The songs of the Wilsons With a memoir of the Family, and several additional songs never before published. Edited by John Harland |
The songs of the Wilsons | ||
JONE'S RAMBLE FRO' OWDAM TO KARSYMOOR RACES.
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.
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.
Loike thunder leawd, they next did croy;
Just then, noant [aunt] Nan, aw spoy'd her
Hoo 'r sellink nuts—“Come, toss or buy.”
When uncle Dan bawl't i' meh ear,
“Lets goo un' have a quairt o' beer,
And suster Nan shall have her sheere.”
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.”
“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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.”
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.”
SOLDIER JACK.
By Mr Michael Wilson.
I've play'd the Frenchmen many a trick;
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.
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.
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;
And then return'd their camp to spoil.
CHORUS.
Think not, my friends, the truth I rack;Such feats are nought with Soldier Jack.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
“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.
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.”
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.
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.”
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.”
MEDLEY OF DEVILS.
By Mr Michael Wilson.
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 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 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.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 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.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.
THE CHAPTER OF FOES.
By Mr Michael Wilson.
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.
THE PETERLOO MASSACRE.
By Mr Michael Wilson.
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!
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.
'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.
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 WEAVER.
By Mr Thomas Wilson.
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.
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.
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.
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.
By Mr Thomas Wilson.
And Somnus in deep silence reign'd Brussels through,
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.
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.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.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.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.HUMOURS OF SMITHY DOOR MARKET.
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.
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.
And jewels presents to your view,
Fine tooth-pickers, glasses, and fans;
But always take care of a Jew:
Of patchworkers, laws! what a tribe!
Brushes, brooms, baskets, and tins,
Cow heels and sheep trotters beside.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
I 'll give you my wishes for health;
May every one relish their jokes,
And trade give you plenty of wealth.
Your pockets be well lined with cash;
Fill all your bumpers with ale;
And banish all sorrows with wash.
THE COUNTRYMAN'S DESCRIPTION OF THE COLLEGIATE CHURCH.
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.
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.
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 '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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
An' heaw Joshua once made th' sun an' moon to stond still;
An' heaw Samson killt theawsands wi' th' jaw of an ass.
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.
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.
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.
THE COUNTRY WEDDING.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
SALFORD FAIR.
And Kit an' Sal, an' Madge an' Mal, an' Dol an' Bess an' Nan;
For fun an' cakes it bangs eawr wakes,—laws! how aw did but stare!
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.
“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.
Aw thowt aw 'd been at Karsy Moor, such theawsands aw did meet;
An' sowdjers marching up an' deawn, a-listin' drunken foos!
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!
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.
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.
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.
ROUGH JOE IN SEARCH OF A WIFE.
By Mr Thomas Wilson.
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.
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.
An' when 'at aw geet to th' New Cross, the lasses quite lovin' did smoile.
For aw'd yeerd 'at o' th' fine lasses coom at neet to th' Infirmary Walk.
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.
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.
Quite lovingly rambled the town;—by th' mackins, my heart wur i' heaven!
By'r lakins, thinks aw, this 'll do, an' aw towd her i' th' morn aw'd be wed.
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.
THE MEDDLING PARSON.
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.
A silly elf, he makes himself look worse than any clown;
To church and steeple, all good people, hold him a disgrace.
Chorus.
—The little lout, &c.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.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.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.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.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.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.I 'd strip his gown and set him down to mend the sole o' shoe;
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.
JOHNNY GREEN'S TRIP FRO' OWDAM TO SEE A BALLOON ASCENT.
By Mr Alexander Wilson.
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.
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;
Aw thowt his leeitink pleck noan good,
So bawkt as leawd os e'er aw could,—
“Theaw 'll get a regglar bump, mon.”
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.”
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.
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.
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.
Why, Jonathan, art tew theer too?
We 're aw aloike, there 's nowght to do,
So bring us a quart before us.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.”
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.
An' mounted up a great heigh brow,
Where folk run up, an' deawn it too,
Just loike March hares, for sure.
An' stearted off, 'twur glorious fun!
Mich faster than Cock Robin run,
When he won at Karsy Moor.
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.
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.
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.
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.
JOHNNY GREEN'S WEDDING AND DESCRIPTION OF MANCHESTER COLLEGE.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
An' a shute o' clooas o' made o' tin,
For folk to goo a feightink in,
Just loike thoose chaps o' Bonney's:
Wi' os mony planks os days i' th' year,
An crincum-crancums here an' theer,
Loike th' clooas-press at mea gronny's.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
JOHNNY GREEN'S TRIP FRO' OWDAM TO SEE THE LIVERPOOL RAILWAY.
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
An' aw th' great folk one day coom on,
They 'n show it thee, or ony mon,
An' tell thee aw if t' axes.
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.
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.]
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.
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;
Boh meh yead warch'd [ached] aw th' next day, mon.
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.
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.”
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!
PAGANINI; OR, MANCHESTER FIDDLING MAD.
By Mr Alexander Wilson.
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.
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,
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.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.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.
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.THE POET'S CORNER.
By Mr Alexander Wilson.
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!
May improve him by rule, both by night and by morn;
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.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,
The gay Moses Mills, a whole host in himself.
Chorus
—Then fill up a thumper, &c.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.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:
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.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.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!”
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.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.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:
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.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.”
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
THE BUCKINGHAM CHEQUE.
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.
The songs of the Wilsons | ||