last of the true ole Chartists,
Wasn't born with silver spoons.
Fur the price be low an the glass keep fallin,
An so am poor Spunky Tim;
An, hark! ther's the Capting's trumpet callin,
Fur ter pipe the evenin hymn.