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The songs of the Wilsons

With a memoir of the Family, and several additional songs never before published. Edited by John Harland
Wilson Wilson Wilson, Alexander Thomas Michael (1803-1852 1763?-1840)

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12

[_]

Square brackets denote editorial insertions or emendations.

JONE'S RAMBLE FRO' OWDAM TO KARSYMOOR RACES.

By Mr Michael Wilson.
Come Dick, an' Nan, an' Davy,
An' sit yo' deawn be me awhoile;
An' Sal, an' Mal, an Lavy, [Levi,]
Aw 'll tell yo' a tale 'll mak yo smoile;
For aw 've just come fro' Karsy Moor,
Wi' uncle Dan and mony moore,
'T wure cover't o'er wi' rich an' poor;
Aw never seed sich seets afoore.
Here “S. and G.” they 'rn croyink;
Theere 's “Hit meh legs and miss meh pegs;”
Here “yeads and tails” wurn floyink;
And there owd “garter” runs his rigs:
Here 's lottery for cakes and fruit,
And theere teetotum twirls abeawt,
Wi' mony things ot 's miss't; me-theawt,
Sich gams owd Nick ne'er yet fun eawt.
“Bowl up for barril't soyder,” [cider,]
Loike thunder leawd, they next did croy;
Just then, noant [aunt] Nan, aw spoy'd her
Hoo 'r sellink nuts—“Come, toss or buy.”
13

Aw 'r gooink t' ash wot hoo did theere,
When uncle Dan bawl't i' meh ear,
“Lets goo un' have a quairt o' beer,
And suster Nan shall have her sheere.”
We strudden't o'er the gorses,
An' went to th' sign o' th' “Mon i' th' Moon,”
An' theere a list o' th' horses,
An' one o' th' spoortink ladies coome;
An' whoile aw'r readink which ud win,
Aw spoy'd owd Punch, wi' his lung chin,
An' his woife Joan wur drubbink him,
“Ecod,” said aw, “we'll o goo in.”
Neaw the stonds begun o-fillink,
“Walk up, walk up,” the owners croy'd;
They ash'd me for a shillink,
Boh aw took me o'er to th' great hill soide.
An' neaw the horses made a start,
Oych mon o' tit-back play'd his part;
It pleast meh to meh vary heart,—
Eawr Doll ne'er went so fast i' th' cart.
Neaw th' horses had done runnink,
An' nowt boh shows wurn laft to see;
Aw 'd seen Punch at th' beginnink,
An' that wurn quoite enuff for me;
So aw bowt plumcakes, fill'd wi' plums,
Mich bigger far nor my two thumbs,
Hot cakes, fruit tarts, and Chelsea buns,
Meh pockets they wurn fill'd wi' crumbs.
14

Noant Nan hoo fell to sellink;
An' uncle Dan to drinkink went;
An' aw begun o' smellink
'Ot they wur noather want nor scant.
For beef an' mutton thick aw spoy'd
An' veul an' ham on every soide,
Me guts croy'd “cubbert;”—“Zouks,” aw croy'd,
“Aw'll sit meh deawn an' stuff meh hoide.”
Neaw fouk begun o' shiftink,
Aw fun me in a weary cale, [sad case]
Aw scarce could stir for riftink,
Aw 'r grown so fat wi' cakes an' ale:
Boh eh! hew thrunk! one scarce could pass;
Some drunk, some sober, moast beawt brass;
An' some wi' two black een, by th' mass;
Whoile others ley asleep i' th' grass.
Ot last th' owd gronnam's reachink,
Hoo glendur't [stared] at meh through a ring
An' stearted up a-preachink,—
“Eh, Jone! theaw'rt an ungodly thing.”
Boh when meh story aw did tell,
Her meawth stood woide as eawr six-bell;
“By th' maskins, Jone, theaw'st pleos't meh well,
Ecod, aw 'll goo next yeaar meh-sel.”
 

A sort of game formerly in vogue at fairs and races.

The game of “prick the garter.”

The six-o'clock bell of the factory.

i.e., “By the mass.” Maskin is a diminutive of mass, as Peterkin is of Peter, and malkin of mall. In Chapman's Mayday, we have, “By the maskin.”

15

SOLDIER JACK.

[_]

Tune—“Soldier Dick.”

By Mr Michael Wilson.

I'm Soldier Jack who went with Dick;
I've play'd the Frenchmen many a trick;
16

But now return'd, and peace is made,
I'll sit me down a jolly blade.
When drums and trumpets call to arms,
Each hero's breast to glory warms;
We rush among those dread alarms,
And neither value legs nor arms.

CHORUS.

Think not, my friends, the truth I rack;
But hear the feats of Soldier Jack.
With the Duke of York at first I went,
At Valenciennes some time we spent,
Till having made a breach one day,
I unto his highness thus did say—
“Let me, sir, lead the soldiers on.”
No sooner said than it was done;
I scaled the walls, the Frenchmen run,
Nor had one man his head left on.

CHORUS.

Think not, my friends, the truth I rack;
Such feats are nought with Soldier Jack.
The Duke's career being at an end,
For Egypt next my steps I bend;
Of Bonyparty at a blow,
I there complete the overthrow.
I threw ten thousand in the Nile,
Which made old Abercromby smile;
17

Pursued the Corsican twelve mile,
And then return'd their camp to spoil.

CHORUS.

Think not, my friends, the truth I rack;
Such feats are nought with Soldier Jack.
At famed Vittoria! 'tis well known,
This arm sustain'd the fight alone,
And Wellington had there been slain,
Had I not slily slipp'd between.
I caught six generals by the nose,
Cut off their heads at six more blows;
And I had brought 'em here as shows,
But lost 'em in a storm, Heaven knows.

CHORUS.

Think not, my friends, the truth I rack;
Such feats are nought with Soldier Jack.
On hands and knees i' th' Pyrenees,
I climb'd a mountain by degrees;
Five miles in height at least I'll say,
In mounting which I was a day.
I gave a jump amidst the foe,
One hundred thousand strong below;
I dealt out death at every blow,
Till twenty thousand were laid low.

CHORUS.

Think not, my friends, the truth I rack;
Such feats are nought with Soldier Jack.
18

Next I appear'd before Bayonne,
And there Soult's business had been done;
And I had thence to Paris gone,
The proud Napoleon to dethrone:
Just then, we heard a peace was made,
As ten to bite the dust I'd laid:
With that I sheath'd my trusty blade,
Sorry my laurels thus must fade.

CHORUS.

Think not, my friends, the truth I rack;
Such feats are nought with Soldier Jack.
Some think old soldiers falsehoods tell,
But these are facts, and known as well
At Paris, Madrid, Greece, or Rome,
As by my comrades here at home;
At Alexander's court they 're told;
At Berlin wrote in burnish'd gold.
Great Cæsar's actions are tenfold
Outdone, by Soldier Jack so bold.

CHORUS.

Think not, my friends, the truth I rack;
I'm downright, upright, Soldier Jack.
19

SALFORD FAIR.

By Mr Michael Wilson.
On Whitsun Monday morn, aw went to Salford fair,
An' ne'er sin aw wur born, did aw see things so rare;
Aw geet me up so soon, an' don'd me eawt so foine,
I' my Sunday hose and shoon, and this new jump o' moine.
Aw skipt o'er loan and stele, an' cawd o' Fiddlin Ben,
He don'd him eawt, i' th' whoile aw wackent Bucksome Nan;
An' hoo cawd Ralph an' Dick, an' they cawd Joe and Sal,
An' they cawd Jack an' Nick, an' they went for Doll an' Nell.
Will Whistle brought a cart, for th' lasses they would roide,
He took um up so smart, an' plac't um soide by soide;
The village bells did ring—to teawn we did repair,
Ben neatly touch'd the string wi' “Jockey to the Fair.”
20

Bedeckt wi' nets an' bells, Rose nodded on her way,
Doll next, an' Punch i' th' thills, wi' fleawry garlands gay;
Yung lambkins play an' skip, the birds harmonious strive,
Will Whistle crackt his whip, an' thus wea did arrive.
Wea gan a leawd huzza, an' then Will Whistle said,
“Aw'll gie mea tits some hay, an' put um i' th' King's Yead:”
So up wea nimbly geet, an' jumpunt on to th' stones,
An' there we happunt t' meet wi Peg o' Dick's o' Jone's.
Wea wurn shakink honds wi Peg, when up coom Milkink Jin,
Oych took a hearty wag, an' then begun fo in;
Wi marchunt on by pairs—Ben nobly led the van,
An' we jumpt up th' King's Yead stairs to th' tune o' “Bob an' Joan.”
Boh sich a devilish yell aw never yeard afore,
The tigers did so bell, an' th' loyans did so roar;
Punch woife his yead did jow, at which he lookt so glum,
They'd foughtun until neaw if Owd Nick had naw coom.
21

Eawr girls had boosom knots, o' yallo, red, an' blue,
An' wea adorn'd eawr hats in the same glorious hue;
Wea doncent thro' the streets, eawr feet scarce touch'd the greawnd,
An' choinged fro' left to reight, to th' tune o' “Cheshire reawnd.”
Then whoam wea took eawr way, led on by Fiddlin Ben,
An' I that vary day wur wed to Buxum Nan;
At neight oycht lad an' lass did swig an' jig away;
Wea wur aw so tyrt, by th' mass, 'ot wea leigh till twelve next day.
 

“When I came to this part of the song,” says Alexander Wilson, “I, with childish simplicity, said, ‘Father, how could they put horses in the king's head?’ ‘Oh, very well,’ said he, ‘because he has no brains in it.’ It will be remembered that George III. was reigning.”

“It will appear singular,” observes Alex. Wilson, “that the conclusion of this song so much resembles that of ‘Johnny Green's Wedding,’ [written by Alex.;] but the fact is, I never was able to obtain the finishing verse of my father's song, and in after-life I composed the finale.”

22

MEDLEY OF DEVILS.

[_]

Tune—“Bow, wow, wow.”

By Mr Michael Wilson.

There are devils of all sorts, and of every rank and station,
Of every colour, size, and shape, and every persuasion—
To name them all's impossible, so I shall ne'er attempt it,
For, if I did, some people would by force of arms resent it.

CHORUS.

Black, red, and blue,
There are devils of all colours and all stations too.
The lover he 's a whining devil—“Ma'am, I love you dearly;”
The usurer, that griping devil, pinches most severely;
The gipsy is a merry devil, full of tricks and fancies;
And, devil-like, the gamester risks his all on mains and chances.

Chorus.

—Black, red, and blue, &c.
The soldier he 's a bold devil, fighting for promotion;
The senator 's a devil of a turncoat, I've a notion;
The highwayman 's a daring devil, loath you 'd be to meet him;
And the justice, like an overbearing devil, cries, “Commit him.”

Chorus.

—Black, red, and blue, &c.
23

The nobleman 's a haughty devil, privilege still boasting;
The miser, midst of plenty, like a foolish devil, fasting;
The conqueror 's a cruel devil, all for devastation;
And the landowner, that plundering devil, brings us to starvation.

Chorus.

—Black, red, and blue, &c.
The patriot 's a bawling devil, all for loaves and fishes;
The player 's a diverting devil, form'd of various dishes;
The parson tells the devil of a story in a tub,
And the drunkard tells another devilish good one about bubb.

Chorus.

—Black, red, and blue, &c.
There 's one devil more, and the last one I shall mention,
The guard against our foes, and a terror unto Frenchmen;
While Briton's anchors he does weigh, in vain her foes assail her,
That darling son of victory—I mean the British sailor.
Honour is his due,
He 's the devil that supports us all the ocean through.
24

THE CHAPTER OF FOES.

[_]

Tune—“The Chapter of Kings.”

By Mr Michael Wilson.

The foes of old England—France, Holland, and Spain,
The Rushes, the Prushes, the Austrian, and Dane,
Together combined in an infamous band,
To invade and to conquer us right out of hand.

CHORUS.

But by land and by ocean,
I've somehow a notion,
We'll beat them all round in their turn.
26

THE PETERLOO MASSACRE.

[_]

Tune—“Gee-up, Neddy.”

By Mr Michael Wilson.

Come, Robin, sit deawn, an' aw'll tell thee a tale,
Boh first, prithee, fill me a dobbin o' ale;
Aw 'm as drey, mon, as soot, an' aw 'm hurt i' mi crop,
Havin' laft Sam o' Dick's wheer aw fear he mun stop.

Chorus.

For the gentlemen cavalry,
Cut 'em down cleverly;
Real Royal yeomanry!
Cavalry brave!
Mr Hunt neaw coom forrard an' spoke a few words,
When the Peterloo cut-my-throats shaken'd ther swords,
Aw thowt sure enoof they wur runnin' ther rigs,
Till aw seed moor nor twenty lay bleedin' like pigs.
Boh let 's ta'e a peep o' these Peterloo chaps,
'At ma'es sich a neyse abeawt cullers an' caps,
See what they'n composed on, an' then we may judge,
For it runs i' mi moind 'ot ther loyalty's fudge.
27

Theer 's the taxman, exciseman, the lawyer, an' bum,
The pensioner, placeman, an' preycher, that hum:
The fat-gutted landlord, o' licence in fear,
Cuts the throats o' his neybours who buy his bad beer.
[_]

[The last verse is forgotten.]

28

THE WEAVER.

[_]

A Parody on “The Woodman.”

By Mr Thomas Wilson.

In dirty streets, 'mid filth and smoke,
Hark! I hear the weaver's stroke;
Who dreams not, as he bears his yoke,
What usefulness he brews:
How art may shape his cloth to please,
In aid of luxury or ease;
He weighs not matters such as these,
But sings, and work pursues.
The web now made by this poor man
Perhaps may form a shirt for Dan,
Or spruce chemise for Oyster Nan,
To shroud her vulgar skin;—
The stays for swells, who strut in flocks,
Or dandyzettes, fine gowns or frocks;
The beggar's poke, or carter's smocks,
Or bib for parson's chin.
Thou mak'st, poor slave,—but, oh, what grief,—
The gallows-cap for th' dying thief;
The robes worn by the great lord chief,
The king's—the negro's pall:—
Thou pamper'st life in every age,
From infancy to manhood sage;
Dresses for dolls, plasters for age,
And death-shrouds for us all.
29

But justice let us still afford,
The clothes now worn by all the horde,
Besides the rest in closets stored,
Confess the Weaver's lathe.
To every clime his labours stalk,
The turban cap worn by the Turk;
From pole to pole they hawk the work
Made by this English slave.

YOUNG EDWARD SLAIN AT WATERLOO.

[_]

Air—“Garland of Love.”

By Mr Thomas Wilson.

Sweet smiling Aurora was glimmering o'er us,
And Somnus in deep silence reign'd Brussels through,
30

When Terpsichore's trumpet shrill echoed in chorus,
And summon'd young Edward to Field Waterloo.

CHORUS.

Then mourn for Young Edward, a brave gallant soldier,
None ever more faithful, and none ever bolder;
Alas! he was slain on the Field Waterloo.
Young Edward in fight was a brave salamander,
He fought at Talavera and Vittoria too,
Sebastian and Toulouse; yet like his commander,
He thirsted for battle on Field Waterloo.

Chorus.

—Then mourn for Young Edward, &c.
Amid roaring cannon, the Hero for glory,
Cheer'd on his brave comrades, diminish'd to few,
And deep grieves the Muse to make known the sad story,
He fell gored with wounds on the Field Waterloo.

Chorus.

—Then mourn for Young Edward, &c.
Poor Edward's companion in tears was now seated,
While he from his bosom a locket forth drew;
“Bear this to my Susan, and say while life beated,
I lived hers, and died hers, on Field Waterloo.”

Chorus.

—Then mourn for Young Edward, &c.
On receipt of the tidings, poor Susan she sadden'd,
Her soul beyond earthly shores swiftly withdrew;
And may the fond lovers in heaven be gladden'd,
Both victims, alas! to the Field Waterloo.

Chorus.

—Then mourn for Young Edward, &c.
31

HUMOURS OF SMITHY DOOR MARKET.

By Mr Thomas Wilson.
Good laws! what a medley of groups,
On Saturday, haunts Smithy Door!
What squalling, and bawling, and shouts;
What wise, simple, gentle, and poor!
And is it not truly and funny,
The devil a thing you can name,
But here you may have it for money,
Provisions, apparel—the same.
The merchants, all aiming at brass,
Give out what they have for to sell;
And people invite as they pass,
On terms for “a bargain” some tell.
'Twould puzzle a counsellor's pate,
A parson's or judge's wise nob,
The various things for to state;
'Twould be such a difficult job.
There 's Moshes, vith pictures he stands,
And jewels presents to your view,
Fine tooth-pickers, glasses, and fans;
But always take care of a Jew:
32

There 's pincushions, needles, and pins;
Of patchworkers, laws! what a tribe!
Brushes, brooms, baskets, and tins,
Cow heels and sheep trotters beside.
There 's Eccles-cake merchants a many;
Here 's “hot pies” and “good Cheshire cheese;”
There 's “matches, eight bunches a penny;”
And snuff, to make old women sneeze:
There 's bacon, and butter, and eggs,
And pills that will give you relief;
Then, just turning round on your legs,
There 's plenty of mutton and beef.
There 's plenty of ale to be sold,
The toper does very well know;
And if that the weather proves cold,
There 's gin, rum, and brandy also.
The sharper is on the alert;
I'd have you take care of your cash,
Or out of your pocket he 'll jert [jerk]
The revits; then off in a flash.
There 's potatoes, salad, and greens;
Big turnips, red cabbage, and peas;
There 's onions, and parsnips, and beans;
And “posies” as gay as you please;
Abundance of fruit you will find;
Turkeys, ducks, pigeons, and geese;
Numerous birds of each kind;
And Guinea-pigs, shillings a piece.
33

There an animal painter resides,
Who will picture your dog or your cat,
Pigs, horses, or each thing besides,
From an elephant down to a rat.
Silk-winders and reelers are flocking,
To purchase their stock of beau traps,
Shoe-ribbon and dashing white stockings,
Brass brooches and ninepenny caps.
Next Catchpenny opens his gates;
Some wonderful horrors in book,
Or murder so dreadful relates,
And tells it with pitiful look.
Your ears are then stunn'd with the noise
Of crockery ware at each step;
“Ony proice,” this fellow cries;
That—“Ladies aw 'll sell um yo chep.”
“Two a penny, paste blacking-balls,” there;
And cotton-balls, black, red, and blues;
You may rig yourself out, if you 're bare,
With coats, waistcoats, hats, stockings, and shoes.
You 'll see the grave Sheffielder there,
With razors, rings, scissors, and knives;
Combs for the fine lasses' hair;
And currant loaf cut into shives.
So now, in conclusion, good folks,
I 'll give you my wishes for health;
May every one relish their jokes,
And trade give you plenty of wealth.
34

May Smithy Door Market prevail;
Your pockets be well lined with cash;
Fill all your bumpers with ale;
And banish all sorrows with wash.
35

THE COUNTRYMAN'S DESCRIPTION OF THE COLLEGIATE CHURCH.

By Mr Thomas Wilson.
Yo gentlefolk aw, listen unto mea sung,
An' if yo 'll be attentive yo 'll naw think it lung;
For aw bin to a pleck so famed for reneawn,
An' plainly aw 'll tell yo it 's Manchester teawn.
Aw went to th' owd church, twurn Sunday i'th' morn,
Don'd eawt i' mea best, an' mea beart wur new shorn;
Sich seets aw theer seed as aw ne'er seed afore,
Boh aw 'll steart a' th' beginnink an' tell um yo o'er.
As aw went in at th' dur, aw pood off my ruff hat,
Folk stared, an' aw thowt they wurn leaughink at tat;
Sich numbers o' ladies an' gentlefolk coom—
They 'd music agate an' aw whistlet to th' tune.
They wur men wie big cooats an' a stick i' oytch hond,
They 'rn crossish, an' ordurt some sit an' some stond;
An' whoile aw 'r expectink wi' th' stick a good drub,
A mon in a shurt coom an' geet in a tub.
Neaw th' music gan o'er, an' then by mea soul,
A mon in a black shurt, as black as a coal,
Coom an' geet in a tub under him 'ot coom first,
An' wi' leaughink aw thowt i' mea heart aw should burst.
36

So th' mon i' th' white shurt geet on to his feet,
An' towd um aw reawn'd 'ot tey had naw done reight;
He scowlt um, an' griev't um, for sinners deplored,
An' some toimes him i' th' lower tub put in a word.
White shurt he kept scowlink wi' words so uncivil;
An' mony a toime in his clack he said devil;
At last folk wurn vext, aw could see by their look,
So th' folk, black an' white shurt, aw scowlt of a rook.
Till another mon coom the peeas for to make,
An' by th' mass he 'd a hat loike a hardent wood cake;
A mon walk'd afore him, an' carry'd a club,
An' he mounted aloft an geet i' th' top tub.
Neaw, as soon as folk seed him they gen o'er their clack,
Aw begun for t' be feart, for he 'd th' club at his back;
Aw th' folk wurn quoite still, for they know'd they'd done wrung,
Boh that mon i' th' black shurt would not howd his tungue.
He towd um some appus Eve stole off a tree,
An' to eat um heaw Adam wi' her did agree;
He towd um how Solomon wur a fause mon;
Boh aw 'm sure they wurn fauser,—ay, mony a one.
He towd um heaw Moses uset t' preach on a hill,
An' heaw Joshua once made th' sun an' moon to stond still;
37

Heaw Israel o'er th' sea on dry lond did pass,
An' heaw Samson killt theawsands wi' th' jaw of an ass.
He towd um Methuselam liv't a lung toime,
An' heaw Noah the righteous geet drunkun wi' wine;
He towd um heaw Joseph did live a good loife,
An' heaw king David lee wi' another mon's woife.
He towd um heaw Baalam's jackass could talk,
An' heaw Lot's woife wurn turn'd to a pillar o' sawt;
He towd um o' mony sich stories besoide,
Boh aw firmly believe i' mea heart 'ot he loied.
He towd um so lung abeawt Owd Nick an' sinners,
Aw begun for to think we mun send for ur dinners;
At last he concluded i' th' name o' the Lord,
Boh that mon i' the black shurt, he would ha' th' last word.
38

THE COUNTRY WEDDING.

By Mr Thomas Wilson.
Sam, at Jack o' Neddur's, wur tir't o' livin' single life,
An' lusty Bess at Yebbur's, he towd ther fowks he 'd have to wife.
“Be quiet, Sam!” th' owd daddy cries, “it 's time enoof for thee t' be wed.”
Co'd Sam, “Aw conno' rest my hide i' th' neet, aw feel so queer i' bed.”
That neet Sam lay oneasy, an' oft for mornin' he did wish,
Until he 'd seen his Bessy he couldn't look at porridge dish;
His loom stood still, an' he look't ill, and every day he thinner grew:
At last th' owd daddy gav' consent, and joyfully to Bess he flew.
When Bess receiv'd the welcome news, a modest blush proclaim'd her charms;
And Sam was smit with Cupid's dart, and round her neck he threw his arms;
He buss'd and kiss'd her o'er and o'er, while Bessy, fainting, hung her head.
At last keen nature ceased to throb, and both agreed i' th' morn to wed.
39

I' th' morn Sam wakken'd Bess by time, and likewise Tom an' Jer an' Joe,
An' Bill an' Dick, an' Ned an' Jack; each had a lass wi' him to go.
A fiddle, too, Sam swore he 'd have, and to owd blind Jud he gav' a crown;
With “Tink-a-tink,” an' “Bob an' Joan,” so merrily they jogg'd to town.
With pleasant chat they ownward jog, aich lad did clip his bonny lass;
An' when they coom to th' Half-way House, Sam paid for aich a thumpin' glass.
With merry hearts again they start, and in town they now arrive;
To th' church they goo, by two an' two, an' boldly to th' altar drive.
Now little scowlin' Joshua comes, the wedding folks throng in the aisle,
An' with his gown an' book he stands: Sam wink't, an' Bess hoo gan a smile.
The knot wur tied, then home they hied, blind Jud wi' the fiddle led the van.
The neighbours welcomed their return, an' join'd 'em in the flowin' can.
40

Now th' lads they fell to doncin', an' lasses join'd 'em in th' fun,
Exceptin' Bess, who linger'd, an' nudged at Sam, an' whisper'd, “Come.”
Blind Jud struck up, “Off she goes,” an' Sam cried, “On, wi' o' my heart.”
No doubt Sam donced i' double time, an' Bess, aw 'm sure, hoo play'd her part.
The neighbours they coom flockin' in, and happiness did wish the pair.
An' to conclude the weddin' feast, blind Jud wi' th' fiddle banish'd care;
Sam paid for o' th' weddin' fees; with cake an' ale they did regale;
An' to this day, wife Bess agrees, that Sam in love does never fail.
 

The Rev. Joshua Brookes, then chaplain at the Manchester parish church.

SALFORD FAIR.

By Mr Thomas Wilson.
Come Sam an' Jack, an' Bill an' Dick, an' Ned an' Joe an' Dan,
And Kit an' Sal, an' Madge an' Mal, an' Dol an' Bess an' Nan;
41

Aw've been to Sawfort fair, yo'st year what aw seed there;
For fun an' cakes it bangs eawr wakes,—laws! how aw did but stare!
Tooral, looral, &c.
O'er Sawfort Bridge I took my way, and down to th' wayter-side;
Loud was th' cry, “Come toss or buy,”—“A ha'penny a ride.”
There 's wooden horses here, and flying boxes there.
O th' wenches laugh'd and hid their face, it made them feel so queer.
Tooral, &c.
“Here 's civil Will, all in th' well,”—“Here 's one down, who makes two?”
“Come turn about, for nuts and fruit.” Good laws! how th' money flew!
But when aw turn'd me round, aw thought aw 'd been at sea,
For crowds o' folks geet into boats, an' theere they sail'd away.
Tooral, &c.
Then straight up th' brow I coom, and went up Sawfort Street,
Aw thowt aw 'd been at Karsy Moor, such theawsands aw did meet;
42

There wur wenches wi'their beaux, a-walkin'into shows;
An' sowdjers marching up an' deawn, a-listin' drunken foos!
Tooral, &c.
Good laws! what birds and beasts and frightful things wur theere;
They show'd the picturs at th' eawtside, and put me in great fear.
And Sawfort bells did ring, and bands o' music play'd,
And theere owd Punch wur beatin' th' wife:—laws! what fun they made!
Tooral, &c.
Such licksome stuff aw ne'er did see i' Englondshire afore.
Wi' apples, jannocks, nuts, and cakes, each stond was cover't o'er.
Reet weel aw stuff't my hide, and then aw did set sail
To th' Blackamoor i' th' owd churchyard, and theere geet drunk wi' ale.
Tooral, &c.
At th' Blackamoor aw stopp'd o' neet; i' th' morn aw coom away;
But if th' brass had not been done, aw 'd stopp'd another day.
And now aw tell yo plain, yo women and yo men,
If aw be wick and hearty too, next year aw'll goo again.
Tooral, &c.
 

A song, having the same title and subject, written by Michael Wilson, the father, will be found page 19.

When this song was written, there was a large square space on the site of what is now called the Cloth Hall, called the Stanyhurst. Here all the roundabout horses, flying boxes, &c., were stationed; and upon its bank boats plied across the Irwell to Hunt's Bank, to and fro, at a halfpenny per head.

43

ROUGH JOE IN SEARCH OF A WIFE.

[_]

Tune—“Drops o' Brandy.”

By Mr Thomas Wilson.

Aw 'm a country lad yo mun know, an' aw live wi' my feyther an' mother;
The neighbours they co'n me “Rough Joe,” an' they sen 'at there 's not sich another:
For kissin' the lasses wi' glee aw 'm a country talk an' a din;
Boh if yo wun listen to me, yo'st yer heaw aw did get let in.
Rumpti, &c.
Awr'n tier't o' a dull country life, an' determin'd to goo into th' teawn,
An' theer to seek out a noice woife, an' no moor be a country cleawn.
Aw put on my new Sunday cooat, wi' buttons as breet as eawr kettle,
An' a new pair o' boots 'at aw bowt, an' aw seet out for town i' good fettle.
Rumpti, &c.
Awr'n at Manchester teawn in a toss, after walkin' abeawt seven moile;
An' when 'at aw geet to th' New Cross, the lasses quite lovin' did smoile.
44

Boh it bein' Sunday at noon, aw wurna' for stoppin' to talk,
For aw'd yeerd 'at o' th' fine lasses coom at neet to th' Infirmary Walk.
Rumpti, &c.
Piccadilly aw went to at neet, an' swagger'd and strutted quite clever,
An' mony a gay lass aw did meet; so “Bang-up,” says I, “now or never.”
Aich one 'at seed me made way; they seed 'at aw wur such a buck,
O' the gemmen aw carried the sway; thinks aw, neaw for a woife if aw've luck.
Rumpti, &c.
Among the gay folks then aw mix'd; to choose one aw walk'd a greet while;
At last upo' one aw did fix, and hoo gan me a sweet lovin' smoile.
Aw ne'er was so pleas't i' my loife: by th' mackins, thinks aw, hoo 's a lady;
Aw towd her aw'd mak' her my woife, and we 'd soon have a fine lusty baby.
Rumpti, &c.
We went jig-by-jog, up an' deawn, until the church clock struck eleven;
Quite lovingly rambled the town;—by th' mackins, my heart wur i' heaven!
45

Then hoo ax'd me wheer aw 'd goo, an' hoo towd me hoo'd find me a bed.
By'r lakins, thinks aw, this 'll do, an' aw towd her i' th' morn aw'd be wed.
Rumpti, &c.
[_]

[It is enough here to say, that Rough Joe was robbed of his watch and money.]

Then in comes a woman in haste, an' with her hoo browt a big mon,
And towd me hoo 'd get me weel laced, if aw didna' that minute goo whom.
So my bacon to save, off aw went, aw ne'er was so shawm'd i' my loife;
Boh for ever aw will be content with a country girl for my woife.
Rumpti, &c.
46

THE MEDDLING PARSON.

By Mr Thomas Wilson.
My theme is of a parson, a cobbler's son is he;
Who, like his father, mends a sole, [soul,] but not without a fee;
With ferret eyes he does surmise, and cock his brazen face,
He 'll interpose, and thrust his nose into another's case.

Chorus.

The little lout,
He struts about,
Void of sense or rule:
I need not tell,
You know full well
This little busy fool.
The little saucy cur is the make-sport of the town;
A silly elf, he makes himself look worse than any clown;
47

Genteely clad, with manners bad, that show him mean and base;
To church and steeple, all good people, hold him a disgrace.

Chorus.

—The little lout, &c.
A soldier with his saddle once stopp'd upon the road,
And near his door, the soldier poor he rested from his load:
At length this little mongrel, so full of anger burn'd,
The saddle flung into the dung, and then the soldier spurn'd.

Chorus.

—The little lout, &c.
The soldier told his officer, who, without loss of time,
Invites the pup to come and sup, and take a glass of wine:
To the barrack yard in haste he goes, admission soon he gains,
And whilst he stay'd the soldiers play'd “The Rogue's March” for his pains.

Chorus.

—The little lout, &c.
This hero of the lapstone in the country went to dine,
And with one Peel he got a reel, he made so free with wine:
The company subscribed and muster'd up a crown,
A dyer got to wheel the sot in barrow through the town.

Chorus.

—The little lout, &c.
48

At the communion table there 's plenty standers-by,
When he does come, there is such fun the marriage knot to tie;
Each simple stands; he joins their hands, then for the ring he calls,
“You come here,” “You go there!” and some he pulls and hauls.

Chorus.

—The little lout, &c.
Also at th' font, where women wont with little infants stand,
He shouts and bawls, then “Silence” calls, and takes one in his hand;
“You stand back; you hold your clack;” then, “Name the child,” he cries;
And then he 'll shout, “Turn that man out;” then, “John I thee baptize.”

Chorus.

—The little lout, &c.
One day when he was reading the service o'er the dead,
To get a peep, a little sweep o'er the wall did show his head,
“And lo! I heard an angel's voice, from heaven he did call,
Saying,—Clerk, go mill that imp of hell, and knock him off the wall!”

Chorus.

—The little lout, &c.
To cure this little brat o' wax, this method I 'd pursue;
I 'd strip his gown and set him down to mend the sole o' shoe;
49

And if from peevish quarrelling this magpie will not mend,
Then, by my troth, I 'd stitch his mouth up with a taching end.

Chorus.

—The little lout, &c.
 

The Rev. Joshua Brookes, chaplain at the collegiate and parish church of Manchester, who died on the 11th Nov. 1821. For a biographical notice of this eccentric clergyman, see Chambers's “Book of Days,” vol. ii. p. 568.

The waxed thread, armed with a bristle at thè end, used by shoemakers.

50

JOHNNY GREEN'S TRIP FRO' OWDAM TO SEE A BALLOON ASCENT.

[_]

Tune—“Rakes of Mellor.”

By Mr Alexander Wilson.

To-day at noon fro' th' loom aw went,
On Measter Green's balloon intent,—
They loosent th' cuords, an' up he went,
It really wurn deleightink;
Aw could naw gawm what th' felly meant,
For as soon as e'er he made th' ascent,
He seem'd as up to th' skoy he 'r bent,
An' up to th' moon o' feightink.
Aw know naw what betook th' owd lad,
He whirl'd his hat loike hey-go-mad,
Thinks aw t' mysell theaw 'rt none so glad,
Or theaw 'd naw want to jump, mon;
51

For jump aw 'r sure he really would,
Aw thowt his leeitink pleck noan good,
So bawkt as leawd os e'er aw could,—
“Theaw 'll get a regglar bump, mon.”
An' then he whizz'd a colour reawnd,
While folk did make the air reseawnd;
By gum, if aw 'r wi' suvereigns crown'd,
Aw durst not go so heigh, mon.
Boh eh! hew folk did leaugh i' th' creawd,
When aw sung eawt,—“Owd lad, theaw 'rt sowd;
If t'hits thi yead ogain a cleawd,
Aw 'd naw for th' ward be thee, mon.”
Wheere he 'r gooink aw connaw say,
Some said to France, an' some said nay;
Aw think he 's off to Bothomy Bay,
Ta feight wi' th' Turks and Greeks, surs.
Boh soon he lost hissell i' th' air,
An th' diel go wi' him for aught aw care:
For what wi' him an' Knott Mill Fair,
Aw 've done no wark this week, surs.
No mon knows what may come to pass;
Balloons may do some good, by th' mass;
Eawr Owdam chaps mot mak some brass,
If tey 'd imploy th' balloon folk;
They sen the moon 's a right cowd hole,
If Measter Green, that hearty soul,
Would carry up some Owdam coal,
Aw'm shure they 'd sell to th' moon folk.
52

Moy scheum is grand, aw know yo 'll say,
No horses for to eat your hay,
Nor tow-bars on th' road to pay,
Eh! heaw it maks my brain goo;
For if his steeum by choance is done,
An' deawn ogean he meons to come,
Reight weel he con, soft soap, by gum,
An' then slip deawn the rainbow.

JOHNNY GREEN'S DESCRIPTION OF TINKER'S GARDENS.

By Mr Alexander Wilson.
Heigh! Hall o' Nabs, an' Sam, an' Sue,
Why, Jonathan, art tew theer too?
We 're aw aloike, there 's nowght to do,
So bring us a quart before us.
53

Aw 'r at Tinker's gardens yusternoon,
An' whot aw seed aw 'll tell yo soon,
In a bran new sung, boh it 's to th' owd tune,
Yo 'st ha 't if yo 'll join mea chorus.
Aw geet some brass fro' uncle Nat,
Eawr David lant me his best hat,
Then off for th' teawn aw seet full swat,
Mich faster nor Pickfort's waggins;
Aw paid meh brass, an' in aw goes,
An' eh! whot shady beawers i' rows,
Where lots o' ladies an' their beaux
Wurn set to get their baggins.
There's bonfeoirs fix'd o' the top o' pows,
To leet yor poipes an' warm yor nose;
Then a thing to tell which way th' wind blows,
An' th' fish pond too did pleas mea:
Boh th' reawnd-heawse is the rummest shop,
It 's fixt on here an' there a prop,
Just loike a great umbrella top,
If it 's not, Jimmy Johnson squeeze mea.
Aw seed a cage as big, aw 'll swear,
As a wild beast show i' Sawfort fair,
There 's rappits, brids, an' somethings theer,
Aw could na' gawm, by the mass, mon:
Aw thowt o' pullink one chap's wigs,
For tellink me they 'r guineapigs,
Says aw, “Mea lad, aw 'm up to your rigs,
They 'r noan worth hawve o' th' brass, mon.”
54

Aw met wi' a wench aw 'd often seen,
When aw wi' mea wark to th' teawn had bin,
Hoo 're drest as foine as ony queen,
So aw just stept up behind hur:
Says aw, “Yung miss, dun yo wark fur Kays'?
Aw wove their crankys scoores o' days;”
Hoo would no' speak, boh walk'd hur ways,
An' hoo 're nowt boh a bobbin woinder.
Boh th' band o' music caps owd Nick,
Aw ne'er seed th' loike sin' aw wur wick;
Ther'n drest loike soldiers, thrunk and thick,
As merry as hey-makers.
Up in a tree, foive yard fro' th' greawnd,
On a greyt big table, rail'd aw reawnd,
While lads an' wenches jigg'd to th' seawnd,
“Oh, merrily danced the Quakers.”
Then next aw seed a swing, by gad!
Where th' ladies flock'd loike hey-go-mad,
They wanted a roide far wor' than th' lads,
They really did, for sure.
Ther'n one wur drest so noice i' blue,
An' loike an angel up hoo flew,
Hoo 'd nice red cheeks, an' garters too,
So aw thowt aw 'd buck up to hur.
Aw made hur link wi' mich ado,
An' mounted up a great heigh brow,
Where folk run up, an' deawn it too,
Just loike March hares, for sure.
55

So when eawr kale coom wa begun,
An' stearted off, 'twur glorious fun!
Mich faster than Cock Robin run,
When he won at Karsy Moor.
Whot wark we made aw 'm shawm't to tell,
We tried, boh could no' stop eawrsel,
Till into a beawer yead-first we fell,
Where aw th' foine folk wur set, mon:
Some porter run aw deawn my shirt,
A biscuit stuck to th' lady's skirt,
An' whot wi' th' hurt, an' grease, an' dirt,
By gum, aw feel it yet, mon.
Of aw the things that pleast us, John,
Wur Tinker's heawse wi' pot dolls on:
There 's Blucher an' Lord Wellington,
An' Blue Beard look'd so glum, surs;
There 's Cupids under trees and shrubs,
An' men wi' harps, an' some wi' clubs,
An' naked childer up o' tubs,
Don'd eawt i' lots o' plums, surs.
Reet hungry, aw seet mea deawn at last,
An' swallow'd ale an' cakes so fast,
Aw wonder mea waistcoat did no' brast,
Aw'r full os mea hoide could crom, surs.
When aw wur seen ot could be seen,
They play'd “God save eawr noble Queen;”
Aw strid to th' tune reawnd th' bowling-green,
An' away aw coom streight whoam, surs.
56

It bangs boath play-heawse, fair, an' wakes,
For gam of o' maks, ale, an' cakes,
Aw 'll bet a quart, an' theaw'st howd th' stakes,
It bangs the king's creawnation.
Aw 'd ha' yo t' goo next Monday noon,
For if't rains poikles, [pikels,] late or soon,
Aw 'll goo again if aw goo beawt shoon,
For it 's th' grandest place i' th' nation.
57

JOHNNY GREEN'S WEDDING AND DESCRIPTION OF MANCHESTER COLLEGE.

By Mr Alexander Wilson.
Neaw, lads, wheer are yo beawn so fast?
Yo happun ha no yerd whot 's past:
Aw gettun wed sin aw'r here last,
Just three week sin, come Sunday.
Aw ax'd owd folk, an aw wur reet,
So Nan an me agreed tat neight,
'Ot if we could mak booth eends meet,
We 'd wed o' Easter Monday.
That morn, as prim as pewter quarts,
Aw th' wenches coom an' browt t' sweethearts;
Aw fund we 're loike to ha'e three carts—
'Twur thrunk as Eccles wakes, mon:
We donn'd eawr tits i' ribbins too—
One red, one green, and t'one wur blue;
So hey! lads, hey! away we flew,
Loike a race for the Leger stakes, mon.
Right merrily we drove, full bat,
An' eh! heaw Duke an' Dobbin swat;
Owd Grizzle wur so lawm an' fat,
Fro soide to soide hoo jow'd um:
Deawn Withy Grove at last we coom,
An' stopt at Seven Stars, by gum,
An' drunk as mich warm ale an' rum,
As 'd dreawn o' th' folk i' Owdam.
58

When th' shot wur paid, an' drink wur done,
Up Fennel Street, to th' church, for fun;
We donced loike morris-doncers dun,
To th' best of aw mea knowledge;
So th' job wur done, i' hoave a crack;
Boh eh! whot fun to get th' first smack,
“So neaw, mea lads, 'fore we gun back,”
Says aw, “we 'n look at th' College.”
We seed a clock-case, first, good laws!
Where Deoth stonds up wi' great lung claws;
His legs, an' wings, an' lantern jaws,
They really lookt quite feorink.
There 's snakes an' watch-bills, just loik poikes,
'Ot Hunt an aw th' reformink toikes,
An' thee an' me, an' Sam o' Moiks,
Once took a blanketeerink.
Eh! lorjus days, booath far an' woide,
Theer 's yards o' books at every stroide,
Fro top to bothum, eend, an' soide,
Sich plecks there 's very few so:
Aw axt him if they wurn for t' sell;
For Nan loikes readink vastly well;
Boh th' measter wur eawt, so he could naw tell,
Or aw 'd bowt hur Robison Crusoe.
Theer 's a trumpet speyks an' maks a din,
An' a shute o' clooas o' made o' tin,
For folk to goo a feightink in,
Just loike thoose chaps o' Bonney's:
59

An' theer 's a table carved so queer,
Wi' os mony planks os days i' th' year,
An crincum-crancums here an' theer,
Loike th' clooas-press at mea gronny's.
Theer 's Oliver Crummill's bums and balls,
An' Frenchman's guns they 'd taen i' squalls,
An' swords, os lunk os me, on th' walls,
An' bows and arrows too, mon:
Aw didna moind his fearfo words,
Nor skeletons o' men an' birds;
Boh aw fair hate seet o' greyt lunk swords,
Sin th' feight at Peterloo, mon.
We seed a wooden cock loikewise;
Boh dang it, mon, these college boys,
They tell'n a pack o' starink loies,
Os sure os teaw'r a sinner;
“That cock, when he smells roast beef, 'll crow,”
Says he: “Boh,” aw said, “teaw lies, aw know,
An, aw con prove it plainly so,
Aw 've a peawnd i' mea hat for me dinner.”
Boh th' hairy mon had miss'd mea thowt,
An' th' clog fair crackt by thunner bowt,
An' th' woman noather lawmt nor mowt,
Theaw ne'er seed loike sin t'ur born, mon;
Theer 's crocodiles, an' things, indeed,
Aw colours, mak, shap, size, an' breed;
An' if aw moot tell t'one hoave aw seed,
We moot sit an' smook till morn, mon.
60

Then deawn Lung Millgate we did steer,
To owd Moike Wilson's goods-shop theer,
To bey eawr Nan a rockink cheer,
An' pots, an' spoons, an' ladles:
Nan bowt a glass for lookink in,
A tin Dutch oon for cookink in,
Aw bowt a cheer for smookink in,
An' Nan axt proice o' th' cradles.
Then th' fiddler struck up th' “Honey-moon,”
And off we seet for Owdam soon;
We made owd Grizzle trot to th' tune,
Every yard o' th' way, mon.
At neight, oytch lad an' bonny lass,
Laws! heaw they donced an' drunk their glass;
So tyrt wur Nan an' I, by th' mass,
'Ot wea leigh till twelve next day, mon.
61

JOHNNY GREEN'S TRIP FRO' OWDAM TO SEE THE LIVERPOOL RAILWAY.

By Mr Alexander Wilson.
Last New Year's Day eawr Nan hoo said,
“Why, John, we 'n bin nar two year wed;
An' sin the day to th' church aw 'r led,
Theaw ne'er wur th' chap to treat one;
A whoam this day aw winnow stay,
Theaw 'd ha' one t' warch [work] an' never play,
Aw 'r forc't to say theaw 'st see th' railway,
So bless thee, don naw fret, mon.”
Aw took an' sowd meh seawkink pig,
For ready brass to Billy Brigg,
An' loos't meh jacket just to rig
Mehsell i' deasunt fettle;
Eawr Nan buck't up i' th' best hoo could,
An' off we pegg'd through Hollinwood,
O'er Newton Yeoth, past th' Robin Hood,
An stop't at th' Creawn and Kettle.
62

We seed sich lots o' jerry shops,
Boh we 'd na stay to drink their slops,
Eend-way we went an' made no stops,
An' just i' toime we nick'd um;
For helter-skelter sich a crew,
Wurn comink in fro' Liverpoo;
Aw 'm shure they could no faster goo,
If th' devil i' hell had kick'd um.
Aw sheawted eawt an' whirl'd meh hat,
An' whizz they coom wi' sich a bat,
Aw run so hard, an' puff'd, an' swat,
Boh aw could naw keep wi' th' waggins:
When th' engians stop an' seet 'um deawn,
Aw wondurt wheer they aw wur beawn,
They rode i' callyvans to th' teawn,
Aw think to get their baggins.
They coom aw 'm shure, 'ot leost aw guess,
A hundert mile i' th' heawr or less;
Neaw, Ben, theaw laughs and winks at Bess,
Becose theaw thinks aw 'm loyink.
Theaw seed th' balloon fro' Sawfort goo,
Theaw seed folk run deawn Tinker's Broo;
Boh it bangs 'um aw, an' races too,
For, ecod, its next to floyink.
We seed tat coach 'ot Wellington
An' aw th' great folk one day coom on,
They 'n show it thee, or ony mon,
An' tell thee aw if t' axes.
63

Eawr Nan said tey 'd ha' sarv't him reet
To ha' dragg'd him on through dry and weet,
For hoo 'd a ridden him day an' neight,
If he 'd naw teyn off some taxes.
Boath Nan an' me to roide had ment,
Boh th' brass, ye seen, wurn welly spent,
So straightway up Knott Mill we went,
An' at th' soign o' th' Railway baited;
We coom by th' Star i' Deansgate too,
Boh th' coachmen theer look'd wofu' blue,
Aw 'm sure their jaws han nowt to do,
Sin th' Liverpoo Railway gaited [begun.]
We stopt to see that noice clock-case,
Let up wi' gas i' th' Firmary place,
A chap coom smokink i' meh face,
An puff'd meh een up fairly.
Says Nan, “Theaw 'd best naw do 't agen;”
Aw gripp'd meh fist, an' luk thee, Ben,
If aw 'd boh had me clogs just then,
Aw 'd ha' purr'd his ribs, O rarely.
We coom straight whoam, geet th' choilt to bed,
Aw fotch'd some beer fro' th' owd Nag Yead,
Whoile Nan reach'd eawt some beef an' bread,
An' eh! how wea mow'd away, mon!
Its rare proime ale, and drinks loike rum,
One point o' that 's worth two o' some;
64

Aw had na quoite three quarts, by gum,
Boh meh yead warch'd [ached] aw th' next day, mon.
Aw yeard me uncle Nathan say,
They 're goink to mak a new railway
Fro' Manchester to Owdam, eh!
Aw wish it warn boh gaited;
For weavers then to th' wareheause soon,
Will ta'e their cuts by twelve at noon,
Besoide th' saveation o' their shoon,
They 'll noan so oft get bated.
There 's weary wark, aw understand,
They 're burkink deaud folk all o'er th' lond,
What 's wur, th' Reform Bill 's at a stond,
An' th' cholera 's coom by th' mail road.
They 'n feort eawr Nan to deaoth these chaps,
Hoo says, “Eh! John, aw 'll wesh meh caps;
Do thee lay deawn thea looms an' traps,
We 'n cut eawr stick by th' railroad.”
Aw allus said, an' yo known it too,
No mon could tell whot steeum 'ud do;
An' if to th' Owdfielt Lone yo 'll goo,
Yo 'll find aw 'm noan misteaken.
Aw knaw naw whot eawr Nan 'll say,
Aw ne'er struck stroke this blessed day:
It 's dinner-time, an' if aw stay,
Hoo 'll eat aw th' beeuns an' beacon!
 

Bated, or abated somewhat of the price of weaving the cut, for loss of time.

65

PAGANINI; OR, MANCHESTER FIDDLING MAD.

[_]

Tune—“King of the Cannibal Islands.”

By Mr Alexander Wilson.

Oh, have you heard the noise of late,
About this fiddling wight so great?
If you have not, 'tis in my pate,
And a few good truths I will relate.
“The Deil cam' fiddlin' through our town,”
Said Scotia's bardie of renown,
It 's surely he who up and down
Goes turning his notes to guineas.
Foreigner like, he blinks John Bull,
And takes the thickness of his skull;
Then go it, old boy, though his pockets are full,
He 's an empty-headed ninny.

CHORUS.

With leedle, tweedle, deedle dee,
Poor John Bull, how he wheedles thee;
Too old to learn and too blind to see,
Thou 'rt gammon'd by Paganini.
And have you heard the news likewise,
With fighting coves and real flash boys?
His hand at the game of cribbage he tries;
D'ye see to what purpose he dusts your eyes?
And lately one in genteel clothes,
With nimble fingers, eyes, and toes,
66

The Signor over the left he throws,
And your three hundred sovereigns goes.
But keep your nose to the grindstone, John,
They 'll fiddle and squall till your money 's all gone,
And fleece you nicely one by one,
Like Signor Paganini.

Chorus.

—With leedle, tweedle, deedle dee, &c.
There 's none more fond of music's cheer
Than I myself, as you may hear;
Ten shillings an in go's rather queer,
I 'm not inclined to pay so dear.
With fiddle and bow in hand he came,
Newspaper puff and foreign fame,
High-sounding and jaw-breaking name,
Then gulls us prettily to our shame.
Italian, Pagan, Jew, or Turk,
From Charley Wetherell down to Burke,
I wish every man to be paid for his work,
But not like Paganini.

Chorus.

—With leedle, tweedle, deedle dee, &c.
Then native genius patronise,
And don't be gull'd by sound and lies,
By fiddles and brooms, and mice and noise,
And squalling, grinding trulls and boys.
If genuine talent you 'd maintain,
Be pleased to send to Ancoats Lane.
Blind Tom shall eclipse the Farm Yard strain,
And fiddle a week for a guinea.
67

A manly grace poor Tom can boast,
His form well fed on English roast,
A different thing to the fiddling ghost,
Who gammons and puffs the ninny.

Chorus.

—With leedle, tweedle, deedle dee, &c.
68

THE POET'S CORNER.

[_]

Tune—“Paddy Whack.”

By Mr Alexander Wilson.

70

When the Sun shines so brightly, both daily and nightly,
And glasses drink lightly 'mid poësy and glee,
We sing and we laugh it, and merrily quaff it,
For sons of bright Phœbus and Momus are we.
Then empty the bottle, and moisten your throttle,
Till mind and not mottle appears to the view;
The rosy god o'er us, choice spirits before us,
Come join me in chorus, ye kindred crew.

CHORUS.

Then fill up a thumper, a classical bumper,
To tragedy, comedy, Byron, and Burns;
To Milton and Moore, to their genius and lore,
To the ever-green laurels entwining their urns!
The Sun is a school where the wit or the fool
May improve him by rule, both by night and by morn;
71

Lit up by a Bamford, the Radical gaslight,
Whose flame will shed lustre on ages unborn.
There 's Elijah the bellman, who, self-taught and well, man,
I'm happy to tell, man, hath courted the muse;
He 'll quote and recite, for a day and a night, man,
From “Tim Bobbin,” or Shakespeare, at “Owd Willy Booth's.”

Chorus

—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
Our scholars are sons, too, of all the great guns, too,—
We 've three of Will's-sons but they 're not very tall;
We 've Roger's-son, chairman, and Richard's-son there, man,
And John Dickin's-son, who binds books for us all,
Our host drinks your health, your good fortune, and wealth,—
We 've a whole host of others, including an elf,
72

Who sings, plays, and writes—paints, and acts Taglioni,—
The gay Moses Mills, a whole host in himself.

Chorus

—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
Mr Whack, the schoolmaster, is no poetaster,
And none teaches faster, and then he 's so kind,
That happen what may, come dessert or disaster,
You 've food for the body as well as the mind.
We 've a Rose for whose prose even poetry flows,
We 've “Rhyme and Romance,” and we 've “Revery” and all,
And then through the season, this fine feast of reason,
Is graced by a learn'd and poetical Ball.

Chorus

—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
We 've publicans, sinners, cork-cutters, and dinners,
A Harper who tunes, a Repealer in Corn;
With Lawyers and Procters, Engravers and Doctors,
And a Prince of more worth than the prince lately born:
73

We 've a beautiful Swain, as e'er traversed the plain;
We 've Rogerson's fiddle, his harp, and his lute,
With Whig agitators and Tory debaters,
A Scully, a Stott, and Tim Bobbin to boot.

Chorus

—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
We 've Gaspey, who first eulogises Sir Robert,
Then melodies gives on Sir Robert's poor-law;
And Scholes, with his subjects remarkably touching,
Especially that on a bailiff's dread paw;
We 've songs by a Story, who sings like a Tory;
A Taylor, so warm and so wanton it seems,
He admires all the “maidens” he meets in a “snow”-drift,
And eke poetises on “girls” in their “dreams.”

Chorus

—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
They tell of a corner, and little Jack Horner,
And Bell's noted corner for fistics and fun;
Whose glories so shorn are, whose pages forlorn are,—
The great Poet's Corner 's the sign of the “Sun!”
74

We have bards of all colours—blues, reds, and black-yellows,—
The best of good fellows you 'll know by his fleece;
Though not quite so fair, he 's a second Lord Byron,
He 's never content but in Turkey and grease.

Chorus

—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
Like birds of a feather, we flock all together,
Nor heed we the Falconer, mentally strong,
Who bags us diurnal, in Bradshaw's famed “Journal,”
The flights of our wing, and our warblings of song:
There 's Tidmarsh, he 's sighing, for Mary he 's dying,
And Grimshaw, he 's spinning a yarn unto Spring.
Have you had song enough? If it 's not long enough,
Poets I 've plenty, like nuts on a string.

Chorus

—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
We 've a Howard whose name for philanthropy passes;
A Lord who despises the follies of France;
And a Hill that is worthy as that of Parnassus,
Who fosters the genius of art and romance:
75

We 've pipes and we 've Porter, we 've brandy and water,
We 've wine from the vine, and we 've Woodville cigars;
You must travel, and soon, like the man in the Moon,
To the Sun, if you wish to commune with the Stars.

Chorus

—Then fill up a thumper, &c.
Some with audacity, stake their veracity,
Poetry lives not in Manchester town—
The dwelling ten paces from our happy faces
To Ainsworth gave birth, of “Jack Sheppard” renown;
O Ainsworth, your glory, in graphical story,
Of deeds so unworthy sustaineth a brand;
Abandon Saint Giles', sir, for Westminster guile, sir,
And lash the Dick Turpins who filch from the land.

CHORUS.

Then fill up a thumper, a classical bumper,
To tragedy, comedy, Byron, and Burns;
To Milton and Moore, to their genius and lore,
To the evergreen laurels entwining their urns.
Let us claim your alliance, or tell us for why hence,
We place our reliance on friends for a call;
Come visit and try hence, our new “Hall of Science,”
And add to the gems of the “Socialists all.”
 

Mr Samuel Bamford, author of “Hours in the Bowers,” “Life of a Radical,” &c.

Mr Elijah Ridings, author of “The Village Muse,” &c.

The Wilsons, authors of Songs, &c.; “Greece, Malta, and the Ionian Isles,” &c.

Mr J. B. Rogerson, author of “Rhyme, Romance, and Revery,” and “A Voice from the Town.”

Mr Geo. Richardson, author of “The Patriot's Appeal,” and other Poems.

Mr John Dickinson, bookbinder, Angel Court.

Mr Wm. Earnshaw, landlord of the Sun Inn.

The host.

Mr Robert Rose, “the Bard of Colour.”

Mr John Ball, of Seacombe School.

Mr James Boyle, cork-cutter.

Mr Wm. Harper, author of “Genius, and other Poems.”

Mr John Rawsthorne.

J. T. Brandwood Halstead, Esq.

Mr R. W. Procter, afterwards author of “The Barber's Shop,” &c.

Mr Horsefield and Mr Parry.

Mr J. C. Prince, author of “Hours with the Muses,” &c.

Mr Charles Swain, author of “The Mind, and other Poems.”

Mr P. D. Scully.

Mr Benjamin Stott.

One of the Wilsons.

Mr Wm. Gaspey, author of “Poor-Law Melodies, and other Poems.”

Mr John Scholes, author of “The Bridal of Naworth, and Miscellaneous Poems.”

Mr Robert Story, author of “Conservative Songs.”

Mr Wm. Taylor, author of “The Maiden of the Snow,” “The Dreaming Girl,” &c.

These are joking allusions to Robert Rose, who was a man of colour.

Mr Geo. Falkner, Editor of Bradshaw's Manchester Journal.

Thomas Arkell Tidmarsh, Esq.

Mr Grimshaw, cotton-spinner, Barrowford.

John Howard, Esq.

James Lord, Esq.

John Hill, Esq., (of the firm of Smith, Hill, & Co.)

Mr Wm. Eamer, porter dealer.

Wm. Harrison Ainsworth, Esq., the novelist, who was born in a house near the Sun, Long Millgate, Manchester.

A “Hall of Science,” as it was termed, was erected by, or came into the hands of, a body of Socialists; it adjoined Camp

76

THE BUCKINGHAM CHEQUE.

By Mr Alexander Wilson.
77

You 've heard of Billy Hogarth, whose paintings are sublime;
One story in his picture I 've just turn'd into rhyme.

Chorus.

Then a-sawing we will go, we 'll go,
A-sawing we will go;
We 'll cut the beam whereon we stand,
And break our necks below.
[OMITTED]
[_]

The rest is wanting.

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