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To  be  returned 


0  ^<^  me. 


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300076707U 


ONGS 


pALLADS  & 

LANCASHIRE 

ffiJIeSj  ©Bitt  tlian  tlje  19tfi  dmturj. 

COLLECTED,  COMPILED.  AND  EDITED,  WITH  NOTES, 

Bv  JOHN  HARLAND,  F.S.A. 


LONDON 

WHITTAKER  &  CO.  AVE  MARIA  LANE 

i86s 


ONE  OF  ONE    HUNDRED    COPIES 
Printed  on  Larqe  Paper. 


Printed  by  R.  Clark,  Edifihurgh. 


CONTENTS. 


000 

Page 

Prefece     ......  ix 

Fragment   of  an  Ancient   Ballad  of  a  Tyrannical 

Husband  .....  i 

The  Old  Man  and  his  Wife            ...  9 

A  TrafTord  and  Byron  Feud                        .  1 1 

The  Bewsey  Tragedy  and  its  Legend          .  13 

The  Lancashire  Heroes    ....  23 

The  Scottish  Field,  or  Flodden  Field                      .  27 

The  Famous  History  or  Song  called  Flodden  Field  34 

A  Love  Song,  by  Richard  Sheale  40 

A  Balade  of  Maryage        ....  42 

The  Blessed  Conscience    ....  45 

The  Radcliffe  Tragedy  of  Fair  Ellen  56 

James  I.  and  the  Loin  of  Beef       ...  66 

Warrikin  Fair       .....  68 

Brigadier  Macintosh's  Escape  and  Farewell  73 
Farewell  Manchester                                                .81 

Long  Preston  P^gy          ....  82 

Jemmy  Dawson    .                                        .       /      .  86 

The  Preston  Prisoners  to  the  Ladies  97 

Townley's  Ghost                .                           .  loi 


VI 


CONTENTS, 


May  Song 


a  Lancashire  Gentleman 


The  Three  Sisters 

The  Miller  and  the  King's  Daughter 

Lancashire  May  Songs 

Old  May  Song — 1. 

New  May  Song — IL 

Stretford  and  Northen 

Songs  of  the  Mayers 

The  Mayers'  Call 

May  Eve  Song 

Mayers'  May-Day  Song 
Wassail  Song 
The  Liverpool  Tragedy 
Stonyhurst  Buck- Hunt 
The  Unfortunate  Love  of 
Careless  Content 
The  Frog  and  the  Crow 
Dick  o'  Stanley  Green 
Blakeley  Courtship 
The  Lancashire  Miller 
Contentment :  the  Happy 
Sir  Gualter 
Warrington  Ale    . 
Droylsden  Wakes  Song 
Radcliffe  Otter-Hunt 
Jone  o'  Grinfilt's  Ramble- 
Jone  o'  Grinfilt's  Return 
Jone  o'  Grinfilt  Junior 
Jone  o'  Grinfilt's  Ramble  in  Search  o'  th'  Green  Bag 
Jone  o'  Grinfilt  going  to  th'  Rushan  War 
Jone  o'  Grinfilt's  Visit  to  Mr.  Fielden 


Workman's  Song 


the  Original  Song 


Page 
io6 

113 
116 

118 

120 

122 

128 

130 

131 
132 

135 

138 

152 
161 

173 

178 

181 

185 

188 
191 

195 
199 

201 

206 

212 
221 

223 
227 

228 
230 


CONTENTS, 

•  m 

Vll 

Page 

The  Burnley  Haymakers  . 

232 

The  Praise  of  Lancashire  Men 

238 

Will,  the  Ferryman           .             .             .             . 

242 

The  Lover's  Leap 

245 

Death  of  an  Old  Huntsman 

248 

Hand-loom  v.  Power-loom 

251 

Gorton  Town        .... 

254 

The  Hand-loom  Weavers'  Lament 

259 

The  Middleton  Overseer  and  the  Madman 

263 

Mary  Melvin  of  the  Mersey  Side 

269 

Grimshaw's  Factory  Fire 

272 

The  Bonny  Gray                .              .              .              . 

276 

Lancashire  Witches 

278 

The  Lanca.shire  Bagpiper 

280 

Ballads  and  Songs  of 
Lancashire. 


-1,00 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  ANCIENT  BALLAD 
OF  A  TYRANNICAL  HUSBAND. 

A  FOLIO  MS.  volume  in  Chetham's  Library,  Man- 
chester (No.  8009),  is  described  at  some  length 
by  Mr.  J.  O.  Halliwell,  F.R.S.,  as  "an  extremely 
valuable  MS.,  chiefly  consisting  of  early  English 
poetry,  written  in  the  fifteenth  century."  He  enume- 
rates fourteen  different  articles  or  subjects  in  the 
volume,  the  last  of  which  he  calls  "  A  Ballad  of  a 
Tyrannical  Husband"  (fol.  366).  It  was  written, 
he  says,  in  the  reign  of  Edward  IV.  It  is  in 
twenty-eight  quatrains  or  stanzas,  covering  five 
pages  of  the  folio  volume ;  but  it  appears  to  have 
been  left  unfinished  by  the  transcriber;  for  only 

the  "First  Fitte"  or  part  is  copied.    .The  rest  is 

B 


2  BALLADS  &^  SONGS 

wanting.     Many  of  its  words  and  phrases  are  pure 
Lancashire.     We  modernise  the  spelling. 

0  THOU  that  art  gentle,  for  joy  of  thy  dame, 

As  thou  wrought  this  wide  world,  in  heav'n  is  thy 

hame  : 
Save  all  this  company,  and  shield  them  from  shame, 
That  will  listen  to  me,  and  'tend  to  this  game. 

God  keep  all  women  that  to  this  town  'long, 
Maidens,  and  widows,  and  eke  wives  among, 
For  much  they  are  blamM,  and  sometimes  with 
wrong, 

1  take  witness  of  all  folk  that  heareth  this  song. 

Listen,  good  sirs,  both  young  and  old  ; 
Of  a  good  husband  this  tale  shall  be  told  : 
He  wedded  a  woman  that  was  fair  and  bold,* 
And  had  goods  enow  to  wend  as  they  wold.' 

She  was  a  good  housewife,  courteous  and  kind, 
And  he  was  an  angry  man,  and  soon  would  be  tined,' 
Chiding  and  brawling,  and  fared  like  a  fiend. 
As  one  that  oft  will  be  wroth  with  his  best  friend. 

*  ?  Fair  to  behold.  *  To  go  or  live  as  they  would. 

•       ■  '  Kindled,  enraged. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  3 

Till  it  befel  upon  a  day — short  talk  to  make — 
The  goodman  to  the  plough  his  horse  'gan  he  take  ; 
He  call'd  forth  his  oxen,  the  white  and  the  blake, 
And  he  said,  "  Dame,  dight*  our  dinner  betimes, 
for  God's  sake." 

The  goodman  and  his  lad  to  the  plough  be  gone ; 
The  goodwife  had  much  to  do ;  servant  had  she 

none; 
Many  small  children  to  keep,  beside  herself  alone, 
She  did  more  than  she  might  within  her  own  wone.* 

Home  came  the  goodman  by  time  of  the  day, 
To  look  that  all  things  were  according  to  his  say. 
'*  Dame  ! "  he  said,  "  is  our  dinner  dight  ?"     "  Sir," 

she  said,  "  nay, 
"  How  would  you  have  me  do  more  than  I  may  T' 

Then  he  began  to  chide,  and  said,  "Evil  mote* 
thou  be ! 

**  I  would  thou  shouldst  all  day  go  to  plough  with 
me; 

"  To  walk  in  the  clods,  that  be  wet  and  mere, 

"Then  shouldst  thou  wit'  what  it  were  a  plough- 
man to  be." 

•*  Dress.  *  Dwelling.  *  May,  must.  '   Know. 


4  BALLADS  AND  SONGS 

Then  sware  the  goodwife,  and  thus  'gan  she  say, 

"  I  have  more  to  do,  than  do  I  may, 

"  An '  you  should  follow  me  fully  one  day, 

"  You*d  be  weary  of  your  part,  my  head  dare  I  lay." 

"  Weary  !  in  the  devil's  name  !"  said  the  goodman  : 
"  What  hast  thou  to  do,  but  sit  here  at  home  ? 
"  Thou  coyst*  to  thy  neighbour's  house,  by  on  and 

by  eine," 
"And  sittest  there  jangling"  with  Jack  and  with 

Joan." 

Then  said  the  goodwife,  "  Fair  may  you  fall ; 
"  I  have  more  to  do,  whoso  wist  all ; 
"  When  I  lie  in  my  bed,  my  sleep  is  but  small ; 
"  Yet  early  in  the  morning  ye  will  me  up  call. 

"  When  I  lie  all  night  waking,  with  our  dear  child, 
**  I  rise  up  at  morrow  and  find  our  house  wild ; 
"  Then  I  milk  our  kine,  turn  them  into  the  field, 
"  While  you  sleep  full  still,  as  Christ  shall  me  shield  ! 

"  Then  make  I  butter,  for  cheer  in  the  day, 
"  After  make  I  cheese.     This  hold  you  a  p/ay  f 

"  If.  »  Stirrest. 

'•  HalHwell  has  this  expression  in  the  fonn  "On-o-nena" 
as  Lancashire  for  "  always."     ?  Ever  and  anon. 
"  Pratint^,  quarrelling. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  5 

"  Then  will  our  children  weep,  and  upmost  they  ; 
"  Yet  will  you  blame  me,  an  any  be  away. 

"  When  I  have  so  done,  yet  there  comes  more  e'en, 
'^  I  give  our  chickens  meat,  or  else  they  will  lean  ; 
"  Our  hens,  our  capons,  and  our  ducks  be  dene," 
"  Yet  tend  I  to  our  goslings  that  go  on  the  green. 

'*  I  bake  and  I  brew ;  it  will  not  else  be  well, 
"  I  beat  and  swengle  flax,  as  ever  I  have  heyll ;" 
**  I  heckle  the  tow,  I  kabe,"  and  I  reel ; 
"  I  tease  wool  and  card  it,  and  spin  it  on  the  wheel." 

"  Dame  !"  said  the  goodman,  "  the  devil  have  thy 

bones! 
"  Thoy  need'st  not  bake  nor  brew  in  fortnight  past 

once ; 
"  I  see  no  good  thou  dost  within  this  wide  wones," 
"But  ever  thou  excusest  thee  with  groaches"  and 

groans 


!»» 


"  Eke  a  piece  of  linen  and  woollen  I  make  once  a 

year 
"  For  to  clothe  ourselves  and  our  children  in  fere," 
"  Else  we  should  go  to  market  and  buy  it  full  dear ; 
"  I  am  as  busy  as  I  may,  in  every  [gear]. 

"  Done.  ^»  Heald.  "  Separate.  «  Dwelling. 

*•  Grumblings.  "  Together. 


6  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

"  When  I  have  so  done,  I  look  on  the  scone  ;'* 
"  I  ordene  meat  for  our  beasts,  again  that  you  come 

home, 
"  And  meat  for  ourselves,  again  that  it  be  noon, 
"  Yet  I  have  not  a  fair  word,  when  that  I  have  done. 

"  So  I  look  to  our  good  without  and  within, 
"  That  there  be  none  away,  neither  more  nor  min," 
"  Glad  to  please  you  to  pay,  lest  any  bats**  begin, 
"  And  for  to  chide  thus  with  me,  i'  faith  you  be 
in  sin." 

Then  said  the  goodman  in  a  sorry  time, 

"  All  this  would  a  good  housewife  do  long  ere  it 

were  prime,*' 
"And    sene   [since]   the  good   we  have    is    half 

deal**  thine, 
"  Thou  shalt  labour  for  thy  part  as  I  do  for  mine. 

"  Therefore,  dame,  make  thee  ready,  I  warn  thee  anon, 
**  To-morrow  with  my  lads  to  the  plough  thou  shalt 

gone; 
"  And  I  will  be  housewife,  and  keep  our  house  at 

home, 
"  And  take  mine  ease  as  thou  hast  done,  by  God 

and  St.  John  I" 

'"  The  barley  cakes  baking.  "  Less.  ""^  Blows. 

*"  Six  o'clock  a.m.  ^"^  Half  share  of. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  7 

**  Ay,  grant,""  quoth  the goodwife,  "as  I  understand, 
"  To-morrow  in  the  morning  I  will  be  walkande, 
"  Yet  will  I  rise,  while  ye  be  sleepand," 
'*  And  see  that  all  things  be  ready  laid  to  your  hand." 

So  it  pass'd  all  to  the  morrow  that  it  was  daylight, 
The  goodwife  thought  over  her  deed  *  and  up  she 

rose  right. 
"  Dame  !"  said  the  goodman,  "  I  swear  by  God's 

might, 
'*  I  will  fette  home  our  beasts,  and  help  that  they 

were  dight." 

The  goodman  to  the  field  hied  him  full  yame  ;** 
The  goodwife  made  butter,  her  deed  were  full  deme  f 
She  took  again  the  butter-milk  and  put  it  in  the  chum, 
And  said,  "Yet  of  one  point  ourSireshall  be  to  learn." 

Home  came  the  goodman  and  took  good  keep 
How  the  wife  had  laid  her  flesh  for  to  steep. 
She  said,  "Sir,  all  this  day,  ye  need  not  to  sleep, 
"  Keep  well  our  children,  and  let  them  not  weep. 

"  If  you  go  to  the  kiln,  malt  for  to  make, 

'*  Put  small  fire  underneath.  Sir,  for  God  his  sake. 

*•  Yes,  agreed ;  or,  I  agree.  **  Sleeping. 

**  ?  Beads,  or  else  what  she  would  do.  **  Early. 

*'  Secret. 


Z'i 


8  BALLADS  &»  SONGS 

"  The  kiln  is  low  and  dry,  good  tend"  that  ye  take, 
**  For  an  it  fasten  on  a  fire,  it  will  be  evil  to  slake. 

'*  Here  sit  two  geese  abroad ;  keep  them  well  from 

woo," 
"And  they  may  come  to  good,  or  you'll  work 

sorrow  enow." 
"  Dame,"  said  the  goodman,  "hie  thee  to  the  plough, 
"  Teach  me  no  more  housewifery,  for  I  caii"  enow." 

Forth  went  the  goodwife,  courteous  and  hend," 
She  caird  to  her  lad,  and  to  the  plough  they  wend ;' 
They  were  busy  all  day. — ^A  fytte  here  I  find, 
An  I  had  drunk  once,  ye  shall  hear  the  best  behind. 


A  FYTTE. 

Here  beginneth  another  fytte,  the  sooth"  for  to  say, 

[The  rest  is  wanting.] 

The  subject  of  the  above  ballad  has  been  a 
favourite  one  for  ages  on  both  sides  the  Scottish 
border.  As  a  more  modem  version,  and  to  eluci- 
date the  labours  of  man  and  wife  in  their  changed 
spheres  of  action,  we  append  the  following: — 

«'  Care,  attention.  *•  Woe.  ••  Ken,  know. 

"  Gentle,  polite.  "  Go.  "  Truth. 


OF  LANCASHIRE. 

THE  OLD  MAN  AND  HIS  WIFE. 
From  Mr.  T.  O.  HaUiwdTs  Nursery  Rhymes, 

There  was  an  old  man  who  liv'd  in  a  wood. 

As  you  may  plainly  see  ; 
He  said  he  could  do  as  much  work  in  a  day 

As  his  wife  could  do  in  three. 
'^  With  all  my  heart,"  the  old  woman  said, 

"  If  that  you  will  allow, 
"  To-morrow  you'll  stay  at  home  in  my  stead, 

'^  And  1*11  go  drive  the  plough. 

"  But  you  must  milk  Tidy  the  cow, 

"  For  fear  that  she  go  dry ; 
^*  And  you  must  feed  the  little  pigs, 

"  That  are  within  the  sty ; 
*^  And  you  must  mind  the  speckled  hen, 

"  For  fear  she  lay  away ; 
"And  you  must  reel  the  spool  of  yam, 

"  That  I  spun  yesterday." 

The  old  woman  took  a  staff  in  her  hand. 

And  went  to  drive  the  plough  ; 
The  old  man  took  a  pail  in  his  hand, 

And  went  to  milk  the  cow. 


lo     BALLADS  &-  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE, 

But  Tidy  hinched  and  Tidy  flinched, 

And  Tidy  broke  his  nose ) 
And  Tidy  gave  him  such  a  blow, 

That  the  blood  ran  down  to  his  toes. 

"  High,  Tidy  !  ho,  Tidy  !  high, 

"  Tidy  !  stand  thou  still ; 
"If  ever  I  milk  you,  Tidy,  again, 
"  'Twill  be  sore  against  my  will." 
He  went  to  feed  the  little  pigs, 

That  were  within  the  sty  ; 
He  hit  his  head  against  the  beam, 
And  he  made  the  blood  to  fly. 

He  went  to  mind  the  speckled  hen. 

For  fear  she'd  lay  astray ; 
And  he  forgot  the  spool  of  yam, 

His  wife  spun  yesterday. 
So  he  swore  by  the  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  stars. 

And  the  green  leaves  on  the  tree, 
If  his  wife  didn't  do  a  day's  work  in  her  life, 

She  should  ne'er  be  ruled  by  he. 


A  TRAFFORD  AND  BVRON  FEUD. 

By  Tkomas  Bariitt. 

In  our  Fourth  Edward's  fickle  days 

A  serious  quarrel,  story  says, 

Took  place  near  Rochdale,  we  are  told, 

Twixl  Trafford  and  a  Byron  bold. 

The  cause  was  this,  we  understand, 

About  some  privilege  of  land. 

Oliver  Chadwick,  from  Chadwick  Hall, 

On  Byron's  part  that  day  did  fall  \ 

But  afterwards  it  came  to  pass. 

Lord  Stanley  arbitrator  was, 

Who  fixed  it  upon  this  ground, 

Traflbrd  should  pay  full  sixty  pound, 

In  holy  church  at  Manchester ; 

And  from  this  contract  not  to  err, 

To  Chadwick's  heirs,  to  keep  them  quiet, 

And  never  more  to  move  a  riot : 


12     BALLADS  &*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

Ten  marks  at  birth-day  of  St.  John, 
And  ten  at  Martin's  day  upon, 
Each  year,  until  the  whole  was  paid  ; 
And  to  be  friends  again,  he  said. 

The  authority  for  the  facts  in  these  rhymes  was 
a  curious  deed  in  the  possession  of  the  late  Colonel 
Chadwick,  of  the  Lancashire  Militia,  shown  to 
Barritt.  Oliver  Chadwiclc,  of  Chadwick  Hall,  in 
the  parish  of  Rochdale,  was  the  son  of  Henry 
Chadwick,  who  died  about  1482.  Oliver  was 
living  28th  June  1489,  but  the  family  pedigree 
does  not  give  the  date  of  his  death.  He  left  two 
sons,  Roger  and  Oliver.  Ten  marks  amount  to 
£6  :  13  :  4.  St  John's  day  is  June  24,  and  that 
of  St.  Martin  the  Bishop  in  winter,  November  1 1 . 
In  those  times  payments  of  importance  were  usually 
required  to  be  made  either  in  the  porch  or  before 
the  high  altar  of  the  parish  church. 


w^rld 


THE  BEWSEY  TRAGEDY  AND  ITS 

LEGEND. 

The  Botelers,  Botilers,  or  Butlers  (i.e.  Bottlers)^ 
of  Bewsey,  near  Warrington,  derived  their  name  from 
their  office,  Robert  le  Pincema  having  discharged 
the  duties  of  that  station  under  Randle  Earl  of 
Chester,  in  1158;  hence  taking  the  surname. 
Almeric  Butler,  his  descendant,  having  married 
Beatrice,  daughter  and  co-heir  of  Matthew  Villiers, 
Lord  of  Warrington,  became  possessed  of  the 
barony.  A  MS.  in  the  Bodleian  Library  gives  the 
following  statement,  which  is  manifestly  incorrect 
in  respect  of  names  and  parties,  though  corrobo- 
rated by  tradition,  which  still  preserves  the  memory 
of  this  horrible  event : — "  Sir  John  Butler,  knight, 
was  slaine  in  his  bedde  by  the  procurement  of  the 
Lord  Standley,  Sir  Piers  Legh,  and  Mister  William 
Savage,  joining  with  him  in  that  action  (corrupting 
his  servants),  his  porter  setting  a  light  in  a  window 
to  give  light  upon  the  water  that  was  about  his 


H  BALLADS  &^  SONGS 

house  at  Bewsey  (where  your  way  to  .  ... 
comes).  They  came  over  the  moate  in  lether 
boats,  and  so  to  his  chamber,  where  one  of  ^ 
his  servants,  named  Houlcrofte,  was  slaine,  being 
his  chamberlaine :  the  other  basely  betrayed  his 
master;  they  payed  him  a  great  reward,  and  so 
coming  away  with  him,  they  hanged  him  at  a  tree 
in  Bewsey  Parke ; — ^after  this  Sir  John  Butler's  *• 
lady  prosecuted  those  that  slew  her  husband,  and 
.  .  .  .  ;£2o  for  that  suite;  but  being  married  to 
Lord  Grey,  he  made  her  suite  voyde,  for  which 
reason  she  parted  from  her  husband,  and  came 
into  Lancashire,  saying,  '  If  my  lord  will  not  let  me 
have  my  will  of  my  husband's  enemies,  yet  shall 
my  body  be  buried  by  him ;'  and  she  caused  a 
tomb  of  alabaster  to  be  made,  where  she  lyeth 

on  the hand  of  her  husband  Sir  John 

Butler." 

"  The  occasion  of  the  murder  was  this  : — 
King  Harry  the  Seventh  being  to  come  to  Latham, 
the  Earl  [of  Derby],  his  brother-in-law,  sent  unto  him 
[Sir  John  Butler]  a  message  to  desire  him  to  wear 
his  cloth  at  that  time ;  but  in  his  absence  his  lady 
scorned  that  her  husband  should  wait  on  her  brother, 
being  as  well  able  to  entertain  the  king  as  he  was. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  15 

Which  answer  he  [the  Earl]  took  in  great  disdain, 
and  prosecuted  the  said  Sir  John  with  all  malice 
that  could  be.  And  amongst  other  things,  the  said 
Sir  John  had  a  ferry  at  Warrington,  which  was 
worth  a  hundred  marks  [;£66  :  13  :  4]  by  the  year 
unto  him ;  there  being  no  bridge.  The  Earl, 
coming  to  go  to  London,  the  said  Sir  John  would 
not  suffer  him  to  pass,  but  forced  him  about  by 
Manchester.  Whereupon  the  Earl  bought  a  piece 
of  land  of  one  Norris  of  Warrington,  by  which 
means  he  was  privileged  to  ....  on  the  other  side ; 
and  so  builded  a  bridge  at  Warrington,  on  both 
sides,  being  his  own  land.  And  the  said  Sir  John 
Butler,  after  the  bridge  was  builded,  did  notwith- 
standing exact  and  take  toll  and  tax  of  all  passen- 
gers as  before  ;  whereon  the  Earl  caused  the  king 
to  make  it  free.  On  that  and  such  like  discontents, 
they  [the  Earl  and  Sir  John]  took  arms  against  one 
another ;  and  Sir  Piers  Legh  and  William  Savage 
that  sided  with  the  Earl  made  ....  upon  Warring- 
ton Heath,  which  were  to  be  seen  not  long  since, 
before  the  inclosing  of  the  said  heath.  So  in  the 
end,  during  the  uproar,  they  corrupted  his  servants, 
and  murdered  him  in  his  bed.  His  lady,  at  that 
instant  being  in  London,  did  dream  the  same  night 
that  her  husband  was  slain,  and  that  Bewsey  Hall 


i6  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

did  swim  with  blood ;  whereupon  she  presently 
came  homewards,  and  heard  by  the  way  the  report 
of  his  death." 

[The  editor  wrote  to  an  accomplished  anti- 
quary, long  a  resident  of  Warrington,  respecting 
this  tradition,  and  the  following  is  this  gentleman's 
reply: — "The  subject  has  puzzled  me  and  all 
other  Warrington  antiquaries  for  many  a  long  year, 
and  we  are  not  satisfied  yet.  No  one  of  the  al- 
leged actors,  no  one  of  the  facts,  and  no  one  of 
the  causes  of  the  supposed  quarrel,  can  be  true. 
When  the  last  Sir  John  Butler  died,  there  was  no 
Earl  of  Derby )  and  when  King  Henry  VII.  visited 
the  Earl  at  Latham,  the  Earl's  sister,  who  had 
married  Sir  John  Butler,  was  dead.  I  believe, 
however,  that  the  story  has  a  foundation,  though 
the  adores  fabuia  are  phantoms."] 

The  late  Mr.  Roby  published  in  his  "Tradi- 
tions of  Lancashire"  a  ballad  on  this  subject.  The 
following,  however,  will  be  found  to  adhere  more 
closely  than  his  to  the  tradition  of  the  neighbour- 
hood : — 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  17 


BUTLER  OF  BEWSEY. 

Listen,  lords  and  ladies  fair, 
And  gentles,  to  my  roundelay ; 

List,  youths  and  maidens  debonnaire, 
To  this  most  doleful  tragedy. 

Of  Pincema,  that  noble  race, 
That  BotiUer  was  yclept,  I  say ; 

And  Bewsey  Hall,  that  goodly  place, 
Where  traitors  did  the  Butler  slay. 

Fatal  the  feud  'tween  him  and  one 
Whose  sister  was  his  wedded  wife ; 

The  proud  Earl  Derby,  whose  false  son 
Did  plot  to  take  the  Butler's  life. 

Savage  by  name  and  nature  too, 
Piers  Legh,  that  pierced  all  too  free, 

Join'd  with  Lord  Stanley  and  his  crew. 
And  bought  the  warder's  treacherie. 

A  light  shone  from  the  warder's  toVr, 
When  all  the  house  lay  sunk  in  sleep, 

To  guide  those  murd'rers,  fell  and  stour, 
Across  the  moat,  dark,  wide,  and  deep. 


/8  BALLADS  &-  SONGS 

In  leathern  boats  they  crossed,  and  then 
The  warder  softly  oped  the  gate  : 

Bold  'fronted  them  the  chamberlain ; 
Holcrofte  his  master  wam'd — too  late. 

Him  they  slew  first,  and  then  the  knight, 
While  sleeping,  'neath  their  daggers  bled  ; 

A  faithful  negro,  black  as  night, 
Snatch t  up  the  infant  heir  and  fled. 

That  felon  porter  craved  reward 

For  treacherous  guiding  in  the  dark  : 

They  paid  him  ;  then  for  his  false  guard 
They  hung  him  on  a  tree  in  the  park. 

^  In  vain  they  sought — the  child  was  saved  ; 

But  gallant  Butler  was  no  more  : 
'i'hat  night  his  wife  in  London  dreamt 
That  Bewsey  Hall  did  swim  with  gore. 

When  that  she  leam'd  the  foul  deed  done, 
She  pray'd  they  might  have  felons*  doom  ; 

But  might  'gainst  right  the  struggle  won ; 
Then  sigh'd  she  forth  in  bitter  gloom  . — 

"  If  by  my  lord's  fell  foes  and  mine 
"  My  will  in  life  is  thus  denied ; 

"  And  I  must  live,  bereaved,  to  pine, 
"  Death  nor  the  grave  shall  us  divide." 


OF  LA  NCA  SHIRK.  1 9 

An  alabaster  tomb  she  made, 

To  her  lov*d  husband's  memory  true ; 

And  on  her  death  her  corse  was  laid 
Close  by  his  side,  *neath  aged  yew. 

Mourn  for  the  brave,  the  fair  and  true, 
Sleeping  in  love,  and  hope,  and  faith  ; 

May  ruthless  ruffians  ever  rue 

Their  murder  foul,  brave  Butler's  death  ! 

It  is  stated  in  an  early  MS.,  but  on  anonymous 
authority,  that  Sir  Piers  Legh,  being  an  ecclesiastic, 
was  sentenced,  as  a  penance  for  his  share  in  this 
murder,  to  build  Disley  church,  which  he  per- 
formed in  the  year  1527.  A  native  poet,  in  a 
modem  poem  of  considerable  merit,*  thus  com- 
memorates the  Bewsey  tragedy  : — 

"  But  yet  th*  historic  page  records  a  tale, 
Crimson'd  with  blood,  when  ev*n  these  stately  walls, 
As  yet  uninjured  by  the  shocks  of  time, 
Could  not  the  sword  of  massacre  repel 
From  their  own  guarded  Lord ;  for  civil  strife 

*  **  Bewsey,"  a  poem,  was  written  by  the  late  John 
Fitchett,  Esq.  of  Warrington,  and  was  published  by  sub- 
scription many  years  ago,  quarto,  pp.  32.  It  is  now  a  very 
scarce  book. 


20  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

Bade  here  dark  Murder  his  fell  poignard  steep 

In  the  defenceless  breast     A  hireling  band 

At  dead  of  night,  when  nature  sunk  to  rest, 

And  sleep  secure  had  those  proud  tow'rs  disann'd, 

Hither  insidious  stole.     Their  dread  designs 

Base-creeping  fraud  forewent,  and  bribery  sped ; 

For  from  yon  window  of  old  Gothic  form 

Beam'd  light  perfidious,  set  by  venal  hands, 

Guiding  their  silent  steps.     The  guardian  moat 

Saw  wond'ring  its  strange  passengers,  borne  o'er 

In  stranger  vehicles.     With  fancy's  eye, 

There  do  I  still  behold  the  taper,  set. 

With  treason  big,  blue-gleaming  on  the  wave : 

There  too,  again,  I  view  aghast  the  band 

Of  grim  assassins,  murder  in  their  looks, 

In  silence  cross  the  glimmering  lake,  and  hear 

Yon  massy  door,  hoarse-creaking  on  its  hinge. 

By  traitVous  hands  slow  drawn.  Ah !  there,  behold ! 

The  nightly  raven,  screaming,  flaps  his  wing. 

Portending  death ;  and  hark !  within,  the  sound 

Of  clashing  arms,  horrific,  stuns  the  ear! 

Ah !  list  the  dying  groans,  the  fearful  shrieks. 

The  hollow-trampling  feet,  the  murd'rers*  shout, 

That,  mingling  in  one  horrid  echo,  bid 

Ev*n  Fancy's  self,  wild-starting,  shrink  appall'd ! 

Tradition  tells,  a  faithful  Negro  brav'd 


OF  LANCA SHIRE.  2 1 

Singly  their  savage  rage,  and  bold  oppos'd 
Their  passage  to  the  room  where  thoughtless  slept 
His  dearly-honoufd  master,  till  at  last, 
O'erpower'd   by  numbers,  and   o'erwhelm*d   with 

wounds, 
Alas!  he  nobly  fell     Their  reeking  hands 
Unsated  yet,  had  still  to  execute 
Deeds  of  black  import,  and  dire  schemes  of  blood : 
For  ah !  unarm'd,  and  in  his  bed  surpris'd. 
Vilely  they  butchered  the  devoted  Lord ! 
Meanwhile  a  servant-maid,  with  pious  guile. 
Bore  in  her  apron,  artfully  concealed. 
The  infant  heir;  and  many  a  danger  brav'd. 
Saved  him  uninjur'd  from  the  ruffians'  sword, 
The  N^o*s  valour  fav'ring  her  escape." 

This  £act,  as  well  as  that  the  heroic  servant 
was  a  Negro,  thoi^h  not  specified  in  the  Bodleian 
MS.,  is  traditionary  in  the  neighbourhood.  Mr. 
Fitchett  states  that  this  faithful  Negro,  as  the 
last  earthly  reward  that  could  be  paid  him,  was 
interred  with  Sir  John  and  Lady  Butler  in  the  family 
vault,  in  a  small  chapel  belonging  to  them,  in  War- 
rington church,  which  now  belongs  to  the  Athertons 
of  Atherton ;  and  in  which  the  figures  of  the  un- 
fortunate knight  and  his  lady  are  represented  in 


22     BAMLADS  &-  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

alabaster,  lying  on  a  tomb-stone,  adorned  with 
curious  sculpture  ;  and  in  a  niche  in  the  wall  is  a 
figure  of  the  N^o,  in  a  recumbent  posture,  of 
black  stone,  or  stained  composition.  It  is  evidently 
to  this  tradition  that  Pennant  refers  in  his  Tour 
(p.  20),  when  he  states  that  "Sir  Thomas  (Butler), 
I  believe  the  last  of  his  name,  was,  with  his  lady, 
murdered  in  his  house  by  assassins,  who  in  the 
night  crossed  the  moat  in  leathern  boats,  orcoracles, 
to  perpetrate  this  villainy." 


-Art'^^^ 


THE  LANCASHIRE  HEROES. 

In  Praise  of  the  Valiant  Champions  of  the  North. 
(MS.  Ashm.  Vol.  xlviii.   Art  52,  fol.  loi.) 

Within  y«  northe  centre, 

Many  noble  men  there  be, 

Ye  shall  well  understand, 

Ther  ys  y*  yerle  off  Westmorland,' 

Y«  quyns  lyffeteanant 

A  noble  man  and  a  valiant ; 

Then  ycr  ys  y*=  yerle  of  Combarland,* 

And  y*  yerle  of  Northomberland,' 

And  Sir  Harry  Perce,  his  brother,* 

As  good  a  man  as  another 

He  ys,  and  hardy  knight. 

And  hath  oft  put  the  Skotts  to  flight. 

There  ys  my  lord  Ivars,*  my  lord  Dacars,* 

With  all  their  partacors, 

Noble  men  and  stowte, 

I  do  put  youe  out  off  dowte ; 


24  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

Yf  y«  Skotts  ons  looke  owte, 

Ye  (they)  wyll  rape  them  at  y'  skoowte, 

For  Northarae  men  wyll  fight 

Bothe  be  day  and  night, 

Her  enymyes  when     .... 

As  y*  hawk  upon  her  pray ; 

Ther  ys  also  Sir  Harry  Ley/ 

Which  dar  both  fight  and  fray, 

Whether  it  be  night  or  day, 

I  dare  be  bold  to  say, 

He  wyll  not  rone  away, 

He  ys  both  hardy  and  fre ; 

There  ys  also  Sir  Rychard  Lye,' 

Which  ys  both  war  and  wice, 

And  of  polytyk  device. 

All  thes  well  I  do  knowe  : 

Yet  ys  ther  many  moo. 

The  which  I  cannot  nam. 

That  be  men  of  mickle  fame, 

God  save  the  yerle  of  Shrowesbyry  !* 

The  above  verses  have  a  place  assigned  rather 
because  of  their  title,  than  because  of  any  Lanca- 
shire heroes  named  in  them.  They  would  seem 
to  refer  to  some  period  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  when  the  Earl  of  Westmorland  was  the 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  25 

queen's  lieutenant  in  that  part  of  the  kingdom. 
Most  probably  that  period  was  about  1569,  when 
the  rebellion  in  the  north  arose.  They  were  writ- 
ten before  1572,  because  they  name  the  Earl  of 
Northumberland  and  Sir  Hany  Percy  his  brother, 
who  succeeded  to  the  earldom  in  that  year.  The 
following  notes  may  identify  the  persons  named: — 

*  The  Earl  of  Westmorland  was  probably  Charles  Neville, 
sixth  earl,  who  was  attainted  in  1570,  because  of  his  share  in 
the  Rebellion  of  the  North,  when  all  his  honours  were  for- 
feited, and  the  title  remained  in  abeyance  till  1624. 

'  The  Earl  of  Cumberland  was  Henry  Clifford,  second 
earl,  who  died  in  1 569. 

'  The  Earl  of  Northumberland  was  Thomas  Percy,  the 
seventh  earl  of  that  name,  created  earl  in  May  1557)  attainted 
in  1571,  and  beheaded  in  1572,  because  of  his  share  in  the 
Rebellion  of  the  North. 

*  Sir  Henry  Percy,  his  brother  and  heir-male,  succeeded 
to  the  earldom  in  1572,  as  eighth  earl  of  his  family,  and  was 
found  dead  in  the  Tower  from  a  pistol-shot  in  1585. 

*  Lord  Ivars  of  the  text  was  William  Evre,  second  baron 
Evers,  Evre,  or  Eure;  succeeding  his  grandfather,  the  first 
baron.     He  died  in  1594. 

*  The  Lord  Dacres  of  the  text  was  probably  Geoige 
Dacre,  fourth  baron  Dacre  of  Gillesland,  or  of  the  North, 
who  was  under  age  in  1566,  and  died  in  1569.  His  son, 
Leonard  Dacre,  was  an  active  leader  in  the  Rebellion  of  the 
North. 


j6     ballads  &■  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

'  Sir  Hairy  Ley  {l--ee)  of  the  venies  was  piobably  the  brave 
old  veteran  of  that  name  who,  a(  a  great  age,  lamented  lo 
his  queen  that  he  could  no  longer  show  his  devotion  to  her 
by  deeds  of  arms.  There  was  also  a  Sir  Henry  de  Lee, 
near  Predion,  Co.  Lancaster. 

'  Sir  Richard  Lye  at  the  text  it  is  not  easy  to  idenlify. 
He  may  have  been  one  of  the  Richajd  Leighs  of  W«at  Hall, 
High  Leigh,  Co.  Chesler ;  the  father  dying  in  15SZ,  and  (he 
son  in  1586. 

'  The  Earl  of  Shrewsbury,  with  a  benison  on  whom  the 
verws  conclude,  was  probably  (ieoi^  Talbot,  ninth  earl 
{ihe  sixth  of  his  name),  whi>  succeeded  his  falher  in  1560, 
held  Ihe  high  office  of  earl -niaiiihal,  was  K.G.,  and  died  in 
1 590.     He  was  the  unfonunate  gaoler  of  ^f  ary  (Jueen  of  Scols. 


THE  SCOTTISH   FIELD,  OR  FLODUEN 
FIELD. 

A  BALLAD-POEM  in  MS.,  entitled  "The  Scottish 
Field,"  was  discovered  by  William  Beamont,  Esq.. 
of  Warrington,  in  the  muniments  at  Lyme,  written 
on  strips  of  parchment,  which  had  been  pasted 
together  to  form  a  roll  of  about  thirteen  feet  long 
by  three  and  a  half  inches  wide.  The  first  portion 
has  been  lost,  or  it  would  have  been  between 
two  and  three  feet  longer.  The  writing  is,  in  the 
opinion  of  Sir  Frederick  Madden,  of  the  latter 
half  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  It  was 
printed  in  the  second  volume  of  "  Chetham  Mis- 
cellanies," edited  by  J.  Robson,  Esq.,  M.D.,  of 
Warrington.  The  EngUsh  army  seems  to  have 
been  arrayed  in  two  battles,  a  vanward  and  a  rear- 
ward, each  having  a  centre  and  two  wings.  Of 
the  first,  the  right  wing  (and  extreme  right  of  the 
army)  was  under  Edward  Howard,  a  younger  son 
of  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  and  consisted  of  the  X^nca- 


28  BALLADS  6-  SONGS 

shire  and  Cheshire  troops,  with  Sir  Thomas  Butler, 
Sir  John  Booth  [of  Barton],  Sir  Richard  Bold,  and 
others.  The  right  wing  was  driven  back  at  the 
outset.  The  second  battle,  or  rearward,  was  under 
the  immediate  command  of  the  Earl  of  Surrey, 
who  led  its  centre;  and  its  left  wing  was  com- 
manded by  Sir  Edward  Stanley,  afterwards  Lord 
Monteagle.  The  poet  has  assigned  the  place  of 
honour  to  John  Stanley,  son  of  the  Bishop  of  Ely, 
and  commander  of  his  contingent.  He  afterwards 
married  the  daughter  of  William  Handford,  so  em- 
phatically distinguished  in  the  MS.  The  poem 
may  have  been  written  about  two  years  after  the 
battle  (which  took  place  9th  September  15 13),  as 
it  laments  the  Bishop  of  Ely's  death,  which  occurred 
in  March  15 15.  Of  course  we  select  from  this 
quaint  alliterative  poem  only  such  portions  as  relate 
to  Lancashire  men  and  their  acts.  Referring  to 
the  Earl  of  Surrey,  the  writer  tells  us — 

He  made  letters  boldly  all  the  land  over ; 

In  Lancashire  belive,  he  caused  a  man  to  ride, 

«  •  •  •  ■ 

To  the  Bishop  of  Ely,  that  bode  in  those  parts  : 
Courteously  commanded  him,  in  the  king's  name, 
To  summon  the  shire  and  set  them  in  order : 


OF  LA  NCA  SHIRE,  29 

He  was  put  in  more  power  than  any  prelate  else. 
Then  the  bishop  full  boldly  bowneth*  forth  his 

standard, 
With  a  captain  full  keen,  as  he  was  known  after ; 
He  made  a  wee'  to  wind,  to  warn  his  dear  brother 
Edward,  that  eager  knight,  that  epe'  was  of  deeds  ! 
A  stalk  of  the  Stanleys,  steepe^  of  himself ! 
Then  full  radly*  he  raiseth 
Rinckes*  ten  thousands : 
To  Skipton  in  Craven  then  he  come  belive,' 
There  abideth  he  the  banner  of  his  dear  brother. 
Till  a  captain  with  it  come,  that  known  was  full 

wide, 
Sir  John  Stanley,  that  stout  knight,  that  stem  was 

of  deeds  1 
With  four  thousand  fiirsemen*  that  followed  him 

after; 
They  were  tenants  that  they  took,  that  tenden  on 

the  bishop, 
Of  his  household,  I  you  hete,*  hope  ye  no  other. 
Every  bairn  had  on  his  breast  broidered  with  gold, 
A  foot  of  the  fairest  fowl  that  ever  flew  on  wing ! 
With  their  crowns  full  clear,  all  of  pure  gold  ! 

*  Setteth,  displayeth.  •  Man.  •  Apt. 

*  ?  Stipes,  a  branch.  •  Readily.  •  Soldiers. 
'  Soon,  immediately.           •  Fierce  men.  •  Tell. 


30  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

It  was  a  seemly  sight  to  see  them  together, 
Fourteen  thousand  eagle-feet,  fettled"  in  array. 

•  •  «  •  • 

If  ye  would  wit"  the  wings  that  to  that  [rear]  ward 

'longed. 
That  was  a  bishop  full  bold,  that  bom  was  at  Lathom ; 
Of  Ely  that  ilk  lord,  that  epe  was  of  deeds  ! 
An  egg  of  that  bold  earl,  that  nam^d  was  Stanley ; 
Near  of  nature  to  the  duke,  that  noble  have  been 

ever : 
But  now  death  with  his  dart  hath  driven  him  away  1 
It  is  a  loss  to  the  land :  our  Lord  have  his  soul ! 
For  his  wit  and  his  wisdom,  and  his  wale"  deeds  : 
He  was  a  pillar  of  peace  the  people  among ; 
His  servants  they  may  syke"  and  sorrow  for  his 

sake, 
What  for  pity  and  for  pain  my  pen  doth  me  fail ; 
I  will  meddle  with  this  matter  no  more  at  this  time, 
But  he  that  he  is  makles"  of  mercy  have  mind  on 

his  soul ! 
Then  he  sent  with  his  company  a  knight  that  was 

noble, 
Sir  John  Stanley,  that  stout  knight,  that  stem  was 

of  deeds ; 

*•  Got  ready,  set  right.  "  Know.  "  (iood,  brave. 

"  Sigh.  "  Matchless. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  3 » 

There  was  never  bairn  bom  that  day  bare  him  better. 
The  left  wing  to  that  rearward  was  my  Lord  Mont- 

eagle, 
With  many  lads  of  Lancashire  that  to  him  'longed, 
Who  foughten  full  furiously  while  the  field  lasted. 

«  •  •  p  • 

Many  squires  full  swiftly  were  swept  to  the,  death  ! 
Sir  John  Both  of  Barton  was  brought  from  his  life  ! 
A  more  bolder  bairn  was  never  bom  on  woman. 

•  •  •  •  ■ 

And  of  Lancashire  John  Lawrence  :  our  Lord  have 

their  souls ! 
These  freaks"  would  never  flee,  for  fear  that  might 

happen, 
They  were  killed  like  conquerors,  in  their  king's 

service. 

•  •  ■  •  • 

Then  the  Scots  king  calleth  to  him  a  herald, 
Biddeth  tell  him  the  tmth  and  tarry  no  longer, — 
Who  were  the  banners  of  the  baims  that  bode  in 

the  valley  ? 
"  They  are  standards  of  the  Stanleys,  that  stand  by 

themselven ; 
If  he  be  faren"  into  France,  the  Frenchmen  to 

feere," 

**  Men.  *•  Fared,  gone,  "  To  frighten. 


32  BALLADS  6r*  SONGS 

Yet  is  his  standard  in  that  stead"  with  a  stiff  captain, 

Sir  Henry  Kighley  is  called,  that  keen  is  of  deeds  ; 

Sir  Thomas  Jarred,  that  jolly  knight,  is  joined  there- 
under, 

With  Sir  William  Mol)aiex,  with  a  manful  meany  ;'* 

These  freaks  will  never  flee  for  fear  of  no  weapon. 

But  they  will  stick  with  their  standards  in  their 
steel  weeds  ;'* 

Because  they  bashed"  them  at  Berwick,  that  boldeth 
them  the  more. 

Lo  1  how  he  batters  and  beats,  the  bird  with  his 
wings ! 

We  are  feard  of  yonder  fowl,  so  furiously  he  fareth  ! 

And  yonder  streamer  full  straight  that  standeth  him 
beside, 

Is  the  standard  of  St  Tandere, 

That  never  beaten  was  in  battle,  for  bairn  upon 
lyve!" 

The   third   standard  in   the   stead   is  my  Lords 

Mounteagle." 

■  •  •  <  • 

Lancashire  lads  like  lions  laiden  them  aboute  ! 
AH  had  been  lost,  by  our  Lord !  had  not  those 
lads  been ! 

"  Place.         '•  A  troop,  or  following.        *  Dress,  armour. 
'*  Put  them  down.  •*  In  life,  alive. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  33 

But  the  care  of  the  Scots  increased  full  sore : 
For  their  king  was  down  knocked  and  killed  in 

their  sight, 
Under  the  banner  of  a  bishop, — that  was,  the  bold 

Stanley ! 

Notes. — James  Stanley,  brother  of  Thomas,  6rst  Earl 
of  Derby,  was  Bishop  of  Ely  and  warden  of  the  collegiate 
church  of  Manchester. — Edward  Stanley  was  not  created 
Lord  Monteagle  till  the  following  year  (1514). — Sir  John 
Stanley,  son  of  the  Bishop  of  Ely,  was  knighted  on  the  field 
of  battle. — Eagle-feet  is  a  cognizance  of  the  Stanleys. — ^The 
Lawrences  were  a  fiunily  seated  in  the  north  of  Lancashire. 
— ^The  Kighleys  were  especially  attached  to  the  Stanleys. — 
**  Sir  Thomas  Jarred"  is  Gerard  of  the  Bryn,  ancestor  of  the 
present  Sir  Robert  Gerard  of  Garswood. — Sir  William  Moly- 
neux  was  of  Sefton. — Dr.  Robson  says  the  standard  of  **  St. 
Tandere"  should  be  that  of  St.  Cuthbert,  under  which  the 
troops  of  the  bishopric  fought — From  the  concluding  lines 
of  the  poem,  its  author  would  seem  to  have  been  one  of  the 
I<eghs  of  Baguley,  Cheshire. 


D 


THE   FAMOUS   HISTORY   OR   SONG 
CALLED  FLODDEN  FIELD. 

(Harl.  MS.,  Cod.  3526.) 

This  ballad-poem  has  a  long  title,  ending  with 
"  the  most  courageous  Knight  Sir  Edward  Standley, 
who  for  his  prowess  and  valiantness  showed  at 
the  said  battle,  was  made  Lord  Mount  Eagle, 
as  the  sequel  declareth."  The  poem  is  contained 
in  9  Fittes  or  Cantos,  occupying  66  closely-printed 
4to  pages.  We  select  a  few  extracts  bearing  upon 
Lancashire : — 


There  is  Sir  Edward  Standley  stout, 
For  martial  skill  clear  without  make' 
Of  Lathom  House  by  line  came  out, 
Whose  blood  will  never  turn  their  back. 
All  Lancashire  will  live  and  die 
With  him,  so  chiefly  will  Cheshire, 
For  thro*  his  father's  force,  quoth  he, 
This  kingdom  first  came  to  my  Sire. 

»  Match. 


BALLADS  df*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE.     35 

♦  ♦  ♦  «  « 
Now  like  a  Captain  bold  he  brought 
A  band  of  lusty  lads  elect, 

Whose  curious  coats  commily*  wrought 
With  dreadful  dragons'  were  bedeckt ; 
From  Pennigent  to  Pendle  Hill, 
From  Linton  and  Long  Addingham, 
And  all  that  Craven  crofts  did  till ; 
They  with  the  lusty  Clyfford  came. 

From  Lancashire  of  lusty  blood, 

A  thousand  soldiers  stiff  in  stour/ 

•  •••••• 

Sir  Edward  Standley,  stiff  in  stour, 
He  is  the  man  on  whom  I  mean, 
With  him  did  pass  a  mighty  pow'r, 
Of  soldiers,  seemly  to  be  seen. 
Most  liver  lads  on  Lonsdale  bred. 
With  weapons  of  unwieldy  weight. 
All  such  as  Tatham  Fells  had  fed. 
Went  under  Standle/s  streamer  bright 
From  Bowland,  billmen  bold  were  bound 
With  such  as  Bretton  banks  did  aid ; 

'  Comely. 

•  ?  Griffins,  the  dexter  supporter  of  the  Stanley  arms. 

*  Fight. 


36  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

«  «  •  *  « 

All  Lancashire  for  the  most  part 
The  lusty  Standley  stout  can  lead, 
A  stock  of  striplings  strong  of  heart, 
Brought  up  from  babes  with  beef  and  bread. 
From  Warton  unto  Warrington, 
From  Wigan  unto  Wiresdale, 
From  Weddecon  to  Waddington, 
From  Ribchester  unto  Rochdale, 
From  Poulton  to  Preston  [proud]  with  pikes 
They  with  the  Standley  out  forth  went 
From  Pemberton  and  Pilling  Dikes, 
For  battle  billmen  bold  were  bent 
With  fellows  fierce  and  fresh  for  fight. 
Which  Halton  fields  did  turn  in  force ; 
With  lusty  lads,  liver  and  light, 
From  Blackburn  and  Bolton-in-the-Moors. 
With  children  chosen  from  Cheshire 
In  armour  bold  for  battle  drest. 
And  many  a  gentleman  and  squire 
Were  under  Standle/s  streamer  prest, 

etc.  etc.  etc. 


Another  poem  in  the  HarL  MSS,  (Cod.  395^,  of 
less  authentic  character^  etids  thus : — 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  37 

Now  God  that  was  in  Bethlehem  bom, 

^d  for  us  died  upon  a  tree, 
Save  our  noble  prince  that  wears  the  crown, 

And  shew  his  mercy  on  the  Earl  of  Derby. 

The  Mirror  far  Magistrates  contains  two  metri- 
cal pieces  on  the  Battle  of  Flodden  Field.  The 
first  (Vol.  II.,  p.  442)  is  entitled  "The  Lamenta- 
tion of  King  James  the  Fourth,  King  of  Scots, 
slain  at  Brampton  (another  name  for  the  same 
battle),  in  the  sth  year  of  King  Henry  the  Eighth, 
Anno  Christi  1513."  It  contains  nothing  to  con- 
nect it  with  Lancashire.  But  the  next  piece 
(p.  449),  entitled  "The  Bataile  of  Brampton  or 
Floddon  Field,  &ught  in  the  year  of  our  Redeemer 
15 13,  and  in  the  sth  year  of  the  reign  of  the 
victorious  prince  King  Henry  the  Eighth,''  has 
some  reference  to  the  Lancashire  forces.  After 
enumerating  the  leaders  and  officers  in  the  van- 
ward  and  middle-ward,  the  writer,  Francis  Dingley 
of  Manston,  thus  refers  to  the  rear-ward : — 

Stanza  14. 

Sir  Edward  Stanley  in  the  rearward  was  he, 

A  noble  knight  both  wise  and  hardy  j 

With  many  a  noble  man  of  the  west  countrey, 


38  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

And  the  whole  powre  of  the  Earle  of  Darby, 
With  a  royal  retinue  of  the  Bishop  of  Ely ;  ♦ 
And  of  Lankeshyre  men  manly  did  fight, 
By  the  help  of  God,  and  in  their  prince's  right. 


Stanza  i8. 

The  red  lyon  with  his  owne  father's  bloud  inclynate, 
Came  towards  the  white  lyon  bothmeeke  and  mylde. 
And  there  by  the  hand  of  God  he  was  prostrate, 
By  the  help  of  th'  eagle  widi  her  swadled  chylde : 
The  Buckes-heads  also  the  Scots  has  b^;uilde ; 

And  with  their  grey  goose  wings  doulfully  them 
dight, 

By  the  help  of  God,  and  in  our  prince's  right. 


The  eagle  and  child  was  the  crest,  and  the  bucks' 
heads  one  of  the  badges  or  ensigns,  of  the  Stanleys. 
The  grey  goose  wings  of  course  refer  to  the  archers 
under  the  command  of  Sir  Edward  Stanley. 

Sir  Edward  Stanley  of  Hornby  Castle,  Lancashire, 
commanded  the  [left  wing  of  the]  rear  of  the  English 
army  at  Flodden  Field,  9th  September  15 13,  and 
forcing  the  Scots,  by  the  power  of  his  archers. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  39 

to  descend  the  hill,  thus  broke  their  line,  and 
ensured  the  triumph  of  the  English  arms;  for 
which  good  service  Henry  VIII.,  keeping  his 
Whitsuntide  at  Eltham,  the  following  year  (15 14) 
commanded  that  Sir  Edward  Stanley,  for  those 
valiant  acts  against  the  Scots,  where  he  won  the 
hill  and  vanquished  all  that  opposed  him,  as 
also  that  his  ancestcHs  bore  the  eagle  in  their 
crest,  should  be  there  proclaimed  Lord  of  Mont- 
eagle,  and  he  had  subsequently  summons  to  parlia- 
ment in  that  dignity.  He  was  also  elected  a 
Knight  of  the  Garter. — Burkis  Peerage. 


A  LOVE  SONG. 

By  Richard  Sheale} 
(Ashm.  MS.  48.) 

My  Kebbell'  sweet,  in  whom  I  trust, 
Have  now  respect,  and  do  not  faylle 

Thy  faithful  frend,  who  ys  most  just, 
And  shall  not  in  hys  frendshyp  quayle ; 

But  prove  himself  as  just  and  true. 

As  ever  sowthe  was  fownd  in  yow. 

For  fleetynge  tyme,  nor  wastfull  swoord, 
Nor  tawntinge  gyrds  fawstered  in  art. 

Shall  make  me  to  forgo  my  woord, 
Nor  from  my  faythfuU  frend  astart ; 

But  wyll  be  fownd  as  tryW  gowlde, 

As  frendlynes  requyres  yt  showlde. 

^  Richard  Sheale  is  believed  to  have  been  a  Lancashire 
man.  He  wrote  the  rhyming  epitaph  on  Margaret,  Countess 
of  Derby,  second  wife  of  Edward,  second  Earl  (1558),  and 
is  also  believed  to  have  been  the  writer  of  the  finest  old 
ballad  in  the  English  language — '*  Chevy  Chase." 

*  Can  this  be  an  error  for  Rebel  ? 


BALLADS  6*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRJS,     41 

Thy  tender  hart  to  gentell  kynde 
Doth  show  what  rase  ingendred  the ; 

A  nobell  hart  in  th^  I  fynd, 

Which  makes  me  to  thy  wyll  agre ; 

And  ever  wyll  and  ever  shall, 

Tho'  I  showlde  dwell  in  lastyng  thrall. 

Lothsom  dysdayne  dothe  swelle  to  s^, 
And  ragying  ire  doth  boyle  allso, 

For  sowthe  drew  faythe'  grounded  to  be 
In  harts  dwellynge  on  yerthe  below ; 

Wher  the[y]  do  th3mk  that  hydden  guylle 

Doth  trap  men  wyth  hys  subtyll  wyle. 

I  woowld  I  had  the  nymbell  wynges 

Of  mylk-whyte  dove  that  clyps  in  sckye  ;* 

In  fethers  then  I  woold  be  clad 
To  mownt  over  the  mowntaynes  hye, 

And  lyght  on  Xhk  I  woold  be  bolde, 

That  kepethe  fast  my  hart  in  howlde ! 

'  Forsooth,  true  faith ;  />.,  ''in  fact,  trae  £uth." 
*  Clips  in  sky — Anglo-Sax.,  ctyp^  to  cut;  in  other  words, 
that  deaves  the  air. 


A  BALADE  OF  MARYAGE. 

The  following  specimen  of  old  local  poetry 
was  discovered  some  years  ago  among  the  papers 
at  Browsholme  Hall,  Lancashire,  the  seat  of  the 
Parkers,  hereditary  bow-bearers  of  Bowland,  and 
it  is  now  printed  with  Dr.  Whitaker's  abridg- 
ments and  corrections.  We  have  modernised 
the  spelling : — 

In  yonder  wood  there  is  a  dene, 

Where  I  myself  was  late  reposing ; 
Where  blossoms  in  their  prime  have  been, 

And  flowers  fair  their  colours  losing ; 
A  love  of  mine  I  chanced  to  meet, 

Which  caused  me  too  long  to  tarry, 
And  then  of  him  I  did  intreat. 

To  tell  me  when  he  thought  to  marry. 


"  If  thou  wilt  not  my  secret  tell, 

Ne  bruit  abroad  in  Whalley  parish, 


BALLADS  &*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE,     43 

And  swear  to  keep  my  counsel  well, 
I  will  declare  my  day  of  marriage. 


"  When  summer's  heat  will  dry  no  mire, 

And  winter's  rain  no  longer  patter ; 
When  lead  will  melt  withouten  fire, 

And  bear-brades*  do  need  no  water ; 
When  Downham  stones'  with  diamond  rings, 

And  cockles  be  with  pearls  compared ; 
When  gold  is  made  of  gray  goose  wings. 

Then  will  my  love  and  I  be  married. 

"  When  buck  and  hart  in  Hodder  lies. 

And  graylings  on  the  fells  are  breeding ; 
When  mussels  grow  on  every  tree. 

And  swans  on  every  rock  are  feeding ; 
When  mountains  are  by  men  removed, 

And  Ribble  back  to  Horton  carried. 
Or  Pendle  Hill  grows  silk  above, 

Then  will  my  love  and  I  be  married. 

'  The  young  green  shoots  of  bear,  or  bigg,  a  coarse  kind 
of  barley,  to  which  rain  is  indispensable  when. they  first 
appear  above  ground. 

'  At  Downham  crystals  are  found,  usually  called  Down- 
ham  diamonds,  which  in  lustre  equal  Bristol  stones. 


44     BALLADS  &-  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

"  When  moor  or  moss  do  saffron  yield, 

And  beck*  and  sike*  run  down  with  honey ; 
When  sugar  grows  in  every  field, 

And  clerks  will  take  no  bribe  of  money ; 
When  men  in  Bowland  dieth  here. 

And  at  Jerusalem  be  buried; 
Or  when  the  sun  doth  rise  at  noon, 

Then  will  my  love  and  I  be  married." 

"  Now,  farewell,  fnend ;  if  it  be  so. 

And  this  thy  once  expected  wedding ; 
For  neither  I,  nor  none  of  my  kin 

Will  ever  need  to  look  for  bidding.* 
I  swear  and  vow,  if  this  be  true, 

And  thou  of  such  an  evil  carriage, 
If  I  should  live  ten  thousand  year, 
.  I'd  never  more  expect  Ay  marriage." 

'  Beck  is  the  Scandinavian  name  for  a  brook  or  bum. 

*  Sike  is  a  small  rivulet  or  stream ;  in  Lancashire  often 
called  a  rindle. 

'  Bidding  to  a  wedding  is  inviting.  So  at  a  funeral,  two 
or  four  persons,  called  bidders,  are  sent  about  to  invite  the 
friends  and  distribute  the  mourning. 


THE  BLESSED  CONSCIENCE. 

Written  on  the  departure  from  Merry  England  of 
TTumas  Hoghton^  Esq,  of  Hoghton  Tower, 

"This  ballad,"  it  is  sUted  by  Mr.  J.  H.  Dixon 
(who  was  an  active  member  of  the  Perqr  Society, 
and  a  great  collector  of  these  things),  "has  long 
been  sung  in  Pendle  Forest,  Lancashire,  and  the 
neighbourhood;  having  been  handed  down  by 
tradition.  It  was  first  printed  by  Mr.  Peter 
Whittle,  F.S.A.,  of  Preston,  whose  copy  was  taken 
from  the  recitation  of  a  Lancashire  fiddler.  There 
are  various  versions,  but  the  differences  between 
them  are  unimportant"  The  ballad  carries  with 
it  evidence  of  the  date  of  the  events  it  sings.  The 
"Bishop  Younge"  named  in  the  3d  verse,  was 
originally  a  chorister  at  St  David's  Cathedral,  and 
in  1559  was  made  bishop  of  that  see,  from  which 
he  was  translated  to  the  archiepiscopal  see  ot 
York,  which  he  held  about  ten  years  (1560-1570) 


46  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

and  was  also  for  a  considerable  period  Lord  Presi- 
dent of  the  North.  In  both  his  high  functions, 
civil  and  ecclesiastic,  he  would  have  the  right  to 
summon  before  him  any  "obstinate"  Catholic 
recusant  who  would  not  attend  church,  or  who 
otherwise  showed  his  determination  not  to  conform 
to  the  sort  of  Protestantism  which  was  held  to  be 
the  established  religion  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 
The  Thomas  Hoghton,  the  hero  of  the  ballad,  was, 
in  all  probability,  the  son  and  heir  (by  his  first 
wife,  Alice  Assheton)  of  Sir  Richard,  who  was 
knight  of  the  shire  in  1547.  At  Sir  Richard's 
death  in  1559,  Thomas  was  40  years  of  age.  He 
married  Catherine,  daughter  of  Sir  Thomas  Gerard 
of  Brynne,  and  both  families  were  persecuted  for 
their  religion.  The  only  full  brother  of  Thomas 
was  Alexander,  who  was  twice  married,  but  died 
without  issue.  Thomas  had^  however,  three  half- 
brothers,  sons  of  his  father's  second  wife,  Alice 
Morley,  of  whom  the  eldest  was  the  Thomas  who 
was  Sheriff  of  Lancashire  in  1563,  and  who 
was  slain  at  Lea  in  a  tumult  brought  against 
him  by  Thomas  Langton,  Baron  of  Newton,  in 
November  1589.  The  other  two  were  Rowland 
and  Richard;  the  latter,  though  only  of  half 
blood,  being  the  only  real  brother  in  love,  if  we 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  47 

are  to  believe  the  ballad.  We  take  it  from  a  printed 
copy  in  eight  pagjes,  obhgingly  forwarded  to  us  for 
that  purpose,  by  Mr.  Whittle,  only  modernising 
the  spelling. — Ed. 

Apollo,  with  his  radiant  beams, 

Inflamed  the  air  so  fair, 
Phaeton  with  his  fiery  teams 

The  heat  of  wars  did  bear. 
The  day  was  hot,  the  evening  cool, 

And  pleasures  did  abound ; 
And  meads,  with  many  a  crystal  pool. 

Did  yield  a  joyful  sound. 

This  fragrant  time  to  pleasures  prest, 

Myself  for  to  soUce, 
I  walked  forth,  as  I  thought  best. 

Into  a  private  place. 
And  as  I  went,  myself  alone. 

There  came  to  my  presence 
A  friend,  who  seem'd  to  make  great  moan. 

And  said,  "  Go,  get  you  hence." 

"Alas  !  good  Sir,  what  is  the  caase 

You  this  have  said  to  mel" 
"  Indeed,"  he  said,  "  the  Prince's  laws 

Will  bear  no  more  with  thee : 


48  BALLADS  b*  SOXGS 

For  Bishop  Younge  will  summon  thee ; 

You  must  to  his  presence ; 
For  in  this  land  you  cannot  live 

And  keep  your  conscience." 

'*  I  am  told,  I  must  not  ride, 
What  is  my  best  to  do?" 
"  Good  Sir,  here  you  must  not  abide, 
Unless  to  church  you  go  : 
Or  else  to  Preston  you  must  wend, 

For  here  is  no  residence ; 
For  in  this  land  you  have  no  friend 
To  keep  your  conscience." 

*'  Then  did  I  think  it  was  the  best 

For  me  in  time  provide  : 
For  Bishop  Younge  would  me  molest, 

If  here  I  should  abide. 
Then  did  I  cause  my  men  prepare, 

A  ship  for  my  defence ; 
For  in  this  land  I  could  not  fare. 

And  keep  my  conscience. 

"  When  my  ship  that  it  was  hired, 
My  men  retum*d  again ; 
The  time  was  almost  full  expired. 
That  here  I  should  remain  ; 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  49 

To  Preston  town  I  should  have  gone 

To  make  recognizance ; 
For  other  helps  perceived  I  none, 

But  keep  my  conscience. 

"  To  lovely  Lea'  then  I  me  hied, 

And  Hoghton  bade  farewell : 
It  was  more  time  for  me  to  ride, 

Than  longer  there  to  dwell. 
I  durst  not  trust  my  dearest  friend, 

But  secretly  stole  hence, 
To  take  the  fortune  God  should  send, 

And  keep  my  conscience. 

"  When  to  the  sea  I  came  until  [/>.,  unto], 
And  passed  by  the  gate, 
My  cattle  all,  with  voices  shrill, 
As  if  they  moum*d  my  fate, 

^  Lea,  a  manor  and  hamlet  three  miles  west  of  Preston, 
came  to  the  Hpghtons  by  the  marriage  of  Sir  Richard  de 
Hoghton,  about  1308  or  1309,  to  Sibilla,  daughter  and 
heiress  of  William,  son  and  heir  of  Henry  de  I^a.  Lea 
Hall  was  about  three  and  a  half  miles  from  Preston  ;  and  it 
was  there  that  Thomas  Hoghton  (our  hero's  half-brother), 
then  sheriff,  was  slain  by  Thomas  Langton,  baron  of  Newton, 
in  November  1589,  a  few  months  before  Thomas  the  elder 
died  in  exile. 

£ 


50  BALLADS  &-  SONGS 

Did  leap  and  roar,  as  if  they  had 

Understood  my  diligence  [1  intelligence]  : 

It  seem'd  my  cause  they  understood, 
Thro'  God*«  good  providence. 

"  At  Hoghton  high,  which  is  a  bower 

Of  sports  and  lordly  pleasure, 
I  wept,  and  left  that  lofty  tower 

Which  was  my  chiefest  treasure.' 
To  save  my  soul  and  lose  the  rest, 

It  was  my  true  pretence  : 
Like  frighted  bird,  I  left  my  nest. 

To  keep  ray  conscience. 

"  Thus  took  I  there  my  leave,  alas  ! 
And  rode  to  the  sea-side ; 
Into  the  ship  I  hied  apace, 
Which  did  for  me  abide. 

*  Hoghton  was  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Hoghtons,  being 
held  as  early  as  the  reign  of  Henry  II.  by  Adam  de  Hocton, 
who  married  the  daughter  of  Warin  de  Bussel,  baron  of 
Penwortham,  shortly  after  the  Conquest.  The  present 
Hoghton  Tower,  now  a  ruin,  of  which  only  two  or  three 
apartments  remain,  was  built  by  Sir  Thomas  Hoghton  (who 
here  laments  to  leave  it)  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  Pre- 
viously, the  ancient  manor-house  stood  below  the  hill  on  the 
water-side ;  but  he  built  the  new  tower,  with  a  lofty  gate- 
house, on  its  present  elevated  and  commanding  site. 


J 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  5 1 

With  sighs  I  saird  from  merry  England, 

I  ask'd  of  none  license  : 
Wherefore  my  estate  fell  from  my  hand, 

And  was  forfeit  to  my  Prince. 

"  Thus  merry  England  have  I  left, 

And  cut  the  raging  sea, 
Whereof  the  waves  have  me  bereft 

Of  my  so  dear  country. 
With  sturdy  storms  and  blustering  blast 

We  were  in  great  suspense ; 
Full  sixteen  days  and  nights  they  last. 

And  all  for  my  conscience. 

"  When  on  the  shore  I  was  arrived, 

Through  France  I  took  my  way ; 
And  unto  Antwerp  I  me  hied, 

In  hope  to  make  my  stay. 
When  to  the  city  I  did  come, 

I  thought  that  my  absence 
Would  to  my  men  be  cumbersome. 

Though  they  made  me  no  offence. 


a 


At  Hoghton,  where  I  used  to  rest, 
Of  men  I  had  great  store. 

Full  twenty  gentlemen  at  least, 
Of  yeomen  good  threescore. 


52  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

And  of  them  all,  I  brought  but  two 
With  me,  when  I  came  thence ; 

I  left  them  all  the  world  knows  how, 
To  keep  my  conscience. 

"  But  when  my  men  came  to  me  still, 

Lord  !  how  rejoiced  I, 
To  see  them  with  so  good  a  will 

To  leave  their  own  country  ! 
Both  friends  and  kin  they  did  forsake, 

And  all  for  my  presence ; 
Alive  or  dead,  amends  I'll  make. 

And  give  them  recompence. 

'^  But  fortune  had  me  so  berefl, 

Of  all  my  goods  and  lands. 
That  for  my  men  was  nothing  left 

But  at  my  brethren's  hands. 
Then  did  I  think  the  truth  to  prove 

Whilst  I  was  in  absence. 
That  I  might  try  their  constant  love. 

And  keep  my  conscience. 

"  When  to  my  brethren  I  had  sent, 

« 

The  welcome  that  they  made 
Was,  false  reports  me  to  present, 
Which  made  my  conscience  sad. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  S3 

My  brethren  all  did  thus  me  cross, 

And  little  regard  my  fall, 
Save  only  one — that  rued  my  loss — 

That  is  Richard,  of  Park  Hall. 

"  He  was  the  comfort  that  I  had ; 

I  proved  his  diligence ; 
He  was  as  just,  as  they  were  bad, 

Which  cheered  my  conscience. 
When  this  report  of  them  I  heard. 

My  heart  was  sore  with  grief, 
In  that  my  purpose  was  so  marr'd. 

My  men  should  want  relief. 

"  Good  cause  I  had  to  love  my  men, 

And  them  to  recompense ; 
Their  lives  they  ventured,  I  know  when, 

And  left  their  dear  parents. 
Then  to  come  home  straightway  I  meant. 

My  men  for  to  relieve ; 
My  brethren  sought  this  to  prevent. 

And  sums  of  gold  did  give. 

•*  A  thousand  marks'  they  offered  then, 
To  hinder  my  license ; 
That  I  should  not  come  home  again, 
To  keep  my  conscience. 


54  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

But  if  that  day  I  once  had  seen, 

My  lands  to  have  again, 
And  that  my  Prince  had  changM  been, 

I  would  not  me  have  sta/n. 

I  •  •  •     . 

''  I  should  my  men  so  well  have  paid, 
Thro'  God's  good  providence, 
That  they  should  ne'er  have  been  afraid 
To  lose  their  due  expense. 

"  But  now  my  life  is  at  an  end, 

And  death  is  at  the  door ; 
That  grisly  ghost  his  bow  doth  bend. 

And  through  my  body  gore ; 
Which  nature  now  must  yield  to  clay, 

And  death  will  take  me  hence ; 
And  now  I  shall  go  where  I  may 

Enjoy  my  conscience. 

'<  Fair  England  !  now  ten  times  adieu. 

And  friends  that  therein  dwell ; 
Farewell  my  brother  Richard  true. 

Whom  I  did  love  so  well 
Farewell,  farewell !  good  people  all, 

And  learn  experience; 
Love  not  too  much  the  golden  ball. 

But  keep  your  consciince  !" 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  5S 

All  you  who  now  this  song  shall  hear, 

Help  me  for  to  bewail 
The  wight,  who  scarcely  had  his  peer, 

Till  death  did  him  ass^L' 
His  life  a  mirror  was  to  all, 

His  death  without  offence ; 
"Confessor,"  then,  let  us  him  call, 

O  blessed  conscience ! 

*  He  seems  to  have  itied  in  exile  in  Ihe  year  1590,  aged 


THE   RADCLIFFE   TRAGEDY   OF 
"FAIR   ELLEN." 

Amongst  the  common  people  (says  Baines  in  his 
Latuashiri)  a  story  is  currently  believed  that  the 
kitchen  of  Radcliffe  Tower  was  the  scene  of  a 
cruel  tragedy,  perpetrated  by  a  menial  on  the 
daughter  of  the  lord,  to  gratify  the  malice  and 
cupidity  of  a  stepmother ;  and  a  red  stain  on 
the  floor  marks,  as  it  is  said,  the  place  where  the 
victim  fixed  her  bloody  hand  while  her  murderer 
perpetrated  the  atrocity.  Although  there  is  nothing 
in  the  family  history  to  support  this  tradition, 
and  although  for  60  years  back  at  least  (we  may 
now  say,  for  nearly  a  century)  there  has  been 
no  such  relic  to  be  found  in  Radcliffe  Tower, 
the  tradition  is  not  on  that  account  the  less 
firmly  believed.  A  ballad  of  the  story,  under 
the  title  of  "The  Lady  Isabella's  Tragedy,"  is 
printed  in  Bishop  Percy's  Reiiqiies  (vol.  iii,  p. 
154)1    *ith    the   following   introduction: — "This 


BALLADS  6-  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE.     $7 

ballad  is  given  from  an  old  black-letter  copy,  in 
the  Pepys  collection,  collated  with  another  in  the 
British  Museum  (H.  263,  fol.)     It  is  there  entitled 

*  The  Lady  Isabella's  Tragedy,  or  the  Stepmother's 
Cruelty ;  being  a  relation  of  a  lamentable  and  cruel 
murther,  committed  on  the  body  of  the  Lady 
Isabella,  the  only  daughter  to  a  noble  Duke,* 
etc  To  the  tune  of  *The  Lady's  Fall.'  To 
some  copies  are  annexed  eight  more  modem 
stanzas,  entitled,  *  The  Duchess's  and  Cook's  La- 
mentation.' "  The  legend  runs  somewhat  thus : — 
"In  times  long  past,  Sir  William  de  Radcliffe 
possessed  Radcliffe  Tower.  His  first  wife  had 
died  in  giving  birth  to  her  first  child,  a  girl,  who, 
when  she  grew  up,  became  remarkable  for  her 
beauty.  But,  in  the  meantime,  Sir  William  had 
married  again,  and  the  stepmother,  a  haughty  and 
ambitious  woman,  cordially  hated  the  only  person 
who  divided  her  husband's  affections  with  herself. 
One  day,  when  Ellen  was  about  eighteen  years 
of  age.  Sir  William  went  out  hunting.  This  seemed 
to  the  stepmother  a  good  opportunity  for  the 
execution  of  a  nefarious  design  she  had  long 
cherished.     Calling  her  daughter  to  her,  she  said, 

*  Fair   daughter,  go,  I  beseech  thee,  and  tell  the 
master- cook  that  he  must  dress  the  white  doe 


58  BALLADS  &-  SONGS 

for  dinner.'  The  damsel,  unconscious  of  any 
harm,  did  as  she  was  requested.  When  she  had 
delivered  her  message  the  cook  said,  'You  are 
the  white  doe  my  lady  means;  and  it  is  you  I 
must  kill.'  In  vain  did  the  unhappy  victim 
implore  and  intreat,  and  in  vain  did  a  scullion 
boy  offer  himself  in  her  place;  the  damsel  was 
killed,  and  made  into  a  pie.  In  the  meantime, 
Sir  William's  chase  had  been  long  and  animated ; 
but  he  was  unable  to  drive  away  a  foreboding 
of  ill  that  kept  crossing  his  mind,  and  at  last 
he  felt  impelled  to  order  his  retinue  to  return. 
At  dinner  he  called  for  his  daughter  to  carve 
for  him,  as  was  her  wont,  but  she  appeared  not. 
On  asking  his  wife  where  she  was,  she  urged  as 
an  excuse  that  she  was  gone  into  a  nunnery, 
but  the  scullion  boy  exclaimed,  'Tis  false;  cut 
open  that  pie  and  there  you  will  find  your 
daughter !'  He  then  related  the  sad  catastrophe, 
and  the  cruel  stepmother  was  condemned  to  be 
burned  at  the  stake,  and  the  cook  to  stand  in 
boiling  lead.  The  scullion  boy  was  declared  the 
heir  of  all  his  lord's  possessions."  —  Percfs 
Rdiques. 

Dr.  Whitaker,  in  his  History  of  IVhailey,  says  : — 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  59 

''  To  this  place  and  femily  (Radcliffe  of  Radcliffe 
Tower)  are  attached  the  tradition  and  ballad  given 
by  Dr.  Percy  under  the  name  of  Isabella,  but  here 
applied  to  a  Lord  Thomas  and  Fair  Ellenor, 
father  and  daughter,  whose  figures  are  supposed 
to  be  graven  on  a  slab  in  the  church,'  which  the 
common  people — concluding,  I  suppose,  from  its 
whiteness  that  it  was  meant  as  an  emblem  of 
the  innocence  it  is  said  to  cover — ^have  mutilated, 
by  breaking  off  small  fragments  as  amulets  for  the 
prevention  or  cure  of  disorders.  Traditions,  always 
erroneous  in  their  circumstances,  are  yet  rarely 
devoid  of  foundation ;  and  though  the  pedigrees 
of  Radcliffe  exhibit  no  failure  of  the  family  by 
the  premature  death  of  an  heiress;    though  the 

'  This  slab  Dr.  Whitaker  describes  as  '*an  alabaster 
slab,  north-west  of  the  altar,  in  Radcliffe  church,  covering 
the  remains  of  James  de  RadclifTe,  founder  of  the  church. 
There  are,  as  usual,  a  male  and  female  figure  cumbent,  the 
man  in  armour;  and  some  remains  of  children,  in  praying 
attitudes,  beneath.  What  can  be  recovered  of  the  inscrip- 
tion  round  the  veige  is  as  follows  : — 

Orate  pr.  aia  Jacob!  de  RadclyfT  ....  qu  ai  ...  . 
propideret  Deus." 

(That  is,  '*  Pray  for  the  souls  of  James  de  Radcliffe,  etc.,  on 
whose  souls  God  have  mercy.") 


6o  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

last  Richard  de  RadcliflFe,  who  had  daughters  only," 
certainly  did  not  make  *a  scullion  boy  the  heir 
of  all  his  land/  when  he  settled  it  on  Radcliffe, 
Baron  Fitzwalter ;  though  the  blood  actually 
pointed  out  on  the  kitchen  floor,  where  this 
Thyestaean  banquet  is  said  to  have  been  prepared, 
deserves  no  more  regard  than  many  of  the  stories 

and  appearances  of  the  same  kind ;  yet 

we  are  not  to  discard  as  incredible  the  tradition 
of  a  barbarous  age,  merely  because  it  asserts  the 
sacrifice  of  a  young  and  beautiful  heiress  to  the 
jealousy  or  the  avarice  of  a  stepmother.  When 
this  is  granted,  the  story  of  the  pie,  with  all  its 
horrors,  may  safely  be  ascribed  to  the  inventive 
genius  of  a  minstrel.  On  the  whole,  Radcliffe  is 
a  place  which,  not  only  from  its  antiquity  and 
splendour,  but  from  the  great  families  which  have 
branched  out  from  it,  and  the  romantic  tradition 
attached  to  it,  can  scarcely  be  surveyed  without 
enthusiasm,  or  quitted  without  regret"  The  bal- 
lad is  printed  both  by  Roby  and  Baines;  the 
latter  observing  that  the  story  is  curious,  and 
deserves  to  be  preserved  in  its  original  garb,  as 
well  for  its  antiquity  as  for  its  poetic  merit : — 

*  He  died  in  1502,  as  per  inquisition,  aged  31,  leaving 
daughters,  who  are  not  noticed  in  the  descent. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  6i 


FAIR  ELLEN  OF   RADCLIFFE. 

There  was  a  lord  of  worthy  fame, 
And  a  hunting  he  would  ride, 

Attended  by  a  noble  traine 
Of  gentrye  by  his  side. 

And  while  he  did  in  chase  remaine 
To  see  both  sport  and  playe, 

His  lady  went,  as  she  did  feigne, 
Unto  the  church  to  praye. 

This  lord  he  had  a  daughter  deare, 
Whose  beauty  shone  so  bright, 

She  was  beloved  both  far  and  neare 
Of  many  a  lord  and  knight 

Fair  Ellen  was  this  maiden  call'd ; 

A  creature  faire  was  she ; 
She  was  her  father's  only  joye, 

As  you  shall  after  see. 

Therefore  her  cruel  stepmother 
Did  envye  her  so  muche, 

That  day  by  day  she  sought  her  life, 
Her  malice  it  was  suche. 


62  BALLADS  5*  SONGS 

She  bargain'd  with  the  master-cook. 

To  take  her  life  awaye ; 
And,  taking  of  her  daughter's  book, 

She  thus  to  her  did  saye  : — 

"  Go  home,  sweet  daughter,  I  thee  praye, 
Go  hasten  presentli^ ; 
And  tell  unto  the  master-cook 
These  wordes  that  I  tell  thee  : 

"  And  bid  him  dress  to  dinner  streight 
That  faire  and  milk-white  doe 
That  in  the  parke  doth  shine  so  bright, 
There's  none  so  faire  to  showe." 

This  ladye,  fearing  of  no  harme, 

Obey'd  her  mothers  will ; 
And  presentlye  she  hasted  home 

Her  pleasure  to  fulfill 

She  streight  into  the  kitchen  went, 

Her  message  for  to  tell ; 
And  there  she  spied  the  master-cook, 

Who  did  with  malice  swell. 

"  Nowe,  master-cook,  it  must  be  soe. 
Do  that  which  I  thee  tell ; 
You  needs  must  dresse  the  milk-white  doe, 
Which  you  do  knowe  full  well." 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  63 

Then  straight  his  cruell,  bloody  hands 

He  on  the  ladye  laid, 
Who  quivering  and  shaking  stands, 

While  thus  to  her  he  sayd : — 

^  Thou  art  the  doe  that  I  must  dresse ; 
See  here,  behold  my  knife ; 
For  it  is  pointed,  presentlye 
To  ridd  thee  of  thy  life." 

O  then  cried  out  the  scullion-boye. 
As  loud  as  loud  might  bee, — 
"  O,  save  her  life,  good  master-cook, 
And  make  your  pyes  of  mee ! 

"  For  pitye's  sake  do  not  destroye 
My  ladye  with  your  knife ; 
You  knowe  shee  is  her  father's  joye ; 
For  Cbriste's  sake  save  her  life." 

"  I  will  not  save  her  life,"  he  sayd, 
"  Nor  make  my  pyes  of  thee ; 
Yet,  if  thou  dost  this  deed  bewraye, 
Thy  butcher  I  will  bee." 

Now  when  his  lord  he  did  come  home 

For  to  sit  downe  and  eat, 
He  called  for  his  daughter  deare 

To  come  and  carve  his  meat. 


64  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

"  Nowe  sit  you  downe,"  his  ladye  sayd, 
"  O  sit  you  downe  to  meat ; 
Into  some  numiery  she  is  gone  : 
Your  daughter  deare  forget" 

Then  solemnlye  he  made  a  vowe, 

Before  the  compani^, 
That  he  would  neither  eat  nor  drinke 

Until  he  did  her  see. 

0  then  bespake  the  scuUion-boye, 
With  a  loud  voice  so  hye — 

"  If  now  you  will  your  daughter  see, 
My  lord,  cut  up  that  pye, 

'^  Wherein  her  flesh  is  mincM  small, 
And.  parchid  with  the  fire ; 
All  caused  by  her  stepmother, 
Who  did  her  death  desire. 

"  And  cursM  bee  the  master-cook, 
O  cursed  may  he  bee  ! 

1  proffered  him  my  own  heart's  blood. 

From  death  to  set  her  fi-ee." 

Then  all  in  blacke  this  lorde  did  moume, 
And,  for  his  daughter's  sake, 

He  judged  her  cruel  stepmother 
To  bee  burnt  at  a  stake. 


OF  LANCASHIRE. 

Likewise  he  judg'd  the  master-cook 
In  boiling  lead  to  stand ; 

And  made  the  simple  scullion-boye 
The  heire  of  all  his  land. 


^K  ^^^bWt^^VtUB 

g^gg^ 

gra 

^HHHt^^^^pHI^^' ^^^HRf ^  '1^^^^^ 

f^J%SJS^^!^^^   '^^'^ 

^^ 

JAMES  I.  AND  THE  LOIN  OF  BEEF. 

During  the  progress  in  Lancashire  of  James  L 
he  spent  some  days  at  Hoghton  Tower,  and  at 
dinner  there  on  Sunday,  17th  August  161 7,  his 
majesty  was  so  much  pleased  with  a  fine  loin  of 
beef,  that  in  a  merry  mood  he  knighted  the  joint, 
which  has  ever  since  been  called  the  "Sir-loin.*' 
The  following  lines  were  written  on  the  occasion 
and  sung  in  the  neighbourhood;  and  have  been 
preserved  by  Mr.  P.  A.  Whittle,  F.S.A. 


THE  SIR  LOIN. 

Thee  the  god  of  plenty  bore 
To  the  king  of  Britain's  shore, 
His  fav'rite  dish.     In  James's  time 
Plain  meat  was  not  deem'd  a  crime. 

The  god,  in  guise  of  yeoman  tall, 
Pass'd  along  the  crowded  hall ; 
And  with  portly  mien  and  bland, 
Gave  thee  to  the  monarch's  hand. 


BALLADS  *•  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE.     67 

The  well-known  dish  the  King  survey'd, 
And  then  drew  forth  the  shining  blade ; 
He  waved  it  thrice,  with  gentle  tap, 
Thrice  impos'd  the  knightly  slap. 

And  worthier  thou  a  king's  reward 
Than  half  the  titled  bands,  I  ween, 
At  courtly  masque  or  banquet  seen. 
Oft  in  winter  at  thy  side 
May  thy  loved  plum-pudding  bide ! 

Near  thee,  by  the  parson  wedded, 
And  with  nuptial  blessings  bedded ! 
Preserv'd  in  Thomson's  matchless  lay. 
Sir  Loin,  thou  will  ne'er  decay. 


WARRIKIN  FAIR. 

There  is  an  old  ballad  still  preserved — we  be- 
lieve  by  Mr.  J.  O.  Halliwell  (communicated  to 
the  Editor  by  William  Beamont,  Esq.  of  War- 
rington),— describing,  in  the  dialect  of  the  place 
and  time  (and  it  is  perhaps  the  oldest  ballad 
extant  in  the  Lancashire  dialect),  how  Gilbert 
Scott  sold  his  mare  Barry  at  Warrikin  (i.  e,, 
Warrington)  Fair.  Its  date  is  fixed  by  the  name 
"  Rondle  Shays "  in  the  fifth  verse ;  for  the  name 
of  Sir  Thomas  Butler's  bailiff  in  the  2d  Edward 
VI.  (1548)  was  Handle  Shay  or  Shaw: — 

Now,  au  yo  good  gentlefoak,  an  yo  won  tarry, 
ril  tell  yo  how  Gilbert  Scot  soud  his  mare  Bany ; 
He  soud  his  mare  Barry  at  Warrikin  fair. 
But  when  he'll  be  paid,  he  knaws  no',  I'll  swear. 


So  when  he  coom  whom,  and  toud  his  woife  Grace, 
Hoo  stud  up  o'  th'  kippo,  and  swat  him  o'er  th'  face, 


BALLADS  &»  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE,     69 

Hoo  pick'd  him  o'  th'  hillock,  and  he  fawd  wi'  a 

whack, 
That  he  thowt  would  welly  a  brocken  his  back. 

"  O  woife,"  quo'  he,  "  if  thou'U  le'mme  but  rise, 
I'll  gi'  thee  aw*  th'  leet,  wench,  imme  that  lies;" 
•"  Tho  udgit,"  quo'  hoo,  "  blit  wheer  does  he  dwell?" 
"  By  lakin,"  quo'  he,  "  that  I  conno'  tell." 

"  I  tuck  him  for  f  be  some  gentlemon's  son, 
For  he  spent  tuppence  on  me,  when  we  had  dun ; 
An'  he  gen  me  a  lunchin  o'  denty  snig  poy. 
An'  by  th'  bond  did  he  shak'  me  most  lovingly." 

Then  Grace  hoo  prompted  hur  neatly  and  fine, 
An'  to  Warrikin  went  o*  We'nsday  betime ; 
An'  theer,  too,  hoo  staid  for  foive  markit  days. 
Till  th'  mon  wi'  th'  mare  were  cum  t'  Rondle  Shay's. 

An*  as  hoo  wer*  resting  one  day  in  hur  rowm, 
Hoo  spo/d  th'  toon  a-riding  th'  mare  into  th'  town  ; 
Then  bounce  goos  hur  heart,  an'  hoo  weresogloppen, 
That  out  o'  th'  winder  hoo'd  like  for  to  loppen. 

Hoo  stampt  an'  hoo  stared,  an'  down  stairs  hoo  run, 
Wi'  hur  heart  in  hur  hont,  an'  hur  wint  welly  gone ; 
Her  head-gear  flew  off,  an'  so  did  her  snood ; 
Hoo  stampt  an'  hoo  stared,  as  if  hoo'd  bin  woode. 


70  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

To  Rondle's  hoo  hied,  an'  hoo  hov*  up  the  latch, 
Afore  th'  mon  had  tied  th'  mare  gradely  to  th'  cratch. 
"  My  gud  mon,"  quo'  hoo,  "Gilbert  greets  you  right 

merry, 
And  begs  that  yo'U  send  him  th'  money  for  Berry." 

"Oh,  money!"  quo'  he,  "that  connot  I  spare :" 
"  Be  lakin,"  quo'  hoo,  "  then  I'll  ha'  th'  mare." 
Hoo  poo'd  an'  hoo  thrumper'd  him  sham'  to  be  seen, 
"  Thou  hangman,"  quo'  hoo,  "  I'll  poo'  out  thy  e'en. 

"  I'll  mak'  thee  a  sompan,  I'll  houd  thee  a  groat ; 
I'll  auther  ha'  th'  money,  or  poo'  out  thy  throat :" 
So  between  'em  they  made  sich  a  wearisom'  din, 
That  to  mak'  'em  at  peace,  Rondle  Shay  did  come  in. 

"  Cum,  fye,  naunty  Grace ;  cum,  fye,  an'  ha'  dun  ; 
You'st  ha'  th'  mare,  or  th'  money,  whether  yo'  won." 
So  Grace  geet  th'  money,  an'  whomwards  hoo's  gone ; 
But  hoo  keeps  it  hursel',  an'  gies  Gilbert  Scot  none. 

A  few  words  in  this  quaint  ballad  require  a 
glossary.  It  has  evidently  been  preserved  by 
oral  tradition  for  a  time,  and  then  incorrectly 
dictated  by,  or.  taken  down  from,  its  singer.  The 
second  line  of  the  second  verse  should  read  thus — 
"  Hoo  tuck  up  th'  kippo,  an'  swat  him  o'er  th'  face ;" 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  71 

that  is — She  took  up  the  big  stick  and  struck  him 
over  the  face.  The  next  line  reads — She  pushed 
or  pitched  him  upon  the  hillock,  and  he  fell  with 
a  whack,  or  great  force.  "Welly"  is  well-nigh, 
nearly.  The  second  line  of  the  third  verse,  in 
English,  is — I  will  give  thee  all  the  light,  wench, 
in  me  that  lies.  ^  Udgit "  may  mean  a  soft  fool, 
or  a  clumsy  fellow ;  or  it  may  be  a  form  of  hedge- 
hog. "By  lakin"  is  a  corruption  of  "  B/r  lakin," 
itself  a  corruption  of  "By  our  lady,"  a  Roman 
Catholic  expletive  often  to  be  met  with  in  old 
plays.  The  third  line  of  the  fourth  verse  reads — 
And  he  gave  me  a  luncheon  of  dainty  snig  (i>.  eel) 
pie.  We  should  be  inclined  to  read  the  first  line 
of  the  fifth  verse  thus — ^Then  Grace  she  pranked 
her  (i.&  dressed,  adorned  herself)  featly  and  fine. 
The  third  and  fourth  lines  of  this  verse  mean  that 
she  stayed  at  Warrington  five  market-days,  till  the 
man  with  the  mare  came  and  put  up  at  Randle 
Shay's.  "Gloppen"  means  startled,  surprised; 
"  Loppen,"  to  have  leaped  In  the  seventh  verse 
are  two  similar  colloquialisms,  "  her  heart  in.  her 
hand,  and  her  wind  (breath)  well-nigh  gone." 
"Snood"  is  a  hair-fillet  or  band.  "  Woode"  is  mad, 
wild.  The  two  first  lines  of  verse  eight  read — To 
Randle's  she  went,  and  she  heaved  up  the  latch, 


72     BALLADS  S^  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

before  the  man  had  tied  the  mare  properly  or  com- 
pletely to  the  hay-rack.  "Poo'd"  is  pulled;  "thium- 
per'd,"  thumped,  beat  "Sompan"  is  probably  what 
we  still  mean  by  sumph,  a  foolish,  stupid  fellow, 
"  I'll  hold  thee  a  groat," — I'll  bet  thee  a  wager  of  a 
groat  Shakspere  has  "  to  hold  a  penny,"  in  the 
sense  of  to  bet  a  trifle.  In  the  last  verse  Randle 
Shay  accosts  Grace  Scott  familiarly  as  "  Naunty" 
or  aunt,  a  common  mode  of  salutation  to  elderly 
women. 


BRIGADIER    MACINTOSH'S    ESCAPE 
AND    "FAREWELL." 

Brigadier  Macintosh,  Laird  of  Borlum,  was  an  old 
and  experienced  officer,  who  had  served  in  Holland 
with  King  James's  guards.  He  was  kinsman  to 
the  chief  styled  The  Macintosh,  the  chief  of  the 
powerful  clan  Cattan  or  Chattan,  who  joined  the 
Scottish  rebels,  to  the  number  of  more  than  300  well- 
disciplined  men.  The  Brigadier,  who  was  a  brave 
yet  cautious  soldier,  crossed  the  Firth  of  Forth 
with  great  skill,  in  face  of  the  enemy,  and  had 
he  been  commander  of  the  rebel  forces,  they  would 
have  made  a  very  much  more  sturdy  resistance  at 
Preston.  He  despised  the  incompetency  of 
Forster,  the  so-called  "General,"  who  yet  was 
placed  over  him,  and  would  not  follow  his  sugges- 
tions or  counsel.  The  Brigadier  planned  the 
defence  of  Preston,  and  fought  there  at  the  head 
of  the  Highland  force.  Being  taken  prisoner,  he 
was  committed  to  Newgate,  from  which  prison  he, 


74  BALLADS  &»  SONGS 

with  seven  companions^  effected  his  escape  on  the 
night  of  the  4th  May  1 7 1 6 ;  his  trial  being  fixed 
for  the  following  day.  The  old  Brigadier,  then  in 
his  59th  year,  and  his  daring  comrades,  forced  their 
way  out  of  Newgate,  knocking  down  the  keeper 
and  the  turnkey,  and  disarming  the  sentinel 
Though  a  reward  of  ;^iooo  was  offered  for  his 
apprehension,  he  got  clear  away  to  the  Continent 
Notwithstanding  a  bill  of  attainder  and  outlawry 
was  passed  against  him,  which  excluded  him  from 
participating  in  the  freedom  promised  by  the  gene- 
ral Act  of  Indemnity,  he  ventured  (probably  after 
the  death  of  George  I.)  to  return  to  his  native 
country;  but  he  was  seized  and  imprisoned  for 
life  in  Edinburgh  Castle,  where  he  died  on  the  6th 
January  1743,  aged  about  85.  He  wrote  several 
pieces  during  his  confinement:  one  entitled  "Essays 
on  Ways  and  Means  for  inclosing,  fallowing,  and 
planting  Scotland,  etc,"  published  in  1729,  "had 
the  effect  of  introducing  a  spirit  of  improvement 
into  the  country,  and  led  to  the  formation  of  a 
society  for  improving  agriculture."  On  his  escape 
from  Newgate,  he  became,  if  possible,  more  cele- 
brated and  beloved  than  ever  among  the  Jacobites, 
but  especially  among  those  of  Lancashire.  He 
formed   the   subject   of  a  very  popular   English 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  75 

ballad,  which  (says  Dr  Hibbert-Ware,  in  his  Memo- 
rials of  the  Rebellion  in  17 15),  from  the  scene  being 
laid  in  Proud  Preston,  and  from  one  or  two 
peculiarities  of  expression,  ought  to  be  regarded  as 
a  Lancashire  ballad.  It  is  printed  (in  the  Memorials) 
from  a  copy  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  David  Laing 
of  Edinburgh, — a  broadside,  in  double  columns, 
without  any  date  or  place  of  printing : — 

BRIGADIER   MACINTOSH'S   FAREWELL 
TO  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

{To  an  excellent  new  tune) 

Macintosh  is  a  soldier  brave, 

And  of  his  friends  he  took  his  leave  ; 

Unto  Northumberland  he  drew. 

And  march'd  along  with  a  jovial  crew  ; 

With  a  fa  la  la,  ra  da,  ra  da. 

My  Lord  Derwentwater*  he  did  say, 
Five  hundred  guineas  he  would  lay 
To  fight  the  Militia,  if  they  would  stay  ; 
But  they  all  proved  cowards,  and  ran  away. 

With  a  fa  la,  etc. 

The  Earl  of  Mar'  did  vow  and  swear, 
If  that  Proud  Preston  he  came  near. 


76  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

Before  the  Right  should  starve,  and  the  Wrong 

should  stand, 
He  would  drive  them  into  some  foreign  land. 

With  a  fa  la,  etc. 

My  Lord  Derwentwater  he  did  say, 
When  he  mounted  on  his  dapple  gray, 
"  I  wish  I  were  at  home  with  speed, 
For  I  fear  we're  all  betra/d,  indeed." 

With  a  fa  la,  etc. 

"  No,  no,"  says  Forster,*  "  never  fear. 
The  Brunswick  army  is  not  near ; 
But  if  that  they  come,  our  valour  we'll  show, 
And  give  them  a  fatal  overthrow." 

With  a  fa  la,  etc. 

My  Lord  Derwentwater,  when  he  found 
That  Forster  had  drawn  his  left  wing  round, 
Said,  "  I  wish  I  were  with  my  dear  wife. 
For  I  fear  that  I  will  lose  my  life." 

With  a  fa  la,  etc. 

Macintosh  he  shook  his  head 
To  see  his  soldiers  all  lie  dead ; 
"  It  was  not  for  the  loss  of  those, 
But  I  fear  we're  taken  by  our  foes." 

With  a  fa  la,  etc. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  77 

Max:intosh  is  a  valiant  soldier, 

He  carried  a  musket  on  his  shoulder ; 

"  Cock  your  pistols,  draw  your  rapier ; 

D n  you,  Forster,  for  you're  a  traitor  I" 

With  a  fa  la,  etc. 

My  Lord  Derwentwater  to  Forster  did  say, 
"  Thou  hast  prov'd  our  ruin  this  very  day  : 
Thou  promisedst  to  stand  our  friend. 
But  thou  hast  proved  a  rogue  in  the  end.*' 

With  a  fa  la,  etc. 

My  Lord  Derwentwater  to  Lichfield  did  ride. 
With  coach  and  attendants  by  his  side  : 
He  swore  if  he  died  on  the  point  of  the  sword, 
He'd  drink  a  good  health  to  the  man  that  he  lov'd. 

With  a  fa  la,  etc. 

''Thou,  Forster,  hast  brought  us  from  our  own 

home. 
Leaving  our  estates  for  others  to  come. 
Thou  treacherous  dog,  thou  hast  us  betra/d. 
We  are  all  ruin'd,"  Lord  Derwentwater  said. 

With  a  fa  la,  etc. 

My  Lord  Derwentwater  he  is  condemned, 
And  near  unto  his  latter  end  : 


78  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

His  poor  lady  she  did  cry, 

'*  My  dear  Derwentwater,  thou  must  die." 

With  a  fa  la,  etc 

My  Lord  Derwentwater  he  is  dead, 
And  from  his  body  they  took  his  head ; 
But  Macintosh  and  others  are  fled. 
To  fit  his  hat  on  another  man's  head. 

With  a  fa  la,  etc. 

We  have  retained  the  title,  as  printed  in  the  old 
broadside ;  but  this  ballad  would  much  more  fitly 
bear  that  of  "  A  Lament  for  the  Earl  of  Derwent- 
water," than  "  Brigadier  Macintosh's  Farewell  to  the 
Highlands."  The  Brigadier  figures  in  but  three  or 
four  stanzas ;  the  Earl  in  seven  or  eight. 

*  Amongst  the  various  individuals  of  eminence  who 
entered  into  the  conspiracy  [of  171 5],  James  Raddiffe,  third 
Earl  of  Derwentwater,  took  the  lead.  His  estate  was  im- 
mense ;  and  as  he  gave  employment  to  several  hundred  men 
among  the  mines  at  Alstone  Moor,  it  was  expected  that  he 
would  bring  a  great  number  of  men  into  the  field.  His 
generous  and  charitable  disposition  had  also  rendered  him 
extremely  popular  among  his  tenants  and  dependants.  His 
lordship  was  a  Koman  Catholic,  and  allied  by  consanguinity 
to  the  Chevalier  St.  George,  his  mother  having  been  a  natural 
daughter  of  Charles  II.  This  unfortunate  nobleman,  with 
a  number  of  friends  and  all  his  servants,  well  armed,  joined 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  79 

the  rebels  in  Northumberland  on  Thursday  6th  October 
1 715.  His  troop  of  horse  was  commanded  by  his  brother, 
Charles  Radcliffe,  Esq.,  and  Captain  John  Shaftoe.  At 
General  Wills's  attack  on  Preston,  the  Earl  of  Derwentwater 
is  said  to  have  headed  a  body  of  gentlemen  volunteers,  drawn 
up  on  the  north  side  of  the  churchyard,  in  protecting  the 
Church-gate  barrier.  The  Earl  and  Brigadier  Macintosh  de- 
livered themselves  up  as  hostages  to  General  Carpenter ;  and 
on  the  13th  November  the  Earl  and  his  men  surrendered  as 
prisoners  of  war.  His  lordship,  a  wealthy  English  noble- 
man, complained  heavily  of  his  having  been  villainously  used 
by  the  High  Church  party,  especially  in  Lancashire,  who 
had  engaged  him  and  other  Catholics  to  come  in  to  their 
support — ^promising  that,  on  the  forces  entering  the  county, 
they  should  be  joined  by  a  reinforcement  of  20,000  men,  a 
promise  which  they  utterly  failed  to  keep — but  who,  he  said, 
had  left  them  in  the  lurch.  On  the  25  th  November  the 
prisoners  were  sent  under  a  strong  guard  from  Wigan  to 
Warrington,  and  on  the  following  day  to  London,  guarded 
by  a  strong  detachment  of  Stanhope^s  dragoons ;  the  Earl  of 
Derwentwater  being  allowed  to  travel  in  a  carriage.  On 
arriving  at  London,  he  was  committed  to  the  Tower.  On 
trial,  he  pleaded  guilty,  and  with  Viscount  Kenmure  and  the 
Earl  of  Nithsdale  received  sentence  of  death.  He  prayed 
the  royal  clemency,  urging  his  youth  and  inexperience,  by 
which  he  had  been  led  to  engage  in  the  rebellion  rashly,  and 
without  much  previous  concert  or  premeditation,  on  the 
assurance  that  many  of  his  relations  and  acquaintances  would 
be  there.  On  the  24th  February  17 16  he  was  executed  on 
Tower  Hill.     In  his  last  declaration  he  confessed  himself  a 


8o     BALLADS  ^  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE, 

Koman  Catholic,  and  avowed  his  loyalty  to  him  whom  he 
styled  "James  III.,  his  rightful  sovereign." — See  Dr. 
Hibbert-Ware's  Lancashire  Memorials  of  the  R^Uion   of 

1715. 

*  The  Earl  of  Mar  had  been  secretary  of  state  to  Queen 

Anne  under  a  Tory  ministry.  In  August  1 715  he  called 
together  various  chieftains  of  Highland  dans  at  his  seat  of 
Breemar,  under  pretence  of  holding  a  great  deer-hunt ;  and 
induced  many  noblemen  and  chiefs  to  rise  in  rebellion,  with 
their  clans.  He  set  up  the  rebel  standard  at  Kirkmichael 
for  the  Chevalier  St.  George,  under  the  name  and  title  of 
King  James  VIII.,  King  of  Scotland.  On  the  fiulure  of  the 
Jacobite  cause  in  Scotland,  the  Earl,  with  other  leaders, 
escaped  to  the  continent. — Ibid, 

'  Thomas  Forster  of  Etherston,  Northumberland,  and 
knight  of  the  shire  for  the  county,  was  a  High  Church  Tory  ; 
and,  as  it  was  thought  impolitic  to  offend  Protestant  pre- 
judices by  nominating  either  the  Earl  of  Derwentwater  or 
Lord  Widdrington  (both  Roman  Catholics)  to  the  leadership 
of  the  Northumbrian  rebels,  this  honour  was  assigned  to  Mr. 
Forster,  who  was  styled  General.  A  more  incompetent 
leader  was  probably  never  known.  His  incapacity  and 
cowardice  mainly  contributed  to  the  defeat  of  the  rebeb  at 
Preston.  He  was  amongst  the  prisoners  taken  to  London, 
and  was  to  have  been  tried  on  the  14th  April  1716 ;  but  on 
the  loth  he  contrived,  by  a  false  key,  to  let  himself  out  of 
Newgate  prison,  at  the  same  time  locking  in  the  governor. 
A  reward  of  j^iooo  was  offered  for  the  apprehension  of 
Forster,  but  he  contrived  to  get  over  to  Calais. — Ibid. 


"  FAREWELL,  MANCHESTER." 

There  was  an  old  ballad  with  this  title,  written 
about  the  time  of  the  young  Pretender  being  in 
Manchester ;  but  it  seems  to  have  been  lost  Mr. 
Chappell,  in  his  "Popular  Music  of  the  Olden 
Time"  (ii.  683),  states  that  it  is  "in  all  proba- 
bility irrecoverably  lost"  It  is  here  noted,  as  the 
notice  may  lead  to  a  copy  being  founa  amongst 
some  of  the  descendants  of  old  Jacobite  families 
in  Lancashire. — Notes  and  Queries, 


c; 


LONG  PRESTON  PEGGY. 


During  the  Rebellion  of  1745  a  buxom,  hand- 
some young  woman  of  Long  Preston,  near  Settle, 
Yorkshire,  seemed  anxious  to  see  Prince  Charles 
Edward  Stuart  (the  "  Young  Pretender ")  and  his 
army,  and  came  to  Preston  (Lancashire)  for  that 
purpose,  a  distance  of  38  miles.  Having  gratified 
her  curiosity  by  seeing  them,  she  at  once  returned 
to  her  native  village.  A  song  was  made,  which 
became  famous  in  Ribblesdale,  for  every  country 

lad  could  sing  it  at  that  time 

Peggy  lived  to  a  great  age,  and  ifsed  to  carol  this 
song  at  all  public  meetings  held  at  Rauthmell, 
Cross  Keys  Inn,  and  other  places  about  Clitheroe, 
to  the  tune  of  Chevy  Chace. — ^Whittle's  Preston^ 

».  55. 

This  song,  having  apparently  been  handed  down 
by  tradition  only,  cannot  now  be  recovered  entire. 
How  many  verses  it  contained  originally  we  know 


BALLADS  Gr*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE.    83 

not ;  hut  the  two  following  are  all  that  survive  in 
the  memories  of  some  old  persons  in  and  about 
Long  Preston,  who  were  wont  to  sing  the  song 
nearly  half  a  century  ago.  Long  Preston  is  a 
township  in  the  parish  of  that  name,  in  the  West 
Riding  of  Yorkshire,  four  and  a-half  miles  south  by 
east  from  Settle.  Proud  Preston  is  of  course  the 
central  town  of  Lancashire,  celebrated  for  its  Guild. 

Long  Preston  Peg  to  Proud  Preston  went  ;* 
To  see  the  Scotch  Rebels  it  was  her  intent ; 
A  noble  Scotch  Lord,  as  he  passed  by, 
On  this  Yorkshire  damsel  did  soon  cast  an  eye. 

He  caltd  to  his  servant,  who  on  him  did  wait, 
"  Go  down  to  yon  girl  who  stands  in  the  gate  [/>., 

road,  street]. 
That  sings  with  a  voice  so  soft  and  so  sweet, 
And  in  my  name  do  her  lovingly  greet." 

>  Another  version  of  this  verse  is  given  in  "New  Tales 
of  the  Borders  and  of  the  British  Isles,'*  under  the  title  of 
**  Old  Yorkshire  Ballad— Preston  Peggy  :"— 

From  Long  Preston  Peggy  to  proud  Preston  went, 
To  join  the  bold  rebels  it  was  her  intent : 
For  in  brave  deeds  of  arms  did  she  take  much  delight. 
And  therefore  she  went  for  the  rebels  to  fight. 


84  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

We  have  since  received,  in  a  private  communi- 
cation from  Mr.  Whittle,    the   following  version, 

which  adds  something  to  what  has  been  before 
printed : — 

Long  Preston  Peggy 

To  Proud  f^reston  went, 
To  see  the  bold  Rebels 

It  was  her  intent. 

Fal  lal  la ! 

Braw  were  their  Lochaber  axes ; 

Their  kilts  were  plaided  so  grand ; 
The  fine  ladies  gave  them  good  cheer ; 

They  liv'd  on  the  fat  of  the  land. 

Fal  lal  la ! 

Proud  Preston  went  mad, 

With  frolic  and  fun ; 
And  Long  Preston  Peggy 

Became  the  big  gun. 

Fal  lal  la  ! 

O  dear  Royal  Charlie  ! 

To  see  thee  we're  fain ; 
So  we  wish  thee  success 

In  old  £ngland  again. 

Fal  lal  la ! 


OF  LANCASHIRE. 


85 


May  Long  Preston  Peggy 
Live  many  a  long  year  ! 

That  Priest-town  may  see  her, 
And  treat  her  with  good  cheer. 

Fal  lal  la ! 


JEMMY  DAWSON. 
A  Ballad^  by  Shenstone, 


This  ballad  records  one  of  the  many  touching  epi- 
sodes connected  with  Lancashire's  share  in  the 
rebellion  of  1745.  When  the  Young  Pretender 
was  in  Manchester  in  the  November  of  that  year 
recruiting  was  carried  on  with  great  vigour  for 
what  was  called  the  Manchester  regiment;  the 
Prince's  secretary,  Lord  George  Murray,  fixing  his 
quarters  at  the  Dog  Inn,  Deansgate,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  distributing  French  commissions  to  officers. 
Among  those  who  obtained  a  commission  was  Mr. 
James  Dawson,  a  gentleman  of  a  respectable  family 
in  Lancashire.  He  had  received  a  liberal  educa- 
tion, and  was  of  St  John's  College,  Cambridge ; 
which  he  is  said  to  have  quitted,  fearing  that  he 
should  be  expelled  on  account  of  some  irregulari- 
ties. But  regarding  this  statement  (wrote  the  late 
Dr.  Hibbert  Ware)  some  doubt  may  be  entertained, 


BALLADS  &*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE.     87 

as  well  as  upon  the  report  that  he  joined  the 
Young  Pretender  while  under  the  dread,  after 
quitting  Cambridge,  of  not  being  again  received  by 
his  father.  [A  letter  from  the  registrar  of  the 
University  of  Cambridge,  dated  24th  October 
1833,  states  that  he  matriculated  as  a  pensioner  on 
the  17th  December  1737 ;  that  he  never  took  a 
degree,  ''nor  does  he  appear  to  have  been  sub* 
jected  to  any  punishment  for  irregularity  in  the 
university  courts  held  by  the  vice-chancellor."] 
The  Manchester  regiment  surrendered  at  Carlisle 
on  the  30th  December  1745,  and  its  commissioned 
officers  were  conveyed  in  waggons,  under  a  strong 
guard,  to  London.  In  the  streets  of  London, 
through  which  they  were  led  in  a  sort  of  triumph, 
the  greatest  indignities  were  offered  them.  They 
appear  to  have  expected  that,  as  they  had  served 
under  French  commissions,  they  would  be  deemed 
prisoners  of  war,  and  would  be  regularly  exchanged. 
Their  fate,  however,  was  far  otherwise.  Imprisoned 
in  the  cells  of  Newgate,  and  afterwards  in  the  New 
Prison  of  Southwark,  they  passed  from  thence  to 
the  gallows.  Captain  Dawson  had  been  betrothed 
to  a  young  lady,  who  seems  to  have  engaged  all 
his  thoughts.  He  is  said  to  have  employed  him- 
self in  writing  verses  during  his  confinement  on 


88  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

the  subject  of  his  unhappy  fate.     The  trials  com- 
menced on  the  1 6th  July  1746,  in  the  court-house 
at  St  Margaret's  Hill,  before  the  High  Commis- 
sioners appointed  for  that  purpose.     The  trials 
lasted  three  days,  and  all  the  prisoners  arraigned 
being  found  guilty,  nine,  including  Captain  Daw- 
son, were  ordered  for  execution  on  the  30th  of 
that  month.     The  interval  was  passed  by  most  of 
the  prisoners  in  preparing  written  declarations  of 
their  motives  and  sentiments  in  joining  the  stand- 
ard of  their  Prince.      Captain  Dawson  declared 
that,  if  he  had  ten  thousand  lives,  he  would  devote 
them  all  to  his  king  and   country  sooner  than 
see  right  overpowered  by  oppression,  or  rebellion 
prevailing.    He  declared  that  he  died  in  the  tenets 
of  the  Church  of  England.     He  begged  pardon  of 
aU  whom  he  had  injured,  and  stated  that  Ensign 
Maddock  (who  had  turned  evidence  for  the  Crown) 
had  forsworn  himself.      He  said  he  forgave  the 
partiality  of  the  jury,  the  fetches  of  the  counsel, 
and  the  misguided  zeal  of  the  judge.     He  prayed 
earnestly  for  his  poor  self;  begging  that  the  Deity 
would   excuse   all   his  frailties,  negligences,  and 
levities.     The  last  leave  which  took  place  between 
Captain  Dawson  and  the  lady  to  whom  he  was 
bedrothed  is  described  by  the  poet  in  the  ballad. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  89 

The  nine  officers  of  the   Manchester  regiment, 
attended  by  a  strong  party  of  soldiers,  were  con- 
veyed on  three  hurdles  from  the  New  Gaol   of 
Southwark  to  the  gallows  erected  at  Kennington. 
A  pile  of  faggots  and  a  block  were  placed  near 
the  gallows ;  and  while  the  prisoners  were  in  the 
course  of  being  removed  from  the  sledges  into  a 
cart  drawn  for  that  purpose  under  the  "  fatal  tree," 
the  faggots  were  set  on  fire.     The  guards  formed 
a  circle  round  the  place  of  execution.     The  pri- 
soners, though  unattended  by  any  cleigyman,  spent 
nearly  an  hour  in  their  devotions.      They  then 
severally  delivered   the   declarations  which   they 
had  written  to  the  sheriff,  expressive  of  their  con- 
viction of  the  right  and  justice  of  the  glorious 
cause  for  which  they  died.     Soon  afterwards  they 
were  turned  off,  all  of  them  dying  calm  and  com- 
posed.    At  the  end  of  five  minutes  after  suspen- 
sion had  taken  place,  even  before  signs  of  life  had 
ceased,    they  were   successively  cut    down    and 
stripped.     Being  laid  on  the  block,  the  hangman 
with  a  cleaver  severed  each  head  from  the  body, 
and  put  it  in  a  coffin ;  then  taking  out  the  bowels 
and  heart,  he  threw  them  into  the  fire.     When 
the  heart  of  the  last  was  thrown  into  the  fire,  the 
executioner  cried  out,  "God  save  King  George  !" 


90  BALLADS  &•  SONGS 

and  was  answered  by  the  spectators  with  a  loud 
shout  Among  the  numerous  spectators  of  this 
revolting  scene  was  the  plighted  fair  one  of  Cap- 
tain James  Dawson.  Her  fate  is  pathetically 
commemorated  by  Shenstone.  He  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing ballad  shortly  after  the  event,  and  it  was 
printed  amongst  his  posthumous  works,  2  vols. 
8vo.  The  copy  now  given  is  from  Percy's 
Rdiques^  as  taken  from  a  MS.  which  contained 
some  small  variations  from  that  in  the  printed 
works.] 

Come  listen  to  my  mournful  tale, 
Ye  tender  hearts,  and  lovers  dear ; 

Nor  will  you  scorn  to  heave  a  sigh. 
Nor  will  you  blush  to  shed  a  tear. 

And  thou,  dear  Kitty,  peerless  maid, 
Do  thou  a  pensive  ear  incline ; 

For  thou  canst  weep  at  every  woe, 
And  pity  every  plaint  but  mine. 

Young  Dawson  was  a  gallant  youth, 
A  brighter  never  trod  the  plain ; 

And  well  he  loVd  one  charming  maid, 
And  deariy  was  he  lov'd  again. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  91 

One  tender  maid  she  loVd  him  dear ; 

Of  gentle  blood  the  damsel  came, 
And  faultless  was  her  beauteous  form. 

And  spotless  was  her.  viigin  fame. 


But  curse  on  part/s  hateful  strife, 
That  led  the  faithful  youth  astray, 

The  day  the  rebel  clans  appeared  : 
O  had  he  never  seen  that  day ! 

Their  colours  and  their  sash  he  wore, 
And  in  the  fatal  dress  was  found ; 

And  now  he  must  that  death  endure, 

Which  gives  the  brave  the  keenest  wound. 

How  pale  was  then  his  true  love's  cheek 
When  Jemmy's  sentence  reach'd  her  ear ! 

For  never  yet  did  Alpine  snows 
So  pale,  nor  yet  so  chill  appear. 

With  Altering  voice  she  weeping  said  : 
^  O  Dawson,  monarch  of  my  heart. 
Think  not  thy  death  shall  end  our  loves, 

• 

For  thou  and  I  will  never  part 


92  BALLADS  &•  SONGS 

"  Yet  might  sweet  mercy  find  a  place, 
And  bring  relief  to  Jemmy's  woes, 
O  George,  without  a  prayer  for  thee 
My  orisons  should  never  close. 


"  The  gracious  prince  that  gives  him  life, 
Would  crown  a  never-dying  flame^ 
And  every  tender  babe  I  bore 

Should  learn  to  lisp  the  giver's  name. 

''  But  though,  dear  youth,  thou  should'st  be  dragged 
To  yonder  ignominious  tree, 
Thou  shalt  not  want  a  faithful  friend 
To  share  thy  bitter  fate  with  thee." 

O  then  her  mourning  coach  was  call'd, 
The  sledge  mov'd  slowly  on  before ; 

Though  borne  in  a  triumphal  car. 
She  had  not  loVd  her  favourite  more. 


She  foUow'd  him,  prepared  to  view 
The  terrible  behests  of  law ; 

And  the  last  scene  of  Jemmy's  woe 
With  calm  and  steadfast  eye  she  saw. 


OF  LANCA  SHIRE.  93 

Distorted  was  that  blooming  face 
Which  she  had  fondly  lov'd  so  long ; 

And  stifled  was  that  tuneful  breath 
Which  in  her  praise  had  sweetly  sung ; 


And  sever'd  was  that  beauteous  neck 

Round  which  her  arms  had  fondly  closed ; 

And  mangled  was  that  beauteous  breast 
On  which  her  love-sick  head  reposed ; 

And  ravish'd  was  that  constant  heart 

She  did  to  every  heart  prefer ; 
For  though  it  could  its  king  forget, 

Twas  true  and  lo3ral  still  to  her. 


«-*. 


Amid  those  unrelenting  flames 

She  bore  this  constant  heart  to  see ; 

But  when  'twas  moulder'd  into  dust, 

"Now,  now,"  she  cried,  "I'll  follow  thee. 

"  My  death,  my  death  alone  can  show 
The  pure  and  lasting  love  I  bore  : 
Accept,  O  Heaven,  of  woes  like  ours, 
And  let  us,  let  us  weep  no  more." 


94  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

The  dismal  scene  was  o'er  and  past, 
The  lover's  mournful  hearse  retired ; 

The  maid  drew  back  her  languid  head, 
And,  sighing  forth  his  name,  expired. 

Though  justice  ever  must  prevail, 
The  tear  my  Kitty  sheds  is  due ; 

For  seldom  shall  she  hear  a  tale 
So  sad,  so  tender,  and  so  true. 


We  learn  from  a  communication  from  Mr.  J. 
F.  Beever  of  Manchester  to  Barlow's  Historical 
Collector  (ii.  28),  that  Jemmy  Dawson  was  the 
eldest  of  the  four  children  of  William  Dawson  of 
Manchester,  gentleman  (also  styled  doctor  and 
apothecary),  by  his  first  wife,  Elizabeth,  daughter 
of  Richard,  son  of  John  Allen  of  Redivales,  an 
ancestor  of  the  Byroms  of  Kersal.  He  appears  to 
have  been  bom  in  17 17,  so  that  he  was  about  29 
at  his  death.  He  was  admitted  to  St  John's 
College,  Cambridge,  21st  October  1737,  and  the 
register  describes  him  as  the  elder  son  of  William 
Dawson  of  Manchester,  ^^  PharmacopolaJ'  He  ma- 
triculated on  the  27th  December  following.  His 
only  brother,  William,  was  buried  in  the  tomb  of 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  95 

the  Lady  Barbara  Fitzroy,  in  the  Manchester 
Collegiate  Church.  His  eldest  sister,  Elizabeth, 
married  William  Broome  of  Didsbury,  gentleman ; 
his  youngest  sister,  Sarah,  died  unmarried.  As  to 
the  heroine  of  the  ballad,  it  is  stated  in  the 
"  Legends  of  Lancashire"  (p.  159)  that  the  name 
of  this  unfortunate  young  person  was  Elatherine 
Norton,  that  she  was  "  an  orphan,  and  that  her 
parents  had  been  of  illustrious  rank.  She  had 
travelled  with  a  maiden  aunt,  and  as  they  were 
residing  for  a  few  weeks  in  the  vicinity  of  Cam- 
bridge, she  had  met  with  young  Dawson,  and  thus 
commenced  an  ardent  attachment  between  them.'' 
Mr.  Robert  Chambers,  in  his  History  oftheRebdlian 
qf'4Sy  states,  that  '*  when  it  was  ascertained  that 
Captain  Dawson  was  to  suffer  death,  the  incon- 
solable young  lady  determined  to  witness  the  exe- 
cution, and  she  accordingly  followed  the  sledges 
in  a  hackney  coach,  accompanied  by  a  gentleman 
nearly  related  to  her,  and  one  female  fiiend.  She 
got  near  enough  to  see  all  the  dreadful  prepara- 
tions without  betraying  any  extravagant  emotions ; 
she  also  succeeded  in  restraining  her  feehngs 
during  the  progress  of  the  bloody  tragedy;  but 
when  all  was  over,  and  the  shouts  of  the  multitude 
rang  in  her  ears,  she  drew  her  head  back  again 


96     BALLADS  &•  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

into  the  coach,  and  crying,  '  My  dear  1  I  follow 
thee,  I  follow  thee !  Sweet  Jesus,  receive  both 
our  souls  together!'  fell  upon  the  neck  of  her 
companion,  and  expired  in  the  very  moment  she 


THE  PRESTON  PRISONERS 

TO    THE 

LADIES  ABOUT  COURT  AND  TOWN. 
By  way  of  Comfort,  from  C.  W.  lo  W.   T. 

The  following  song,  apparent!)'  a  production  of 
one  of  the  Jacobite  prisoners  in  Preston  gaol,  after 
the  defeat  of  the  rebels  in  1715,  is  here  copied 
from  a  broadside  originally  "  printed  for  J. 
Roberts,  in  Warwick  Lane,  1 7 1 6 ;  price  two- 
pence." A  copy  of  this  broad^de  is  preserved  in 
the  collection  of  "  Proclamations,  Ballads,"  etc.,  in 
33  volumes,  presented  by  Mr.  J.  O.  Halliwell, 
F.R.S.,  etc,  to  Chetham's  Library  (vol.  i.  No.  13). 

You  fair  ones,  all  at  liberty, 

We  captive  lovers  greet ; 
Nor  slight  our  tears  and  sighs,  'cause  we 

Can't  lay  'em  at  your  feet ; 


98  BALLADS  6^  SONGS 

The  fault's  not  ours,  and  you  may  guess 
We  can  desire  no  greater  bliss. 

With  a  fa,  la,  la,  etc 

What !  though  pack'd  up  in  prisons  base, 
With  bolts  and  bars  restrained, 

Think  not  our  bodies  love  you  less, 
Or  souls  are  more  confined  : 

Each  was  to  'ts  utmost  power  your  slave, 

Nor  freedom  took,  but  what  you  gave. 

With  a  fa,  la,  etc. 

Thus  doubly  captive,  in  this  cause 

Yoiu'  prior  title  pleads. 
This  gaol's  high  treason  'gainst  your  laws. 

And  property  invades : 
Wherefore,  since  prisons  are  our  due, 
'Tis  just  we  be  lock'd  up  by  you. 

With  a  fa,  la,  etc. 

From  hence  to  those  most  blissful  bowers 
Lest  we  should  miss  our  way, 

Those  beauties  that  display'd  their  powers 
The  last  triumphant  day, 

As  most  expert  in  Cupid's  wars, 

Shall  guide  us  on  like  grenadiers. 

With  a  fa,  la,  etc. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  99 

Thus  we'll  to  the  innocent  and  fair, 

That  shun  indecent  sights, 
From  purchas'd  shouts  and  noisome  air, 

To  whispers  and  delights  : 
Then  all  our  pains  shall  pleasures  prove, 
And  pinion'd  arms  be  wings  of  love. 

With  a  fa,  la,  etc. 

But  if  our  stubborn  keepers  still 

Should  chain  us  in  our  dens, 
In  disobedience  to  your  will 

And  sovereign  influence ; 
Spite  of  theu:  shackles,  bolts,  and  doors, 
Our  hearts  are  free,  and  they  are  yours. 

With  a  fa,  la,  etc. 

Meanwhile,  within  these  walls  immuf  d, 

Think  not  our  spirit's  lost ; 
The  vilest  ale  our  gaols  afford 

Is  nectar,  with  a  toast ; 
And  if  some  wine  creep  in  by  stealth. 
It  has  its  relish  from  your  health. 

With  a  fa,  la,  etc. 

Our  tedious  nights  and  loathsome  days. 
With  your  remembrance  bless'd, 


ipo  BALLADS  ^  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

At  length  may  some  compassion  raise     . 

Within  yQur  tender  breasts  :  '    . 
No  matter  what  our  juries  find, 
We're  happy  still,  if  you  prove  kind. 

With  a  fa,  la,  etc. 

Nay,  should  we  victims  be  design'd 

By  those  that  rule  the  state  ; 
Should  mercy  no  admittance  find 

To  hearts  that  should  be  great ; 
What  dread  can  gaols  or  gibbets  show 
To  men  whoVe  died  so  oft  for  you  1 

With  a  fa,  la,  etc. 

If  fate  must  fix  th'  unworthy  doom, 
We'll  leave  you  fresh  supplies, 

And  from  our  ashes,  in  our  room, 
Some  Phoenixes  shall  rise. 

Whose  vows  will  more  successful  prove 

In  happier  days  to  win  your  love. 

With  a  fa,  la,  la,  etc. 


4^ 


TOWNLEY'S  GHOST. 

Colonel  Francis  Townley,  a  scion  of  one  of 
the  oldest  families  in  Lancashire,  served  abroad, 
and  in  1745  held  a  colonel's  comniission  from  the 
king  of  France ;  and  being  recommended  by  that 
king  to  the  service  of  the  Pretender,  he  joined 
Charles  Edward  at  Carlisle,  of  which  city  he  was 
for  a  time  the  governor.     He  took  an  active  part 
in  the  rebellion ;  was  at  Manchester,  Preston,  eta ; 
and  had  the  command  of  the  Pretender's  "  Man- 
chester Regiment,"  numbering  only  some  300  rank 
and  file.     He  surrendered  on  the  30th  December 
1745  ^o  the  Duke  of  Cumberland   at   Carlisle, 
when  the  Manchester  Regiment  had  been  reduced 
to  only  114,  including  officers;  or,  including  non- 
commissioned officers,  drummers,  and  privates,  to 
93  men.     The  commissioned  officers  were  con- 
veyed fix>m  Carlisle  to  London  in  waggons,  under 
a  strong  guard,  and  were  lodged  in  cells  in  New- 
gate.    The  officers  generally,  who  held  French 
commissions,  expected  to  be  treated  as  prisoners 


102  BALLADS  ^  SONGS      ^ 

of  war,  and  to  be  exchanged;  and  in  the  list 
demanded  by  cartel  from  France  the  name  of 
Colonel  Townley  stood  at  the  head.  But  it  was 
determined  that  the  full  vengeance  of  the  law 
should  fall  upon  all  belonging  to  the  Manchester 
Regiment.  The  trials  commenced  on  the  i6th 
July  1746,  in  the  court-house  at  St  Maigaret's 
Hill,  London,  before  the  High  Commissioners 
appointed  for  the  purpose.  Colonel  Townley  was 
first  arraigned.  His  counsel  pleaded  that  he  had 
been  sixteen  years  in  the  service  of  France,  and 
that  during  the  time  in  which  he  took  up  arms  for 
the  Pretender  he  held  a  commission  from  the 
French  king,  and  consequently  was  as  much  in 
the  service  of  France  as  any  officer  in  the  French 
army.  It  was  urged,  therefore,  that  Townley  had 
as  just  a  right  to  the  cartel  as  any  French  officer 
taken  by  the  English  during  the  war  between  the 
two  kingdoms.  But  the  court  was  of  opinion  that 
evidence  to  this  effect  would  be  against  the  pri- 
soner ;  for  that  no  man  who  was  by  birth  a  liege 
subject  of  the  king  of  England,  was  justifiable  in 
taking  up  arms  and  acting  in  the  service  of  a 
prince  who  was  actually  in  war  against  the  king  of 
England.  Colonel  Townley,  who  was  firm  and 
undaunted  through  the  trial,  was   found  guilty; 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  103 

and  when  sentence  of  death  was  passed  against 
him,  he  was  not  in  the  least  discomposed,  nor  did 
his  countenance  undeigo  any  change  of  colour. 
On  the  3Dth  July  the  nine  officers  found  guilty 
were  executed  on  gallows  erected  for  the  purpose 
on  Kennington  Common — all  dying  calm  and 
composed.  At  the  end  of  five  minutes  after  sus- 
pension had  taken  place,  Colonel  Townley,  even 
before  signs  of  life  had  ceased,  was  cut  down  and 
stripped.  Being  laid  on  the  block,  the  hangman, 
with  a  deaver,  severed  his  head  and  put  it  into 
the  coffin ;  then  taking  out  his  bowels  and  heart, 
he  threw  them  into  a  fire  of  faggots,  kindled  for 
the  purpose.  The  remains  were  allowed  to  be 
privately  interred  by  his  friends;  and  only  one 
head — that  of  Captain  Fletcher — was  exposed  on 
Temple  Bar.  Amongst  the  various  Jacobite  effii- 
sions  of  the  period  to  which  these  executions 
gave  rise,  the  following  ought  to  have  a  place.  It 
relates  to  the  supposed  breach  of  faith  committed 
with  the  prisoners  of  war  after  the  capitulation  at 
Carlisle,  and  the  promise  of  William,  Duke  of 
Cumberland,  against  whom  the  bitterest  denuncia- 
tions of  the  English  and  Scottish  partisans  of  the 
house  of  Stuart  were  launched,  under  his  appella- 
tion of  "  The  Curse  of  Scotland."     The  author  of 


I04  BALLADS  &^  SONGS 

the  ballad  is;  not  known.  .  It  is  copied  from  a 
MSr  in  the  handwriting  of  Mrs.  Kenyon,  wife  of 
the  clergyman  of  that  name  resident  a  century 
ago  in  Salford,  and  incumbent  of  Trinity  Chapel. 


TOWNLEY'S  GHOST. 

When  Sol  in  shades  of  night  was  lost, 

And  all  was  fast  asleep, 
In  glided  Townle/s  murder'd  ghost, 

And  stood  at  William's  feet. 

**  Infernal  wretch,  away !"  he  cried, 
**  And  view  the  mangled  shade, 
Who  on  thy  perjur'd  faith  relied, 
And  basely  was  betra/d. 

"  Embrued  in  bliss,  embalm'd  in  ease, 
Tho'  now  thou  seem'st  to  lie. 
My  injured  shade  shall  gall  thine  ease. 
And  make  thee  beg  to  die. 

"  Think  on  the  hellish  acts  youVe  done, 
The  thousands  you've  betray'd  : 
Nero  himself  would  blush  to  own 
The  slaughter  thou  hast  made. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  105 

"  Not  infants'  shrieks,  nor  parents'  tears, 
Could  stop  thy  bloody  hand  ; 
Nor  even  ravish'd  vii]gins*  tears 
Appease  thy  dire  command. 

"  But  oh  !  what  pangs  are  set  apart 
In  hell,  thou'lt  shortly  see ; 
Where  even  all  the  damn'd  will  start 
To  view  a  fiend  like  thee." 

With  speed,  ai&ighted,  William  rose, 

All  trembling,  wan,  and  pale ; 
And  to  his  cruel  sire*  he  goes, 

And  tells  the  dreadful  tale. 

"  Cheer  up,  my  dear,  my  darling  son," 

The  bold  usurper  said ; 
"  Never  repent  of  what  you've  done, 

Nor  be  at  all  dismay'd 

"  If  we  on  Stuart's  throne  can  dwell. 
And  reign  securely  here. 
The  uncle  Satan 's  king  of  hell. 
And  he'll  protect  us  there ! " 

^  William  Augustus,  Duke  of  Cumberland,  was  the 
second  son  of  George  II.  He  was  bom  15th  April  172 1, 
and  died  in  1 765. 


v^  . 


THE  THREE  SISTERS. 

BaUad, 

The  following  Lancashire  ballad  is  contributed 
to  JV^/^  fl«//  Queries  (vi.  102) — whose  Editor  per- 
mits us  to  reprint  it — by  a  correspondent  signing 
"Seleucus,"  who  suspects  it  to  be  the  oldest  of 
several  versions.  It  is  supposed  to  be  sung  by 
the  second  sister  : — 

There  was  a  king  of  the  north  countree, 
Bow  down,  bow  down,  bow  down  ! 
There  was  a  king  of  the  north  countree, 
And  he  had  daughters  one,  two,  three. 

I'll  be  true  to  my  love,  and  my  love'U  be 
true  to  me.* 

To  the  eldest  he  gave  a  beaver  hat, 

Bow  down,  bow  down,  bow  down  1 


*  Probably  the  original  form  of  this  line  was,  **  An  [if] 
my  loveUl  be  true  to  me." — Ed. 


BALLADS  ^  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE.    lo; 

To  the  eldest  he  gave  a  beaver  hat, 
And  the  youngest  she  thought  much  of  that 
ru  be  true  to  my  love,  and  my  love'll  be 
true  to  me. 

To  the  youngest  he  gave  a  gay  gold  chain, 

Bow  down,  bow  down,  bow  down  ! 
To  the  youngest  he  gave  a  gay  gold  chain, 
And  the  eldest  she  thought  much  of  the  same. 
I'll  be  true  to  my  love,  and  my  love'U  be 
true  to  me. 

These  sisters  were  walking  on  the  bryn,' 
Bow  down,  bow  down,  bow  down  ! 
These  sisters  were  walking  on  the  bryn, 
And  the  eldest  pushed  the  younger  in. 

I'll  be  true  to  my  love,  and  my  love'll  be 
true  to  me. 

CHi,  sister !  oh,  sister  !  oh,  lend  me  your  hand  ! 

Bow  down,  bow  down,  bow  down  ! 
Oh,  sister  !  oh,  sister  !  oh,  lend  me  your  hand  ! 
And  I  will  give  you  both  houses  and  land. 

I'll  be  true  lo  my  love,  and  my  love'll  be 
true  to  me. 

'  Brink,  ^aiik  of  a  stream. 


ro8  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

1*11  neither  give  you  my  hand  nor  glove, 
Bow  down,  bow  down,  bow  down  1 
I'll  neither  give  you  my  hand  nor  glove 
Unless  you  give  me  your  [own]  true  love. 

rU  be  true  to  my  love,  and  my  love'll  be 
true  to  me. 

Away  she  sank,  away  she  swam, 

Bow  down,  bow  down,  bow  down  ! 

Away  she  sank,  away  she  swam, 

Until  she  came  to  a  miller's  danL 

I'll  be  true  to  my  love,  and  my  love'll  be 
true  to  me. 

The  miller  and  daughter  stood  at  the  door, 

Bow  down,  bow  down,  bow  down  ! 
The  miller  and  daughter  stood  ^t  the  door. 
And  watched  her  floating  down  the  shore. 

I'll  be  true  to  my  love,  and  my  love'll  be 
true  to  me. 

Oh,  father  !  oh,  father !  I  see  a  white  swan, 
Bow  down,  bow  down,  bow  down  I 

Oh,  father !  oh,  father  !  I  see  a  white  swan, 

Or  else  it  is  a  fair  wo-man. 

I'll  be  true  to  my  love,  and  my  love'll  be 
true  to  me. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  109 

The  miller  he  took  up  his  long  crook, 

Bow  down,  bow  down,  bow  down  ! 
The  miller  he  took  up  his  long  crook, 
And  the  maiden  up  from  the  stream  he  took. 
I'll  be  true  to  my  love,  and  my  love'll  be 
true  to  me. 

I'll  give  to  thee  this  gay  gold  chain, 

Bow  down,  bow  down,  bow  down  ! 
I'll  give  to  thee  this  gay  gold  chain. 
If  you'll  take  me  back  to  my  father  again. 

I'll  be  true  to  my  love,  and  my  love'll  be 
true  to  me. 

The  miller  he  took  the  gay  gold  chain. 

Bow  down,  bow  down,  bow  down  ! 
The  miller  he  took  the  gay  gold  chain, 
And  he  pushed  her  into  the  water  again. 

I'll  be  true  to  my  love,  and  my  love'll  be 
true  to  me. 

The  miller  was  hang'd  on  his  high  gate, 
Bow  down,  bow  down,  bow  down  ! 

The  miller  was  hang'd  on  his  high  gate, 

For  drowning  our  poor  sister  Kate. 

I'll  be  true  to  my  love,  and  my  love'll  be 
true  to  me. 


MO  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

The  cat's  behind  the  buttery  shelf, 

Bow  down,  bow  down,  bow  down  ! 

The  cat's  behind  the  buttery  shelf; 

If  you  want  any  more,  you  may  sing  it  yourself. 
I'll  be  true  to  my  love,  and  [an]  my  love'll 
be  true  to  me. 


One  of  Mr.  Halliwell's  "  Nursery  Rhymes," 
beginnings 

"  John  Cook  had  a  little  gray  mare,"  etc.. 

Ends  thus —  ^ 

"  The  bridle  and  saddle  were  laid  on  the  shelf, 
He,  haw,  hum ; 
If  you  want  any  more,  you  may  sing  it  yourself, 
He,  haw,  hum  ! " 

Another  version  of  this  ballad  is  given  by 
"G.  A.  C."  (Notes  andpQuerieSy  v.  316)  from  me- 
mory, in  which  the  action  seems  to  commence 
with  "  the  body  of  a  fair  ladye,"  which  "  came 
floating  down  the  stream;"  stopping  "hard  by 
a  miller's  mill,"  when  the  miller  took  it  out  of  the 
water,  "  to  make  a  melodye."     This  form  of  the 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  1 1 1 

ballad  thus  describes  how  the  lady's  body  was 
changed  into  a  viol : — 

And  what  did  he  do  with  her  fair  bodye  1 

Fal  the  lal,  the  lal,  laral  loddy. 
He  made  it  a  case  for  his  melodye, 

Fal,  etc. 

And  what  did  he  do  with  her  legs  so  strong  % 

Fal,  etc. 
He  made  them  a  stand  for  his  violon, 

Fal,  etc. 

And  what  did  he  do  with  her  hair  so  fine  % 

Fal,  etc. 
He  made  of  it  strings  for  his  violine, 

Fal,  etc. 

And  what  did  he  do  with  her  arms  so  long ) 

Fal,  etc 
He  made  of  them  bows  for  his  violon, 

Fal,  etc. 

And  what  did  he  do  with  her  nose  so  thin  ? 

Fal,  etc. 
He  made^  it  a  bridge  for  his  violin, 

Fal,  etc. 


1 1 2  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

And  what  did  he  do  with  her  eyes  so  bright  ? 

Fal,  etc 
He  made  them  spectacles  to  help  his  sight, 

Fal,  etc. 

And  what  did  he  do  with  her  pretty  toes  ? 

Fal,  etc 
He  made  them  a  nosegay  to  put  to  his  nose. 

Fal,  etc. 

[Some  couplets  wanting.] 

Again,  Dr.  Rimbault  gives  another  version  of 
the  ballad,  evidently  earlier  than  that  last  cited, 
and  which  he  states  to  be  the  production  of  a 
James  Smith,  D.D.  (Oxford),  bom  1604,  and  died 
1667  ;  respecting  whom  Wood  says  "  he  was  much 
in  esteem  with  the  poetical  wits  of  the  time,  par- 
ticularly with  Philip  Massinger,  who  called  him  his 
son."  We  append  this  ballad  (as  printed  from  an 
old  broadside  copy  of  1656),  omitting  the  burden 
after  the  first  verse : — 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  1 1 3 


THE  MILLER  AND  THE  KING'S 
DAUGHTER. 

By  Dr.  Janus  Smith. 

There  were  two  sisters,  they  went  playing, 
With  a  hie  downe,  downe,  a  downe-a, 

To  see  their  father's  ships  come  sailing  in. 
With  a  hy  downe,  downe,  a  downe-a. 

And  when  they  came  unto  the  sea-brym. 
The  elder  did  push  the  younger  in. 

O  sister,  O  sister,  take  me  by  the  gownd. 
And  draw  me  upon  the  dry  ground. 

O  sister,  O  sister,  that  may  not  be. 

Till  salt  and  oatmeal  grow  both  on  a  tree. 

Sometimes  she  sank,  sometimes  she  swam. 
Until  she  came  unto  the  mill-dam. 

The  miller  ran  hastily  down  the  cliff, 
And  up  he  betook  her  withouten  her  life. 

What  did  he  do  with  her  breast-bone  ? 
He  made  him  a  vioU  to  play  thereupon. 


114  BALLADS  &»  SONGS 

What  did  he  do  with  her  fingers  so  small  ? 
He  made  him  pegs  to  his  vioU  withall. 

What  did  he  do  with  her  nose-ridge  ? 
Unto  his  violl  he  made  him  a  bridge. 


What  did  he  do  with  her  veins  so  blue  ^ 

I 

He  made  him  strings  to  his  violl  thereto.  i 


What  did  he  do  with  her  eyes  so  bright  ? 
Upon  his  violl  he  played  at  first  sight. 

What  did  he  do  with  her  tongue  so  rough 
Unto  the  violl  it  spake  enough. 

What  did  he  do  with  her  two  shins  ? 
Unto  the  violl  they  danced  Moil  Syms, 

Then  bespake  the  treble  string, 
O  yonder  is  my  father  the  king. 

Then  bespake  the  second  string, 
O  yonder  sits  my  mother  the  queen. 

And  then  bespake  the  strings  all  three, 
O  yonder  is  my  sister  that  drowned  me. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  1 1 s 

Now  pay  the  miller  for  his  pain, 

And  let  him  be  gone  in  the  devil's  name. 

Dr.  Rimbault  adds  that  the  viol  was  the  pre- 
cursor of  the  violin;  but  while  the  viol  was  the 
instrument  of  the  higher  classes  of  society,  the 
"fiddle"  served  only  for  the  amusement  of  the 
lower.  The  viol  was  entirely  out  of  use  at  the 
banning  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Moll  or 
Mall  Symms  (mentioned  in  the  13  th  stanza)  was 
a  celebrated  dance  tune  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
The  three  versions  of  this  ballad  cmiously  illus- 
trate each  other.  That  said  by  "  Seleucus  "  to  be- 
long to  South  Lancashire  has  the  merit  of  telling 
consistently  a  tragedy  of  sisterly  envy  and  jealousy; 
but  it  lacks  the  quaint  conceit  of  the  transfor- 
mation into  a  musical  instrument.  No  apology 
is  needed  for  giving  all  three  versions. 


LANCASHIRE  MAY-SONGS. 


One  evening  towards  the  close  of  April  1861, 
I  was  surprised  by  a  party  of  waitts  who  had 
come  into  the  garden  (in  the  hamlet  of  Swinton 
and  township  of  Worsley),  and  who  serenaded 
the  family  in  a  song,  the  words  of  which  I  could 
not  make  out  from  their  singing.  There  were 
four  singers,  accompanied  by  a  flute  and  a 
clarionet,  and  they  together  discoursed  most 
simple  and  rustic  music  I  could  not  at  first 
make  out  what  was  evidently  a  local  custom  of 
some  standing,  as  it  was  not  Easter,  or  Whit- 
suntide, or  May-day,  or  any  of  the  old  popular 
festivals.  My  inquiries  on  the  subject  resulted 
in  my  obtaining,  from  the  dictation  of  an  old 
Mayer,  the  words  of  two  songs,  called  by  the 
singers  themselves  ^*  May  Songs,"  though  the  rule 
is  that  they  must  be  sung  before  May  comes  in. 
My  chief  informant,  an  elderly  man  named  Job 
Knight,  living  in  Swinton,  tells  me  that  he  him- 


BALLADS  &•  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE,    117 

self  ''went  out''  a  May-singing  for  about  fourteen 
years,  though  he  has  discontinued  the  practice 
for  some  years.  He  says  the  time  the  Mayers 
commence  is  usually  about  the  middle  of  April, 
though  some  parties  start  as  early  as  the  begin- 
ning of  that  month.  But  the  songs  cease  with 
the  evening  of  the  30th  April.  Job  says  he  can 
remember  the  custom  for  about  thirty  years,  and 
he  never  heard  any  other  than  the  two  songs 
which  follow.  There  are  usually,  he  says,  five 
or  six  men,  with  a  fiddle,  and  sometimes  a  flute 
or  clarionet.  The  songs  are  printed  just  as  re- 
cited by  Job  Knight;  and  when  I  ventured  to 
hint  that  one  line  (the  3d  in  3d  verse  of  song 
II.)  was  too  long,  he  sang  it  over,  to  show  that 
all  the  words  were  somehow  brought  into  the 
strain.  The  first  song  bears  marks  of  some  an- 
tiquity ;  first  in  the  double  refirain,  or  2d  and  4th 
lines  in  each  stanza,  which  are  poetically  and 
musically  far  superior  to  the  others ;  next  in  the 
picture  of  manners  conveyed  by  the  worshipful 
master  of  the  house  in  his  chain  of  gold,  the 
mistress  with  gold  along  her  breast,  etc  The 
phrases,  ''  house  and  harbour,"  ''  riches  and  store," 
also  point  to  earlier  times.  The  last  line  of  this 
song  appears  to  convey  its  object,  and  to  point 


1 1 8  BA  LLA  DS  ^  SONGS 

to  a  simple  superstition,  that  these  songs  were 
to  draw,  or  perhaps  drive  "these  cold  winters 
away."  There  are  various  lines  in  both  songs 
in  which  the  sense  seems  to  have  been  marred, 
from  the  songs  having  been  handed  down  by 
oral  tradition  only;  but  I  have  not  ventured 
to  alter  these  in  any  way.  The  second  song 
seems  more  modem  than  the  first  The  refrain, 
or  4th  line  of  each  stanza,  is  again  the  most 
poetical  and  musical  in  the  whole  song. 

OLD  MAY  SONG.— I. 

All  in  this  pleasant  evening  together  come  are  we. 
For  the  sununer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and 

gay; 

We'll  tell  you  of  a  blossom  that  buds  on  every 
tree. 
Drawing  near  to  the  merry  month  of  May. 

Rise  up  the  master  of  this  house,  put  on  your 
chain  of  gold, 
For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and 

gay  ; 

We  hope  you're  not  offended,  [with]  your  house 
we  make  so  bold. 
Drawing  near  to  the  merry  month  of  May. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  1 19 

Rise  up  the  mistress  of  this  house,  with  gold  along 
[upon]  your  breast, 
For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and  gay; 
And  if  your  body  be  asleep,  I  hope  your  soul's  at 
rest, 
Drawing  near  to  the  merry  month  of  May. 

Rise  up  the  children  of  this  house,  all  in  your  rich 
attire. 
For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and  gay; 
For  every  hair  upon  your  head  shines  like  the 
silver  wire. 
Drawing  near  to  the  merry  month  of  May. 

God  bless  this  house  and  harboiu*,  your  riches  and 
your  store. 
For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and  gay; 
We  hope  the  Lord  will  prosper  you,  both  now  and 
evermore, 
Drawing  near  to  the  merry  month  of  May. 

So  now  we're  going  to  leave  you  in  peace  and 
plenty  here, 
For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and  gay; 
We  shall  not  sing  you  May  again  until  another 
year. 
For  to  draw  you  these  cold  winters  away. 


I20  BALLADS  &»  SONGS 


NEW  MAY  SONG.-^II. 

Called  also  "  The  Basiers;''  said  to  have  been 
written  by  a  Swinton  man. 

Come  and  listen  awhile  unto  what  we  shall  say 
Concerning  the  season,  the  month  we  call  May ; 
For  the  flowers  they  are  springing,  and  the  birds 

they  do  sing, 
And  the  basiers'  are  sweet  in  the.  morning  of  May. 

>  The  basier  is  the  name  given  in  this  port  of  Lancashire 
to  the  auricula,  which  is  usually  in  full  bloom  in  April. 
This  name  for  it  is  not  to  be  found  in  Gerarde's  History 
of  Plants^  or  Culpeper's  British  Herbal^  nor  in  the  glos- 
saries  of  Halliwell,  Nares,  etc  The  auricula  was  intro- 
duced into  this  country  from  Switzerland  about  the  year 
1567.  Can  its  Lancashire  name  have  any  relation  to 
auricula,— q,d,,  little  ear?— "F.  C  H.,"  in  Notes  and 
Queries  (3d  series,  ii.  305),  after  noticing  the  present  Editor's 
conjecture  as  to  the  derivation  of  the  word  basier,  adds  : 
*'  It  seems  more  probable  that  basier  was  originally  bear's 
ear,  the  usual  name  of  the  auricula  in  the  eastern  counties — 
certainly  a  very  coarse  name  for  a  very  beautiful  flower,  but 
founded,  no  doubt,  upon  the  resemblance  of  the  leaf  to  an 
ear,  which  gave  occasion  to  the  botanical  name  of  auricula.'* 
Another  correspondent  concurs  as  to  this  derivation,  and 
states  that  the  common  French  name  for  the  auricula  is 
oreUles  d'ours. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  121 

When  the  trees  are  in  bloom  and  the  meadows  are 

green, 
The  sweet-smelling  cowslips  are  plain  to  be  seen, 
The  sweet  ties  of  nature,  which  we  plainly  do  say, 
For  the  basiers  are  sweet  in  the  morning  of  May. 

All  creatures  are  deemed,  in  their  station  below, 
Such  comforts  of  love  on  each  other  bestow : 
Our  flocks  they're  aU  folded,  and  young  lambs 

sweetly  do  play. 
And  the  basiers  are  sweet  in  the  morning  of  May. 

So  now  to  conclude  with  much  freedom  and  love, 
The  sweetest  of  blessings  proceeds  from  above ; 
Let  us  join  in  our  song,  that  right  happy  may  we  be, 
For  we'll  bless  with  contentment  in  the  morning 
of  May.' 

Both  these  songs  have  appeared,  with  musical 
notation,  in  Messrs.  Chambers's  Book  of  Days^ 
and  are  reprinted  by  their  permission. 

*  This  last  line  would  read  better  thus — 
"  For  we're  blest  with  content  in  the  morning  of  May." 


rz2  BALLADS  &•  SONGS 


STRETFORD  AND  NORTHEN  MAY  SONG. 

Mr.  John  Higson  of  Droylsden,  in  an  article 
entitled  "Stretford  as  we  found  it  and  heard  of 
it,"  which  appeared  in  the  Ashton  Reporter  of  June 
23  and  30,  i860,  writes — "We  cannot  refrain 
from  noticing  the  custom  of  singing  '  May  carols' 
under  the  chamber-windows  of  the  drowsy  villagers 
on  the  eve  of  the  ist  of  May.  Of  course  the  poet 
of  the  gang  fits  the  song  to  suit  each  particular 
case,  extemporising  lines  addressed  to  the  several 
sons  and  daughters  by  name.  Here  is  one  version 
of  it  [We  omit  verses  i,  2,  3,  8,  and  9,  as  almost 
identical  with  some  of  those  of  the  Old  Swinton 
May  Song] : — 


Rise  up  ye  little  children,  and  stand  all  in  a  row, 
For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and  gay ; 

We  should  have  call*d  you  one  by  one,  but  your 
names  we  do  not  know ; 
Drawing  near  to  the  merry  month  of  May. 

5- 
Rise  up  the  little  infant,  the  flower  of  the  flock, 

For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and  gay; 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  123 

The  cradle  that  you  do  lay  in,  it  stands  upon  a 
rock; 
Drawing  near  to  the  merry  month  of  May. 

6. 

Rise  up,  the  fair  maid  of  this  house,  put  on  your 
gay  gold  ring, 
For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and  gay; 
And  bring  to  us  a  can  of  beer — the  better  we  shall 
sing; 
Drawing  near  to  the  merry  month  of  May. 

7. 
Fair  Flora  in  her  prime,  down  by  yon  riverside, 

Where  the  fields  and  the  meadows  they  are  green. 
Where  little  birds  are  singing,  sweet  flowers  they 
are  springing. 
And  summer  springs  so  fi^esh,  green,  and  gay. 
Drawing  near  to  the  merry  month  of  May. 

Mr.  Higson  adds  that  the  air  is  said  to  suit 
the  words  and  the  occasion  "  to  a  T."  Though 
some  of  the  lines  are  a  little  too  long  and  prosy, 
and  the  7  th  verse  has  both  an  additional  line 
and  a  different  arrangement,  the  song  is  not  devoid 
of  merit,  and  the  tune  "is  made   to  come  in." 


124  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

In  the  3d  line  of  the  5th  verse  a  simple  pun 
is  perpetrated.  In  a  private  communication  to 
the  present  Editor,  he  writes,  ^'  I  have  met  with 
a  young  woman,  who,  when  a  girl,  has  assisted 
to  sing  this  May-song  at  Bamton  in  Cheshire. 
The  carol  also  prevails  about  Northenden." 

There  is  yet  another  version,  printed  under  the 
title  of  "  The  Cheshire  May-Song,"  in  Mr.  J.  O. 
Halliwell's  PalaHm  Aniholcgyy  p.  185,  which 
he  states  was  ^'kindly  communicated  to  him  by 
Geoige  Ormerod,  Esq.  of  Sedbury  Park,  Glou- 
cestershire." We  give  the  first  verse,  as  showing 
its  similarity  as  well  as  its  difference: — 

All  on  this  pleasant  evening  together  come  are  we. 
For  the  summer  springs  so  fi'esh,  green,  and  gay ; 

To  tell  you  of  a  blossom  that  hangs  on  every  tree. 
Drawing  near  to  this  morning  of  May. 

O  this  is  pleasant  singing,  sweet  May-flower  [it]  is 
springing. 
And  sunmier  comes  so  firesh,  green,  and  gay. 

The  3d  line  of  the  2d  verse  runs — 

^'And  turn  unto  your  loving  wife,  so  comely  to 
behold." 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  125 

The  3d  line,  3d  verse — 

"  And  if  your  body's  sleeping,  we  hope  your  soul 
has  rest" 


The  next  seven  verses  are  provided  to  suit  the 
age,  sex,  and  condition  of  members  of  the  par- 
ticular household  addressed.  We  give  these  in 
order  to  complete  the  various  readings  of  this 
curious  May-song : — 


Oh,  rise  up,  Mr.  A.  R,  all  joys  to  you  betide,  etc., 
Your  steed  stands  ready  saddled,  a-hunting  for  to 
ride,  etc. 


Your  saddle  is  of  silver,  your  bridle  is  of  gold,  etc.. 
Your  bride  should  ride  beside  you,  so  lovely  to 
behold,  etc 

6. 

Oh,  rise  up,  Mr.  C.  D.,  and  take  your  pen  in 
hand,  etc.. 

For  you're  a  learned  scholar,  as  we  do  under- 
stand, etc. 


126  BALLADS  &-  SONGS 

7. 
Oh,  rise  up,  Mrs.  E.  F.,  all  in  your  rich  attire,  etc. 

You  are  to  have  some  noble  lord,  or  else  some 

wealthy  squire,  etc. 

8. 
Oh,  rise  up,  all  the  little  ones,  the  flower  of  all 

your  kin,  etc., 
And  blessed   be   the   chamber  their   bodies   lie 

within,  etc. 

Oh,  rise  up,  the  good  housekeeper,  all  in  her  gown 

of  silk,  etc, 
Oh,  may  she  have  a  husband  good,  and  twenty  cows 

to  milk,  etc. 

10. 
But  where  are  all  those  fair  maids  that  usM  here  to 

dance?  etc. 
Oh,  they  are  gone  abroad  from  hence,  to  spend 

their  lives  in  France,  etc. 

The  nth  and  last  verse  is  substantially  the 
same  as  in  the  Swinton  and  the  Stretford  ver- 
sions. Mr.  Halliwell  adds  that  the  verses  he 
prints  are  a  selection  from  a  series  sent  from 
High  Legh,  in  Cheshire,  to  Mr.  Ormerod,  by  a 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  1 17 

lady  re^dent  there,  in  1827.  She  mentioned 
that  "  the  series  of  stanzas  is  widely  extended 
to  suit  all  classes  of  persons  that  may  be  re- 
quired to  be  addressed,  and  the  rural  minstrels 
occasionally  improvise  in  a  style  corresponding 
to  what  is  here  given." 


SONGS  OF  THE  MAYERS. 

This  Mayers'  song,  says  Hone  in  his  Every 
Day  Book  (L  567),  is  a  composition,  or  rather 
a  medley,  of  great  antiquity,  and  I  was  therefore 
very  desirous  to  procure  a  copy  of  it  In  accom- 
plishing this,  however,  I  experienced  more  difficulty 
than  I  had  anticipated ;  but  at  length  succeeded 
in  obtaining  it  from  one  of  the  Mayers.  The  fol- 
lowing is  a  literal  transcript  of  it : — 

THE  MAYERS'  SONG. 

Remember  us  poor  Mayers  all, 

And  thus  do  we  begin 
To  lead  our  lives  in  righteousness, 

Or  else  we  die  in  sin. 


We  have  been  rambling  all  this  night. 

And  almost  all  this  day. 
And  now  retumM  back  again 

We've  brought  you  a  brapch  of  May. 


OF  LATSiXASHlRE,  129 

A  branch  of  May  we  have  brought  you, 

And  at  your  door  it  stands  ; 
It  is  but  a  sprout,  but  it's  well  budded  out, 

By  the  work  of  our  Lord's  hands. 

The  hedges  and  trees  they  are  so  green, 

As  green  as  any  leek  ; 
Our  heavenly  Father  he  watered  them 

With  his  heavenly  dew  so  sweet 

The  heavenly  gates  are  open  wide, 

Our  paths  are  beaten  plain, 
And  if  a  man  be  not  too  far  gone, 

He  may  return  again. 

The  life  of  man  is  but  a  span, 

He  flourishes  like  a  flower ; 
We  are  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow. 

And  we  are  dead  in  an  hour. 

The  moon  shines  bright,  and  the  stars  give 

alight, 

A  little  before  it  is  day : 

So  God  bless  you  all,  both  great  and  small. 

And  send  you  a  joyful  May. 

K 


I30  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 


THE  MAYERS'  CALL. 

Come,  lads,  with  your  bills, 
To  the  wood  we'll  away, 

We'll  gather  the  boughs, 
And  we'll  celebrate  May. 

We'll  bring  our  load  home. 
As  we've  oft  done  before, 
And  leave  a  green  bough 
At  each  good  master's        \ 

good  neighbour's  >  door, 
pretty  maid's        ) 

To-morrow,  when  work's  done, 

I  hold  it  no  wrong, 
If  we  go  round  in  ribands. 

And  sing  them  a  song. 

Come,  lads,  bring  your  bills. 
To  the  wood  we'll  away. 

We'll  gather  the  boughs. 
And  we'll  celebrate  May. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  1 3 1 


MAY  EVE  SONG. 

It  we  should  wake  you  from  your  sleep, 

Good  people,  listen  now ; 
Our  yearly  festival  we  keep. 

And  bring  a  May-thorn  bough. 

An  emblem  of  the  world  it  grows  ; 

The  flowers  its  pleasiires  are ; 
But  many  a  thorn  bespeaks  its  woes, 

Its  sorrow  and  its  care. 

Oh  !  sleep  you  then,  and  take  your  rest, 
And,  when  the  day  shall  dawn. 

May  you  awake  in  all  things  blest, 
A  May  without  a  thorn. 

And  when  to-morrow  we  shall  come, 
Oh  1  treat  us  not  with  scorn ; 

From  out  your  bounty  give  us  some — 
Be  May  without  a  thorn. 

May  He  who  makes  the  May  to  blow. 

On  earth  his  riches  shed, 
Protect  thee  [you]  against  every  woe. 

Shower  blessings  on  thy  [your]  head. 


132  BALLADS  &»  SONGS 

After    **  bringing   home   the   May,*'    there   is 
another  ditty : — 


MAYERS'  MAY-DAY  SONG. 

On  the  Mayers  deign  to  smile, 
Master,  mistress,  hear  our  song  ; 

Listen  but  a  little  while, 

We  will  not  detain  you  long. 

Life  with  us  is  in  its  spring, 
We  enjoy  a  blooming  iSlay, 

Summer  will  its  labour  bring, 
Winter  has  its  pinching  day. 

Yet  the  blessing  we  would  use 
Wisely — it  is  reason's  part — 

Those  who  youth  and  health  abuse 
Fail  not  in  the  end  to  smart. 

Mirth  we  love  :  the  proverb  says, 
"  Be  ye  meny,  but  be  wise ;" 

We  will  walk  in  wisdom's  ways — 
There  alone  true  pleasure  lies. 


OF  LANQASHIRE,  133 

May,  that  now  is  in  its  bloom, 

All  so  fragrant  and  so  fair, 
When  autumn  and  when  winter  come, 

Shall  its  useful  berries  bear. 


We  would  taste  your  home-brew'd  beer- 
Give  not,  if  we've  had  enough — 

May  it  strengthen,  may  it  cheer ; 
Waste  not  e'er  the  precious  stuff. 

We  of  money  something  crave. 
For  oilrselves  we  ask  no  share ; 

John  and  Jane  the  whole  shall  have, 
They  're  the  last  new-married  pair. 

May  it  comfort  to  them  prove, 
And  a  blessing  bring  to  you ; 

Blessings  of  connubial  love 
Light  on  all  like  morning  dew. 

So  shall  May,  with  blessings  crown'd, 
Welcomed  be  by  old  and  young ; 

Often  as  the  year  comes  round. 
Shall  the  May-day  song  be  sung. 


134  BALLADS  Sf  SONGS  Of''  LANCASHIRE. 

Fare  ye  well,  good  people  all, 
Sweet  to-night  may  be  your  rest ; 

Every  blessing  you  befal, 

Blessing  others,  you  are  blest. 


WASSAIL  SONG. 

The  following  Cliristmas  song  of  Wassail  is  taken 
from  a  little  chap-book,  printed  at  Manchester, 
called  "A  Selection  of  Christmas  Hymns,"  and 
there  entitled  "Wessel  Cup  Hymn."  It  is  ob- 
viously a  corrupted  version  of  a  much  older  song, 
but  well  deserves  to  be  preserved  as  a  song  of  the 
season. — "Ambrose  Merton,"  in  Notes  and  Queries, 
i-  137- 

Here  we  come  a-wassailing 

Among  the  leaves  so  green  ; 
Here  we  come  a- wandering. 
So  fdr  to  be  seen. 
Chorus. — Love  and  joy  come  to  you. 
And  to  your  wassail  too. 
And  God  send  you  a  happy  new  year — new  year, 
And  God  send  you  a  happy  new  year. 
Our  wassail  cup  is  made  of  the  rosemary  tree, 
So  is  your  beer  of  the  best  barley. 


THE  LIVERPOOL  TRAGEDY  : 

Or^  A  Warning  to  Disobedient  Children  and  Covet- 
ous Parents  ;  showing  how  one  John  Fuller  left 
his/athet^s  house  to  go  to  sea  against  his  will^  and 
was  shipwrecked^  but  was  presented  on  a  rock  ; 
how  he  was  fetched  by  the  shifs  boat,  and  put 
ashore  at  Bengal^  where  he  married;  how  he  re- 
turned home^  when  hCy  not  informing  his  parents 
who  he  was,  they  murdered  him  for  the  sake  of 
his  gold;  with  their  tragical  end} 


Part  I. 

You  tender  parents  that  have  children  dear, 
Be  pleas'd  to  wait  awhile,  and  you  shall  hear 
A  dismal  accident  befel  of  late, 
Which  ought  to  bear  an  everlasting  date. 

^  This  doggerel  ballad  was  frequently  issued  both  in 
broadside  and  as  a  chap-book.  It  was  popular  so  recently 
as  the  beginning  of  the  present  century. 


BALLADS  df*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE.    139 

At  famous  Liverpool,  in  Lancashire, 
One  Mr.  Robert  Fuller  liv'd,  we  hear  ; 
A  grazier,  who  liv'd  in  a  happy  state, 
He  being  not  too  poor,  nor  yet  too  great 

He  had  three  daughters,  charming  beauties  bright, 
And  but  one  son,  which  was  his  heart's  delight ; 
His  father  doated  on  him,  and  in  truth 
He  was  a  dutiful  and  sober  youth. 

He  bound  him  'prentice  to  one  Mr.  Brown, 
A  noted  surgeon  who  liv'd  in  the  town  ; 
With  whom  he  sta/d  the  term  of  seven  years. 
And  serv'd  him  faithfully,  as  it  appears. 

And  afterwards  sometime  did  with  him  dwell. 
And  as  a  servant  pleas'd  his  master  well ; 
He  got  acquainted  with  a  surgeon's  mate. 
Who  was  going  a  voyage  up  the  Strait 

He  did  persuade  him  for  to  go  to  sea. 

And  said,  in  time  he  might  promoted  be ; 

This   so   much  wrought  upon  the   young   man's 

mind, 
That  he  to  go  with  him  seem'd  much  inclin'd. 

He  went  and  told  his  father  his  design, 
That  he  would  go  to  sea  in  a  little  time, — 


140  BALLADS  &^  SONGS 

"  For  I  to  the  East  Indies  now  will  go  ; 
Therefore,  dear  father,  do  not  say  me  No." 

To  hear  these  words  his  father  was  surprised, 
It  soon  fetch'd  tears  from  his  aged  eyes ; 
"  Can  you,  my  son,"  said  he,  "  from  me  depart, 
And  leave  me  here  behind  with  aching  heart  ? 

"  Because  I  plac'd  in  you  my  chief  delight. 
Do  you  ray  tender  care  this  way  requite  1 
You  my  consent  to  go  shall  never  have  ; 
'Twill  bring  me  down  with  sorrow  to  the  grave. 

"  Go,  wilful  youth  !     Perhaps  the  time  may  come 
That  you  may  wish  you*d  stay*d  with  me  at  home." 
But  all  these  arguments  would  not  prevail ; 
He  was  resolv'd  the  raging  main  to  sail 

His  mother  cried,  '*  I  thought  I  had  a  son 
Would  be  my  comfort  for  the  time  to  come." 
His  sisters  cried,  "  Dear  brother,  do  not  go, 
And  leave  our  father  thus  oppressed  with  woe.'* 

His  father  said,  "  My  son,  let  reason  rule ; 
Take  my  advice,  and  do  not  play  the  fool 
What  is  the  meaning  of  this  sudden  change  ? 
What  makes  you  fancy  at  this  time  to  range  1 " 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  \\\ 

*'  Father !  all  these  persuasions  are  in  vain  ; 
I  am  resolv'd  to  cross  the  raging  main  ; 
Therefore,  give  me  your  blessing  ere  I  go, 
For  ru  be  gone,  whether  you  will  or  no." 

His  father  oyd,  "  Since  you  don*t  me  r^ard, 
God  justly  will  your  wickedness  reward  ; 
God's  heavy  judgments  will  upon  you  come, 
For  being  such  a  disobedient  son. 

"  So  you  must  go  without  what  you  now  crave  ; 
Mine  nor  God's  blessing  you  will  never  have." 
What  courses  now  this  stubborn  youth  doth  steer, 
You  in  the  second  part  shall  quickly  hear. 


Part  II. 

He  went  with  speed  unto  the  surgeon's  mate, 
And  goes  with  him  a  voyage  up  the  Strait ; 
But  with  that  voyage  he  was  not  content ; 
Further  to  go  his  rambling  mind  was  bent. 

He  came  to  London,  and  a  ship  he  found. 
Which  lay  at  Deptford,  for  the  Indies  bound  ; 
And  straight  he  orderi;d  his  matters  so 
As  surgeon's  mate  on  board  of  her  to  go. 


142  BALLADS  &»  SONGS 

The  very  next  day,  as  he  set  sail,  we  hear, 
He  sent  a  letter  to  his  father  dear  ; 
"  Father,"  he  wrote,  "  I  am  alive  and  well, 
"  But  when  I  shall  return  I  cannot  tell. 

**  I  am  on  board  a  noble  ship  of  fame, 
For  the  Indies  bound,  the  Prince  by  name ; 
I  will  come  home  when  my  wild  frolic's  run  ; 
So  this  is  all  at  present  from  your  son." 

His  aged  father  read  the  letter  strait, 

And  said,  "  My  son  is  gone  in  spite  of  fate ; 

All  I  can  do,  I'll  act  a  father's  part. 

And  beg  of  God  to  turn  his  stubborn  heart" 

Where  now  his  aged  father  we  will  leave, 
And  turn  unto  his  son,  which  made  him  grieve. 
Who  then  was  sailing  on  the  ocean  wide ; 
But  mark  what  in  short  time  did  him  betide. 

As  by  the  coast  of  Brazil  they  did  sail, 
Boreas  began  to  blow  a  blustering  gale ; 
The  captain  then,  with  deep  concern,  did  say, 
"  If  this  storm  holds,  we  shall  be  cast  away." 

He  scarce  had  spoke  these  words,  when  on  a  rock 
The  ship  was  drove  with  such  a  mighty  shock  ; 


OF  LA  NCA  SHIRE.  1 43 

She  stuck  so  fast  she  could  not  get  away ; 
So  they  in  sorrow  were  there  forced  to  stay. 

The  captain  cried,  "  Let* s  b^  of  God  that  He 
May  from  this  shocking  danger  set  us  free ; 
Next  let  all  hands  help  to  heave  out  the  boat, 
That  o*er  the  rolling  billows  we  may  float." 

He  gave  command ;  the  thing  as  soon  were  done. 
And  overboard  with  speed  the  boat  was  flung ; 
Each  one  to  save  his  life  got  in  with  speed, 
Until  the  boat  would  hold  no  more  indeed. 

The  boat  it  were  so  full  it  could  not  swim, 
So  some  were  forced  to  get  out  again  ; 
The  surgeon's  mate,  the  grazier's  stubborn  son. 
As  fortune  ordered,  chanced  to  be  one. 

He  was  obliged  out  of  the  boat  to  go 
Back  to  the  ship,  his  heart  oppressed  with  woe ; 
Fifteen  poor  souls-  behind  them  they  did  leave, 
Whose  piercing  cries  a  stony  heart  would  grieve. 

The  captain  cried,  **  My  boat  will  hold  no  more ; 

But  if  I  should  live  to  get  on  shore. 

And  you  remain  alive  in  this  sad  case, 

ril  surely  come  and  fetch  you  from  this  plac^" 


144        "  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 


Part  III. 

The  poor  distressed  men  in  great  despair, 
Unto  the  Lord  did  make  their  humble  pray'r, 
Expecting  ev'iy  minute  for  to  be 
Sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the  swelling  sea* 

The  grazier's  son  said,  "  Here  I  will  not  stayi 
But  through  the  foamy  billows  swim  away. 
I  can  swim  well ;  the  sea  does  calm  appear ; 
So  fare  you  well  my  brother  sailors  dear." 

He  overboard  did  jump  before  them  all, 
Which  made  the  seamen  after  him  to  call : 
"  You  silly  man,  you  cannot  get  on  shore. 
We  think  that  we  shall  never  see  you  more." 

Thus  he  went  along  till  almost  night, 
When  his  poor  limbs  were  tirfed  quite ; 
But  fortune  unto  him  did  prove  so  kind, 
That  he  by  chance  a  mighty  rock  did  find. 

The  rock  was  rugged,  high,  and  very  steep ; 
He  with  much  trouble  up  the  side  did  creep. 
And  looking  round,  no  land  he  could  behold ; 
He  cry'd,  "  My  sorrow  now  is  manifold. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  145 

"  My  father's  words  into  my  mind  does  come, 
That  I  do  wish  I*d  stopt  with  him  at  home ; 
Also  I  find  it  true  what  he  then  said ; 
But  now  my  disobedience  is  repaid. 


"  He  likewise  told  me  if  I  e*er  did  slight 
His  careful  counsel,  God  would  me  requite  ; 
He  told  me,  though  a  blessing  I  did  crave, 
His  nor  God's  blessing  I  should  never  have. 


?> 


Part  IV. 

He,  thus  lamenting,  spent  the  tedious  night 
Until  the  morning  it  grew  light ; 
Then  went  to  search  the  rock  all  round. 
Where  for  his  food  some  shell-fish  he  found. 

Satan,  the  first  deceiver  of  mankind, 
Did  come  to  tempt  this  surgeon,  as  we  find, . 
Thinking  he  would  with  any  terms  comply, 
So  took  advantage  of  his  misery. 

While  this  young  surgeon  looked  out  to  sea, 
At  a  good  distance  from  him  seem'd  to  be 
A  something  rowing  to  him  in  a  boat,. 
Which  o'er  the  rolling  waves  did  swiftly  float. 


146  BALLADS  6-  SONGS 

This  young  man  thought  he'd  been  a  friend,  at 

first, 
But  next,  he  fear'd  that  it  was  something  worse  ; 
"  For  if  some  wild  man-eater  it  should  be. 
He  first  will  kill,  then  next  devour  me." 

The  young  man  were  soon  freed  from  fear, 
As  the  devil,  like  some  sailor,  did  appear ; 
And  when  he  came  unto  the  rock  did  say, 
"  Young  man,  how  came  you  here  this  very  day?" 

The  surgeon  all  his  whole  misfortunes  told, 

And  while  the  truth  to  him  he  did  unfold. 

Three  drops  of  blood  down  from  his  nose  did 

fall, 
Which  made  him  think  him  not  a  friend  withal. 

The  devil  then  repl/d,  "  Young  man,  if  you 
Will  be  my  servant,  wholly,  just  and  true, 
And  will  resign  yourself  up  to  me, 
I  from  this  wretched  place  will  set  you  free." 

The  young  man  found  who  were  with  him  then, 
And  cried,  "  You  grand  deceiver  of  us  men, 
O  get  you  gone,  your  flattery  forbear ; 
Why  do  you  try  my  soul  for  to  ensnare  1 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  147 

"  I  now  your  whole  temptations  do  despise, 
Thou  subtle  fiend,  thou  father  of  all  lies  ; 
1  will  resign  myself  to  God  alone  j 
Therefore,  you  vile  deceiver,  quick,  begone  ! " 

The  devil  then  he  strait  did  disappear. 
And  left  the  surgeon  trembling  with  fear  ; 
Where  now  awhile  we'll  leave  him  to  complain, 
And  turn  unto  his  shipmates  once  again. 

The  captain  in  the  boat  got  safe  on  shore, 
And  soon  returned  to  the  ship  once  more, 
Where,  out  of  fifteen,  nine  were  left  alive  ; 
The  captain  did  their  drooping  hearts  revive. 

"  Where  is  the  rest  of  you  1 "  the  captain  cry*d. 
"  Alas  !  with  hunger  they  have  dy'd. 
All  but  the  surgeon,  who  here  would*nt  stay. 
And  overboard  did  jump,  and  swam  away." 

The  captain  cry'd,  "  I  hope  my  dream  is  right. 
That  he  were  on  a  rock  I  dreamt  last  night ; 
So  man  the  boat,  for  I  the  rock  do  know, 
To  save  his  life  I  thither  now  will  go. 

The  boat  was  mann*d,  and  to  the  rock  they  came, 
Where,  to  their  joy,  he  did  alive  remain  ; 


148  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

They  took  him  in,  and  then  they  row'd  away, 
Which  provM  unto  him  a  happy  day. 

Part  V. 

Their  ship  from  oflf  the  rock  they  soon  did  get, 
And  took  great  pains  in  well  repairing  it ; 
Then  for  Bengal  in  India  they  did  sail, 
And  soon  arrived  with  a  prosperous  gale. 

The  surgeon  soon  got  him  there  a  wife, 
And  ten  years  liv'd  a  very  happy  life  ; 
Six  children  had,  likewise  a  good  estate. 
But  he  was  bom  to  be  unfortunate. 

About  his  parents  he  was  troubled  so. 

That  back  to  England  he  would  go  ; 

He  left  his  wife  and  children,  as  'tis  told, 

And  with  him  took  ten  hundred  pounds  in  gold. 

Two  of  his  sisters  in  that  time  were  dead. 
The  other  to  a  glazier  marriM  ; 
He  call'd  there  first,  she  was  o*erjoy*d  to  see 
That  her  own  brother  yet  alive  should  be. 

" How  does  my  parents  do?"  then  he  did  say, 
She  cry'd,  "  They're  well,  I  saw  them  yesterday  ; 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  149 

But  they're  so  covetous  growti  of  late, 
They  scarce  allow  themselves  food  to  eat" 

"  This  night  I'll  go  and  lodge  there,"  he  did  say ; 
"  But  they  sha'nt  know  me  till  you  come  njext  day." 
Unto  his  father's  house  he  then  did  go, 
Asking  if  he  a  lodging  could  have  or  no  % 

They  answered,  "  Yes,"  and  bid  him  strait  come  in. 
But  now,  alas  1  his  sorrows  did  begin  ; 
His  father  said,  "  Youi^  man,  I  tell  you  true, 
I  had  a  son  who  was  very  much  like  you." 

A  purse  of  gold  he  to  his  mother  gave, 
And  said,  "  To-morrow  it  of  you  I'll  have." 
She  cr/d,  "You  shall."     He  then  went  to  bed, 
When  the  devil  quickly  put  it  in  her  head. 

To  murder  her  own  son,  the  gold  to  have, 
For  that  was  all  she  in  this  world  did  crave  ; 
"  Husband,"  said  she,  "  when  he  is  dead  and  gone, 
Then  all  the  gold  will  surely  be  our  own." 

To  murder  this  young  man  they  both  did  go. 
But  that  he  was  their  son  they  did  not  know  ; 
They  found  him  fast  asleep,  void  of  all  care, 
Then  quickly  cut  his  throat  from  ear  to  ear. 


ISO  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

His  sister  came,  saying,  "  Father,  dear. 

Did  there  not  come  my  brother  here?" 

He    answer'd,    "No."       She    said,    "There  did 

indeed." 

"  Alas  1"  said    they,    "  we've   made   our   son    to 
bleed." 

He  strait  took  up  then  the  bloody  knife. 
And  instant  put  a  period  to  his  life  : 
His  wife  she  sat  a  little  while  below, 
At  last  up  stairs  did  to  her  husband  go. 

Where,  to  her  grief,  she  saw  him  bleeding  lie ; 
She  cry'd,  **  Alas  !  iVe  causM  you  to  die, 
All  by  my  means,  for  the  sake  of  cursed  gold  : 
My  child  and  husband  dead  I  do  behold  !" 

*'  Now  I  will  make  up  the  number  three, 

I  cannot  live  such  a  sad  sight  to  see." 

Saying,  "  World,  farewell !  gold,  from  you  I  must 

part;" 
Then  run  the  knife  into  her  cruel  heart. 

The  daughter,  wond'ring  at  their  long  delay. 
Did  go  up  stairs  to  see  what  made  them  stay  ; 
When  the  dreadful  sight  she  did  behold. 
Her  dying  mother  all  the  story  told. 


OF  LANCASHIRE. 

Then  did  her  daughter  weep,  then  went  away. 
And  raving  mad,  died  on  the  next  day. 
So  children  all,  from  disobedience  flee, 
And  parents,  likewise,  not  too  covetous  be  ! 


^^^ss 

B^^^^^^^^^^H 

K  ^^/^ 

^v--^^^ 

^  ^.^  Aj 

STONYHURST  BUCKHUNT. 

Mr.  T.  T.  Wilkinson  of  Burnley,  in  sending  a 
broadsheet  of  this  ballad  to  Notes  and  Queries  (x. 
503),  states  that  the  circumstances  occurred  about 
a  century  ago  ;*  that  the  name  of  the  rhymer  is 


'  From  several  circumstances,  we  imagine  that  this  hunt 
must  have  been  in  the  time  of  Thomas  Howard,  described 
by  Sir  Harris  Nicolas  in  his  Synopsis^  etc.,  as  loth  duke 
of  his  family,  but  by  Burke  in  his  Peerage  as  8th  duke.  He 
was  bom  iith  December  1683,  and  married  Mary  (another 
accoimt  calls  this  lady  Maria  Winifreda  Francisca,  probably 
Englished  by  Mary  Winifred  Frances),  only  daughter  and 
heir  of  Sir  Nicholas  Shirebume,  or  Sherburne,  of  Stony- 
hurst.  This  marriage  would  account  for  the  duke  being  at 
the  buck-hunt ;  iand  Sir  Nicholas  Shirebume,  his  (ather-in- 
law,  is  named,  with  his  daughter  the  duchess,  in  the  last 
stanza.  The  duke  died  on  the  23d  December  1732,  with- 
out issue,  and  was  succeeded  by  his  brother  Edward,  9th 
duke.  This  fixes  the  date  of  the  hunt  as  earlier  than 
December  1732. 


BALLADS  dr*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE.    153 

now  forgotten ;'  but  that  the  piece  is  still  sung  or 
recited  bv  old  residents.     It  is  entitled — 

"An  Interesting  Account  of  Stonyhurst  Buck- 
hunt  :  detailing  the  particulars  of  the  chace  of 
that  day,  which  was  honoured  with  the  pre- 
sence of  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  his  noble 
brothers,  and  his  kinsman  Talbot;  ac- 
companied by  Mr.  Waters,  Mr.  Harris,  and 
Mr.  Penketh — all  of  whom  were  gentlemen 
fond  of  the  turf,  and  who  stood  at  nought  in 
taking  a  leap  when  in  *  View  Halloo  !* " 

To  Whalley  Moor  therefore  he  ran, 
To  Clitheroe  and  Waddington  ; 
Yet  visits  Mitton  by  the  way. 
Although  he  had  no  time  to  stay. 

I. 
It  was  one  morning,  when  the  sun 
Had  gilded  all  our  horizon. 
And  seem'd  in  haste  to  mount  the  sky, 
Some  new-known  pleasures  to  espy ; 

'  We  have  learned  that  the  composer  of  this  ballad  was 
a  Mr.  Cottam,  a  schoolmaster  at  Hurst  Green ;  and  that  he 
&Iso  wrote  a  song  banning,  ''Hie  away  to  Rossall  Point." 
He  is  also  said  to  have  written  **The  Burnley  Haymakers," 
in  this  volume,  and  a  song  called  **Thc  Five- Barred  Gate." 


154  BALLADS  6^  SONGS 

Whose  eariy  rays  did  me  invite 
To  walk  the  downs  for  my  delight. 

2. 

Serene  and  calm  all  did  appear ; 
At  last  this  music  reached  my  ear — 
The  morning's  call,  one  blast  of  horn ; 
While  horses  at  the  ground  did  spurn 
In  stately  scorn,  neighing  so  high, 
As  echoed  in  the  lofty  sky. 

3- 
Twas  my  good  hap  to  see  his  grace 
As  he  on  Twister  mounted  was ; 
Norfolk's  great  duke,  my  muse  does  mean, 
\Vhose  skill  in  horsemanship  was  seen 
So  excellent,  my  fancy  swore 
Chiran  ne*er  taught  Achilles  more. 


With  steady  countenance  he  sat. 
While  the  proud  steed  did  bound  and  jet, 
Seeming  of  nature  to  complain 
That  he  was  made  of  aught  terrene. 
Ready  to  mount  the  starry  sphere, 
And  make  a  constellation  there. 


OF  LANCA  shire:  i  5  5 

5- 
His  noble  brothers  present  were, 

Attending  on  this  worthy  peer, 

With  many  a  gentleman  of  worth, 

Greater  than  here  I  can  set  forth  ; 

I  only  should  insert  each  name — 

Learn  you  the  rest  from  public  fame. 

6. 
Sir  Nicholas  upon  a  black, 
Was  bravely  mounted,  showM  no  lack  ; 
Due  commendation,  could  my  muse 
For  his  great  merits  words  diffuse  : 
More  gen'rous,  just,  or  good  than  he, 
No  mortal  ever  yet  could  be. 


Joy  in  his  countenance  appeared. 

Wherewith  his  lovely  guests  he  cheer  d  ; 

Brisk,  aiiy,  young,  to  all  he'll  show — 

And  may  he  evermore  be  so  : 

Great  with  the  honourable  sort, 

Yet  still  the  poor  man's  chief  support. 

8. 
His  kinsman,  Talbot,  there  I  saw, 
A  comely  youth  from  top  to  toe ; 


156  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

With  many  heroes  of  the  same. 
Yet  he's  the  last  of  that  brave  name, 
Equipped  in  a  most  gallant  sort, 
To  be  partaker  of  the  sport. 

9- 
The  next  rare  object'  I  did  spy 
Was  a  brave  horseman, — O,  thought  I, 
That's  Pegasus  he's  mounted  on, 
And  he's  the  young  Bellerophon  ; 
Their  motions  were  so  well  combin'd, 
You'd  think  they  both  had  but  one  mind. 

lO. 

"  That's  Mr.  Waters,"  one  did  say, 
"  Mounted  on  gallant  Northall  gray." 
And  many  more  I  saw,  whose  names 
In  proper  place  I  shall  proclaim, 
Who,  to  divert  themselves,  met  there, 
In  hunting  of  a  fallow  deer. 

II. 

Good  hounds  they  had  as  ever  run, 
Braver  the  sun  ne'er  shone  upon ; 
Towler  and  Tapster,  hunters'  pride — 
Famous  and  Juno,  proved  and  tried.; 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  157 

The  best  that  ever  traced  the  grounds, 
And  glory  of  all  British  hounds. 

12. 

Carver,  respected  much  by  Knowls, 
Wonder  and  Thunder  none  controls  ; 
Nor  Ploughman — but  they  all  excel, 
'Tis  hard  to  say  which  bears  the  bell ; 
Indifferent  praises  none  should  have, 
They're  all  superlatively  brave. 

13- 
Phillis  and  Comely,  pray  you  mind. 
Though  in  the  verse  they  come  behind  ; 
Their  excellence  in  field  is  great, 
Their  skill  in  hunting  most  complete  ; 
Countess  and  Caesar  bravely  trace 
The  ground,  with  charming,  snuffling  face. 

14. 

The  buck,  unlodged,  began  to  fear 
At  sight  of  such  a  concourse  there. 
Thinking  it  was  conspiracy 
Against  his  life,  and  he  must  die  ; 
Trusting  to  feet  incontinent, 
Which  still  betray'd  him  by  the  scent. 


158  BALLADS  &•  SONGS 

The  hounds  uncoupled  on  the  plain, 
A  mortal  war  straight  did  proclaim ; 
With  such  melodious  mouths  they  cry, 
As  make  a  perfect  harmony ; 
Whilst  Echo,  answering  in  each  grove, 
Had  quite  foigot  Narcissus'  love. 

1 6. 
The  sound  of  horn  alarm  did  give 
Unto  this  silly  fugitive  ; 
Who  was  resolved  in  this  chace 
To  give  a  prospect  to  his  grace, 
And  to  all  worthy  hunters  there. 
Of  all  the  country  far  and  near. 

17. 
To  Whalley  Moor  he  therefore  run. 

To  Clitheroe  and  Waddington  ; 

Yet  visits  Mitton  by  the  way, 

Although  he  had  no  time  to  stay ; 

Then  into  Bowland  Forest  goes, 

Still  foUow'd  by  his  full-mouth*d  foes. 

18. 
Robin  the  groom  began  to  swear — 
"  ITiis  is  the  devil  and  no  deer," 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  159 

So  spurs  up  cheerful  Favourite — 
A  mare  that  may  a  prince  delight, 
And  coming  close  in,  cried,  "  Zounds, 
All  Europe  cannot  show  such  hounds." 

19. 
With  tedious  but  well-pleasing  steps, 
Our  trusty  Abraham  forward  trips ; 
No  river,  mount,  or  dale  can  stay 
His  passage,  but  he  finds  a  way 
Through  all  obstructions,  past  compare 
In  hunting  otter,  buck,  or  hare. 

20. 
Except  old  Mr.  Harris,  who 
Did  all  that  any  man  could  do ; 
And  Mr.  Penketh,  who  pursued 
As  if  they  both  had  youth  renew'd, 
Equal  in  skill  and  in  desire. 
Which  made  the  hunters  all  admire. 

21. 
To  Stony  Moor  this  buck  then  fled, 
Where  we  did  think  him  almost  dead ; 
To  Storth  and  Fowlscales  then  he  hied, 
And  then  to  pleasant  Hodder  side ; 


i6o  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

But  had  not  Famous  laboured  sore, 
We'd  hunted  all  the  forest  o'er. 

22. 

But  when  he*d  cool'd  his  limbs  awhile, 
And  gathered  vigour  for  new  toil, 
To  Bosden  stoutly  he  did  run. 
The  seat  of  Captain  Hodgkinson ; 
And  there  we  saw — O  fate  to  tell ! 
He  bv  our  hounds  at  Knowsmoor  fell ! 

23- 
To  Stonyhurst,  then,  this  gallant  train, 

As  if  in  triumph  tum*d  again, 

Mutually  asking  on  the  way 

Which  dog  had  best  perform'd  that  day  ;- 

But  'twas  a  riddle  none  could  tell, 

Because  they'd  all  perform'd  so  well. 

24. 
Therefore,  since  ended  is  the  chace. 
Let  healths  go  round  unto  his  grace ; 
To  his  illustrious  duchess,  too, 
The  like  devotion  let  us  show ; 
Next  for  Sir  Nicholas  let  us  pray, 
And  so  conclude  our  hunting-day. 


.^x 


jrWu^ 


AN  EXCELLENT  NEW  BALLAD, 

ENTITLED 

THE  UNFORTUNATE  LOVE  OF  A  LANCASHIRE  GENTLE- 
MAN, AND  THE  HARD  FORTUNE  OF  A  FAIR 
YOUNG  BRIDE. 

Tunt» — **  Come,  follow  my  love." 

Of  this  ballad  there  exists  a  broadside  copy  in 
Mr.  J.  O.  HalliwelPs  Collection  of  Proclamations^ 
etc,  presented  by  him  to  Chetham's  Library 
(vol.  iii.  No.  90).  It  is  there  printed  in  six 
columns,  with  two  rude  woodcuts  at  the  head,  of 
a  lady  and  gentleman.  It  is  also  printed  in  that 
gentleman's  Palatine  Anthology, 

Look,  ye  faithful  lovers. 
On  my  unhappy  state, 
See  my  tears  distilling, 

But  pour^  out  too  late, 
And  buy  no  foolish  fancy 
At  too  dear  a  rate. 

Alack  !  for  my  love  I  shall  die. 
M 


i62  BALLADS  &-  SONGS 

My  father  he's  a  gentleman, 
Well  known,  of  high  degree, 

And  tender  of  my  welfare 
Evermore  was  he. 

He  sought  for  reputation, 
But  all  the  worse  for  me. 
Alack !  eta 

There  was  a  proper  maiden, 
Of  favour  sweet  and  fair, 

To  whom  in  deep  affection 
I  closely  did  repair  : 

In  heart  I  dearly  lov'd  her ; 
Lo  !  thus  began  my  care. 
Alack  !  etc. 

Nothing  wanting  in  her, 
But  this,  the  grief  of  all. 

Of  birth  she  was  but  lowly, 
Of  substance  very  small ; 

A  simple  hirfed  servant, 
And  subject  to  each  call. 
Alack  !  etc. 

Yet  she  was  my  pleasure, 
My  joy  and  heart's  delight, 


OF  LA  NCA  SHIRE,  1 63 

More  rich  than  any  treasure, 

More  precious  in  ray  sight ! 
At  length  to  one  another 

Our  promise  we  did  plight. 
Alack  !  etc. 

And  thus  unto  my  father 

The  thing  I  did  reveal, 
Desiring  of  his  favour, 

Nothing  I  did  conceal ; 
But  he  my  dear  affection 

Regarded  ne'er  a  deal. 
Alack !  etc. 

Quoth  he,  Thou  graceless  fellow. 

Thou  art  my  only  heir, 
And  for  thy  own  preferment 

Hast  thou  no  better  care, 
Than  marry  with  a  beggar. 

That  is  both  poor  and  bare  % 
Alack !  etc. 

I  charge  thee,  on  my  blessing. 

Thou  do  her  right  refrain, 
And  that  into  her  company 

You  never  come  again ; 


i64  BALLADS  6r*  SONGS 

That  you  should  be  so  married 
I  take  it  in  disdain. 
Alack  !  etc. 

Is  there  so  many  gentlemen, 
Of  worship  and  degree, 

I'hat  have  most  honest  daughters, 
Of  beauty  fair  and  free  ; 

And  can  none  but  a  beggar's  brat 
Content  and  pleasure  thee  1 
Alack  !  etc. 

By  Him  that  made  all  creatures — 
This  vow  to  thee  I  make — 

If  thou  do  not  this  beggar 
Refuse  and  quite  forsake, 

From  thee  thy  due  inheritance 
I  wholly  mean  to  take. 
Alack !  etc. 

These,  his  bitter  speeches, 
Did  sore  torment  my  mind. 

Knowing  well  how  greatly 
He  was  to  wrath  inclin'd. 

My  heart  was  slain  with  sorrow ; 
No  comfort  could  I  find. 
Alack  !  etc. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  165 

Then  did  I  write  a  letter, 

And  send  it  to  my  dear, 
Wherein  my  first  affection 

All  changM  did  appear ; 
Which  firom  her  fair  eyes  forc*d 

l*he  pearly  water  clear. 
Alack !  etc. 

For  grief^  unto  the  messenger 
One  word  she  could  not  speak, 

Those  doleful  heavy  tidings 
Her  gentle  heart  did  break  ; 

Yet  sought  not  by  her  speeches 

On  me  her  heart  to  wreak. 

Alack !  etc. 

This  deed  within  my  conscience 

Tormented  me  full  sore, 
To  think  upon  the  promise 

I  made  her  long,  before ; 
And  for  its  true  performance 

How  I  most  deeply  swore. 
Alack !  etc. 

I  could  not  be  in  quiet 
Till  I  to  her  did  go, 


1 66  BALLADS  Qr*  SONGS 

Who  for  my  sake  remainM 
In  sorrow,  grief,  and  woe ; 

And  unto  her  in  secret 
My  full  intent  to  show. 
Alack  !  etc. 

My  sight  rejoicM  greatly 
Her  sad  perplexfed  heart ; 

From  both  her  eyes  on  sudden 
The  trickling  tears  did  start, 

And  on  each  other's  bosom 
We  breathM  forth  our  smart. 
Alack !  etc. 

Unknown  unto  my  father, 
Or  any  friend  beside, 

Ourselves  we  closely  married. 
She  was  my  only  bride  ; 

Yet  still  within  her  service 
I  caus'd  her  to  abide. 
Alack !  etc. 

But  never  had  two  lovers 

More  sorrow,  care,  and  grief; 

No  means,  in  our  extremity, 
We  found  for  our  relief; 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  167 

And  now  what  further  happen'd 
Here  foUowedi  in  brief. 
Alack  !  etc. 

Now  all  ye  loyal  lovers 

Attend  unto  the  rest. 
See  by  my  secret  marriage 

How  sore  I  am  opprest ; 
For  why,  my  foul  misfortune 

Herein  shall  be  exprest. 
Alack  !  eta 

My  father  came  unto  me 

Upon  a  certain  day, 
And  with  a  merry  countenance, 

These  words  to  me  did  say : 
My  son,  quoth  he,  come  hither, 

And  mark  what  I  shall  say. 
Alack !  etc. 

Seeing  you  are  disposed 

To  lead  a  wedded  life, 
I  have,  unto  your  credit, 

Provided  you  a  wife, 
Where  thou  ma/st  live  delightful 

Without  all  care  and  strife. 
Alack  !  etc. 


1 68  BALLADS  &>  SONGS 

Master  Senock*s  daughter, 
'Most  beautiful  and  wise ; 
*  Three  hundred  pounds,  her  portion, 
May  well  thy  mind  suffice ; 
And  by  her  friends  and  kindred 
Thou  ma/st  to  credit  rise. 
Alack  !  etc. 

This  is,  my  son,  undoubted, 
A  match  for  thee  most  meet ; 

She  is  a  proper  Inaiden, 
Most  delicate  and  sweet ; 

Go  woo  her,  then,  and  wed  her, 
I  shall  rejoice  to  see't 
Alack  !  etc. 

• 

Her  friends  and  I  have  talk^, 
And  thereon  have  agreed, 

Then  be  not  thou  abashM, 
But  speedily  proceed ; 

Thou  shalt  be  entertained. 
And  leave  no  doubt  to  speed. 
Alack !  etc. 

O  pardon  me,  dear  father, 
With  bashful  looks,  I  said. 


OF  LA  NC A  SHIRE,  1 69 

To  enter  into  marriage, 

I  sorely  am  afraid ; 
A  single  life  is  lovely ; 

Therein  my  mind  is  staid. 
Alack  !  etc. 

When  he  had  heard  my  speech, 

His  anger  did  arise ; 
He  drove  me  from  his  presence ; 

My  sight  he  did  despise ; 
And  straight  to  disinherit  me 

All  means  he  did  devise. 
Alack  !  etc 

When  I  perceiv'd  myself 

In  that  ill  case  to  stand, 
Most  lewdly  [/.^.,  wickedly]  I  consented 

Unto  his  fond  demand, 
And  married  with  the  other, 

And  all  to  save  my  land. 
Alack !  etc. 

And  at  this  hapless  marriage 
Great  cost  my  friends  did  keep ; 

They  sparM  not  their  poultry, 
Their  oxen,  nor  their  sheep. 


1 70  BA  LLA  DS  &*  SONGS 

Whilst  joyfully  they  danc'd, 
I  did  in  comers  weep. 
Alack  !  etc 

My  conscience  was  tormented, 
Which  did  my  joys  deprive ; 

Yet,  for  to  hide  my  sorrow, 
My  thoughts  did  always  strive ; 

Quoth  I,  what  shame  'twill  be 
To  have  two  wives  alive. 
Alack !  etc. 

O  my  sweet  Margaret ! 

I  did  in  sorrow  say, 
Thou  know'st  not,  in  thy  service, 

Of  this  my  marriage-day  : 
Though  here  my  body  resteth, 

With  thee  my  heart  doth  stay ! 
Alack !  etc. 

And  in  my  meditations 
Came  in  my  lovely  bride. 

With  chains  and  jewels  trimmM 
And  silken  robes  beside ; 

Saying,  Why  doth  my  true  love 
So  sadly  here  abide  1 
Alack !  etc. 


OF  LA  NCA  SHIRE.  1 7 1 

Then  twenty  loving  kisses 

She  did  on  me  bestow, 
And  forth  abroad,  a-walking, 

This  lovely  maid  did  go ; 
Yea,  arm-in-arm  most  friendly, 

With  him  that  was  her  foe. 
Alack !  etc. 

But  when  that  I  had  brought  her 

Where  nobody  was  near, 
I  embraced  her  most  falsely. 

With  a  most  feignM  chear, 
Then  unto  the  heart  I  stabb'd 

This  maiden  fair  and  clear. 
Alack !  etc. 

Myself,  in  woeful  manner, 

I  wounded  with  a  knife, 
And  laid  myself  down  by  her, 

By  this  my  married  wife ; 
And  said  that  thieves,  to  rob  us, 

Had  wrought  this  deadly  strife. 
Alack !  etc. 

Great  wailing  and  great  sorrow 
Was  then  upon  each  side ; 


172  BALLADS  &»  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

In  woeful  sort  they  buried 

This  fair  and"  comely  bride, 
And  my  dissimulation 

Herein  was  quickly  try'd. 
Alack !  etc. 

And  for  this  cruel  murder 
To  death  thus  I  am  brought ; 

For  this  my  aged  father 

Did  end  his  days  in  nought ; 

My  Margaret,  at  these  tidings, 
Her  own  destruction  wrought. 
Alack  !  etc. 

Lo  !  here  the  doleful  peril 

Blind  fancy  brought  me  in, 
And  mark  what  care  and  sorrow 

Forc'd  marriage  it  doth  bring. 
All  men  by  me  be  wamfed, 

And  Lord  forgive  my  sin. 

Alack  1  for  my  love  I  must  die. 


I- 


CARELESS  CONTE^NT. 

IVritteHy  in  imHation  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney y 
by  John  Byrom^  M,A,,  F,R,S, 

We  copy  this  charmingly  quaint  piece  from  the 
Miscellaneous  Poems  (vol  i.  p.  51)  of  this  pleas- 
ing poet,  who  was  born  at  Manchester  in  1691, 
and  died  in  September  1763,  aged  71. 

I  am  content,  I  do  not  care. 
Wag  as  it  will  the  world  for  me ; 

When  fuss  and  fret  was  all  my  fare, 
It  got  no  ground  as  I  did  see : 

So  when  away  my  caring  went, 

I  counted  cost,  and  was  content. 

With  more  of  thanks,  and  less  of  thought, 
I  strive  to  make  my  matters  meet ; 

To  seek  what  ancient  sages  sought. 
Physic  and  food  in  sour  and  sweet ; 

To  take  what  passes  in  good  part. 

And  keep  the  hiccups  from  my  heart 


174  BALLADS  &»  SONGS 

With  good  and  gentle  humour'd  hearts 
I  choose  to  chat  where'er  I  come ; 

Whatever  the  subject  be  that  starts ; 
But  if  I  get  among  the  glum/ 

I  hold  my  tongue,  to  tell  the  troth, 

And  keep  my  breath  to  cool  my  broth. 

For  chance  or  change,  of  peace  or  pain. 
For  Fortune's  favour,  or  her  frown, 

For  lack  or  glut,  for  loss  or  gain, 
I  never  dodge,  nor  up,  nor  down ; 

But  swing  what  way  the  ship  shall  swim, 

Or  tack  about  with  equal  trim. 

I  suit'  not  where  I  shall  not  speed. 
Nor  trace  the  turn  of  ev'ry  tide ; 

If  simple  sense  will  not  succeed, 
I  make  no  bustling,  but  abide : 

For  shining  wealth,  or  scaring  woe, 

I  force  no  friend,  I  fear  no  foe. 

Of  ups  and  downs,  of  ins  and  outs. 

Of  "  they  are  wrong,*'  and  "  we  are  right," 

I  shun  the  rancours  and  the  routs, 
And,  wishing  well  to  every  wight, 

*  The  sullen.  "  I  follow  or  sue. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  175 

Whatever  turn  the  matter  takes, 
I  deem  it  all  but  ducks  and  drakes. 

With  whom  I  feast  I  do  not  fawn, 

Nor,  if  the  folks  should  flout  me,  faint ; 

If  wonted  welcome  be  withdrawn, 
I  cook  no  kind  of  a  complaint ; 

With  none  disposed  to  disagree, 

But  like  them  best,  who  best  like  me. 

Not  that  I  rate  myself  the  rule 

How  all  my  betters  should  behave ; 

But  Fame  shall  find  me  no  man's  fool, 
Nor  to  a  set  of  men  a  slave ; 

I  love  a  friendship  free  and  frank. 

And  hate  to  hang  upon  a  hank. 

Fond  of  a  true  and  trusty  tie, 

I  never  loose  where'er  I  link ; 
Though  if  a  business  budges  by, 

I  talk  thereon  just  as  I  think  : 
My  word,  my  work,  my  heart,  my  hand. 
Still  on  a  side  together  stand. 

If  names  or  notions  make  a  noise. 
Whatever  hap  the  question  hath. 

The  point  impartially  I  poise, 

And  read  or  write,  but  without  wrath  ; 


176  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

For  should  I  bum  or  break  my  brains, 
Pray  who  will  pay  me  for  my  pains  1 

I  love  my  neighbour  as  myself, 
Myself  like  him,  too,  by  his  leave ; 

Nor  to  his  pleasure,  pow'r,  or  pelf, 
Came  I  to  crouch,  as  I  conceive : 

Dame  Nature  doubtless  has  designed 

A  man — the  monarch  of  his  mind. 

Now  taste  and  try  this  temper,  sirs. 
Mood  it,  and  brood  it,  in  your  breast ; 

Or  if  you  ween,  for  worldly  stirs. 

That  man  does  right  to  mar  his  rest ; 

Let  me  be  deft  and  debonair,' 

I  am  content,  I  do  not  care. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  in  the  whole  range 
of  lyric  literature  a  composition  containing  so  many 
singular  qualities  rarely  found  together.  In  char- 
acter and  sentiment  it  is  at  once  vigorous  and 
laconic;  in  style,  antique  and  quaint,  resembling 
not  only  Sydney,  but  in  parts  Suckling,  Withers, 
and  even  George  Herbert;  in  diction  proverbial 
and  colloquial,  yet  never  vulgar ;  while  it  is  one  of 

*  Dextrous,  or  ready  ;  and  gentle,  or  complaisant. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  177 

the  most  singularly  constructed  pieces  of  allitera- 
tive poetry  to  be  found  in  the  English  language. 
Three  distinct  forms  of  this  alliteration  may  be 
seen  in  it, — the  first  letters  of  words  throughout 
a  line,  or  sometimes  the  like  sounds  of  different 
letters ;  this  kind,  mingled  with  syllabic  allitera- 
tion, as — 

"The  point  impartially  I  poise;" 

And  lastly,  what  may  be  called  alliterative  anti- 
thesis, as  in — 

"  Physic  and  food  in  sour  and  sweet ;" 

"  For  chance  or  change,  of  peace  or  pain ;" 

"  For  lack  or  glut,  for  loss  or  gain ;" 

"  For  shining,  wealth,  or  scaring  woe,"  etc 


N 


THE  FROG  AND  THE  CROW. 

We  print  this  quaint  song  by  permission  from 
Notes  and  Queries^  ii.  222,  where  it  is  given 
by  a  correspondent  ("  T.  I."),  who  says  he  has 
been  famihar  with  it  from  childhood,  but  can 
give  no  history  of  it,  save  that  it  is  tolerably 
well-known,  in  Lancashire,  and  that  the  point 
consists  in  giving  a  scream  over  the  last  "Oh!" 
which  invariably,  if  well  done,  elicits  a  start,  even 
in  those  who  are  familiar  with  the  rhyme  and 
know  what  to  expect  He  adds  that  the  moral 
is  obvious,  and  the  diction  too  recent  for  the 
song  to  have  any  great  antiquity.  He  had  never 
seen  it  in  print : — 


There  was   a   jolly  fat    frog   liv'd    in    the    river 

Swim,  oh. 
And  .there  was  a  comely  black  crow  livM  on  the 

river  brim,  oh; 


BALLADS  &*  SO.VGS  OF  LANCASHIRE.    179 

"Come  on  shore,  come  on  shore,"  said  the  crow 

to  the  frog,  "and  then,  oh." 
"  No,  you'll  bite  me ;    no,  you'll  bite  me," — said 

the  frog  to  the  crow  again,  oh. 

"  But    there    is    sweet    music    on    yonder   green 

hill,  oh. 
And  you  shall  be  a  dancer,  a  dancer  in  yellow, 
All  in  yellow,  all  in  yellow," — said  the  crow  to 

the  frog, — "and  then,  oh.*' 
"  Sir,  I  thank  you ;  Sir,  I  thank  you," — said  the 

frog  to  the  crow  again,  oh. 

"  Farewell,  ye  little  fishes,  that  are  in  the  river 

Swim,  oh, 
For   I  am  going  to  be  a  dancer,  a  dancer  in 

yellow;" 
"Oh,  beware!     Oh,  beware!" — said  the  fish  to 

the  frog  again,  oh. 
"All  in  yellow,  all  in  yellow," — said  the  frog  to 

the  fish, — "and  then,  oh." 

The   frog  he    came  a-swimming,  a-swimming    to 

land,  oh ; 
And  the  crow  he  came  hopping,  to  lend  him  his 

hand,  oh; 


i8o   BALLADS  &-  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

"  Sir,  I  thank  you ;  Sir,  I  thank  you," — said  the 

'  frog  to  the  crow, —  and  then,  oh. 
"  Sir,  you're  welcome ;   Sir,  you're  welcome," — 
said  the  crow  to  the  frog  again,  oh. 

"  But  where  is  the  music  on  yonder  green  hill,  oht 
And  where  are  the  dancers,  the  dancers  in  yeilowT 
Ail   in  yellow,  all  in  yellow  1" — said  the  frog  to 

the  crow, — and  then,  oh. 
"  Sir,    they're  here ;    Sir,    they're  here,"  said   the 

crow  to  the  frog,  anil  eat  him  all  up — Oh.' 

[Screamed.  1 


DICK  O-  STANLEY  GREEN. 

This  is  a  Lancashire  version  or  a  song  of  which 
many  varieties  exist,  not  only  in  different  parts 
of  England,  but  also  in  Ireland;  the  subject 
bdng  a  raw,  rustic  lover,  who  offers  himself  to  a 
lady,  is  ridiculed,  and,  deeming  her  expectations 
extravagant,  retires  in  dut^eon.  Amongst  the 
better  known  EngUsh  songs  on  this  text  are 
"Galloping  Dreary  Dun,"  "Richard  of  Taunton 
Dean,"  "  Harry's  Courtship,"  "  ITie  Clown's  Court- 
ship," etc.  Some  of  these  are  in  the  Somerset- 
shire dialect  One  is  termed  "The  Wooing  Song 
of  a  Yeoman  of  Kent's  Son."  There  is  a  York- 
shire ballad  on  this  subject,  and  the  Irish  version 
is  entitled,  "  Dicky  of  Ballyvan."  The  following 
veraon  is  a  great  favourite  in  North  Lancashire, 
and  was  copied  for  this  work  by  Mr.  John  Hill,  of 
Bleasdale :— 


1 82  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

I. 

Last  New-' fir's  day,  as  I've  heerd  say, 
I  mounted  on  my  dappled  gray, 
My  buckskin  breeches  I  put  on, 
My  country  clogs,  to  save  my  shoon. 
Besides  an  owd  hat  to  cover  my  yed, 
'Twas  all  hung  round  wi'  ribbins  red. 

2. 

Straightway  I  went  unto  the  hall. 

Aloud  for  Mistress  Jane  did  call ; 

Some  trusty  sarvant  let  me  in, 

Thet  I  my  courtship  might  begin  : 

"  Why,  don't  yaw  ken  me.  Mistress  Jane  ? 

I  am  poor  Dick,  fro'  Stanley  Green. 

3- 
"  My  fayther's  sent  me  here  to  woo, 

And  I  con  fancy  noan  but  yaw ; 

An  yaw  loove  me,  as  I  loove  yaw. 

What  need  ye  mak  so  muckle  to  do  ? 


4- 
"  It's  I  con  plough,  and  I  con  sow, 

An'  I  con  reap,  an'  I  con  mow, 

An'  I  con  to  the  market  go, 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  183 

An'  sell  my  dadd/s  com  and  hay, 
An'  addle  my  sixpence  iwery  day." 


"  Sixpence  a  day  will  never  do  : 
I  must  wear  silk  an'  satin  too  \ 
Sixpence  a  day  wain't  find  us  meat" 
"Ods-ducks!"   says   Dick,    "I've  a  stack 

o'  wheat, 
Besides  an  owd  house,  as  stands  close  by ; 
It'll  all  be  mine  when  my  feyther  die." 

6. 
**  Your  compliments,  Dick,  are  so  polite  ; 
They  mak*  the  company  laugh  outright" 

•  .  •  • 

"  If  yaw  have  got  noah  moore  to  say, 
I'll  bid  yaw  good  neet,  an  I'll  away !" 

Notes  by  Mr.  John  Hill. — New-Ers  is  the  pronun- 
ciation of  New  Year's. — Dud,  a  contraction  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  do'<d,  is  much  used  in  Amoundemess  for  did. — 
Ods'ducks!  is  an  old  exclamation  very  common  in  dales 
bordering  on  the  Pennine  chain  of  hills. — Thet  is  the  local 
pronunciation  of  that. —  Yaw,  for  you,  is  not  the  yo  or  the 
yeaw  of  Lancashire  south  of  Ribble,  but  has  the  au  sound 
(like  the  now  of  Yorkshire),  and  is  almost  universal  in  York- 
shire.   At  Lancaster  assizes,  some  years  ago,  Mr.  (now  Lord) 


184  BALLADS  &*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

Brougham  was  cross-examining  a  witness,  who  in  some 
answer  used  the  word  hambug.  "Humbug  I"  exclaimed 
Mr  Brougham;  "pray  what  do  you  mean  by  humbug!" 
After  some  hesitation,  the  witness  replied,  "Why,  iv  ah 
were  to  tell  yaw  as  yaw'd  a  noice  nooase,  ah  sud  be  hum- 
bilging  yaw.  Will'n  that  do  for  yawt"  This  broad  re' 
ference  to  the  peculiar  feature  of  Brougham's  &ce  drove  all 
in  court  into  roars  of  laughter. 


BLAKELEY  COURTSHIP. 

This  is  another  ballad  upon  the  same  favourite 
theme,  and  cast  in  like  mould.  It  is  commu- 
nicated by  Mr.  John  Higson  of  Droylsden,  who 
states  that  it  was  sung  by  Mrs.  K,  an  old  lady, 
years  ago. 

There  was  a  young  lad  in  Blakeley  did  dwell, 
And  he'd  go  a  courting  one  night  by  hissel' ; 
To  borrow  th'  gray  mare  it  was  his  intent, 
He  took  Tinker's  gray  mare  and  a  courting   he 
went. 

To  his  own  mind. 

He  rode  and  he  rode  till  he  came  to  the  door, 
And  Nell  came  t*  oppen  it,  as  she'd  done  afore  ; 
"  Come,  geet  off  thy  horse,"  she  to  him  did  say, 
"  And  put  it  i'  th'  stable,  and  give  it  some  hay, 

To  thy  own  mind," 


1 86  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

And  when  he  had  done  he  came  into  th'  house, 
And  he  was  as  weet  as  any  drown't  mouse ; 
She  rought  him  th'  owd  cheer,'  as  he'd  set  in  afore, 
"  Come  sit  thee  down  by  me,  love ;  let's  talk  it 
o'er 

To  our  own  mind." 

They  talk'd  it  o'er  until  it  was  day. 

He  said,   "Ah'll  goo  whoam."      She  said  "Goo 

thy  way." 
He  went  into  th'  stable,  to  fot  his  mare  out, 
"  Now  prithee,  love,  ta'e  me  to  th'  bottom  o'  th' 

fowt,* 

To  thy  own  mind." 

When  Jamie  were  mounted,  right  off  he  did  trig. 
His  face  was  as  curled  as  any  owd  wig ; 
He'd  a  chin  like  a  chum,  and  an  owd  queer  hat, 
And  he  look'd  like  a  monkey  a-top  o'  th'  mare's 
back. 


^  Reached  him  the  old  chair. 

*  "Take  me  to  the  bottom  or  entrance  of  the  fold,"  or 
cluster  of  houses  round  a  yard  or  court — a  common  mode  of 
grouping  cottages  in  country  places  in  Lancashire — forming 
the  nucleus  of  many  a  hamlet  or  village,  as  population  in- 
creases. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  187 

To  courtship  in  Blakeley,  we  must  say  "a  most 
tame  and  impotent  conclusion."  We  can  only 
infer  that  Jamie  rued,  and  his  fair  one  did  like- 


THE  LANCASHIRE  MILLER. 

This  song  has  much   point,  and  is  a  favourite 
about  Chipping,  nine  miles  from  Clitheroe. 

I. 
Owd  Jeremy  Gigg,  a  miller  was  he, 

In  Lancashire  bom  and  bred ; 
The  mill  was  all  he  depended  upon, 

To  earn  him  his  daily  bread. 
Owd  Jeremy  he  was  growing  owd, 

His  latter  end  it  was  near ; 
He  had  three  sons,  and  it  puzzled  him  sore 

Which  of  'em  should  be  his  heir. 


2. 


Now  he  caird  to  him  his  eldest  son, — 

"  An  answer  give  to  me  : 
What  way  would  theaw  talc  thy  bread  to  mak. 

If  my  mill  I  left  to  thee?" 


BALLADS  &*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE,   189 

"  Oh,  if  the  mill  were  mine,"  said  he, 

1*11  plainly  tell  to  yeaw, 
Out  of  eveiy  seek  I*d  tak  a  peck, 

As  yeawVe  been  used  to  do." 


Now  he  caird  to  him  his  second  son, — 

"  An  answer  give  to  me  : 
Vhat  way  would  theaw  tak  thy  bread  to  mak, 

If  the  mill  were  given  to  thee  1 " 
"  Oh,  if  the  mill  were  mine,"  said  he, 

As  sure  as  my  name's  Roaf, 
Instead  of  a  peck  out  of  eveiy  seek, 

I'm  sure  I'd  tak  one-hawf " 


4- 

Now  he  call'd  to  him  his  youngest  son ; 

His  youngest  son  was  Will ; 
"  On  the  answer  theaw  does  give  to  me. 

Depends  who  gets  the  mill." 
"  Oh,  if  the  mill  were  mine,"  said  he, 

A  living  I  would  mek ; 
Instead  o'  one-hawf,  I'd  tek  it  all, 

And  swear  'em  out  o'  th*  seek." 


'90  BALLADS  &-  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

S- 
Then  owd  Jeremy  he  rose  up  in  be<i, 

To  hear  him  talk  so  sinait ; 
Saying,  "Well  done.  Will!  theaw's  won  the  mill; 

Theaw'rt  the  lad  o'  meh  heart !" 
'I'he  other  two  look'd  rayther  blue. 

And  swore  it  wur  too  bad ; 
But  little  Will,  he  won  the  mill, 

And  the  Devil  he  got  his  dad. 


CONTENTMENT : 

THE  HAPPY  workman's  SONG. 

By  John  Byrom,  M,A,,  FJ^.S, 

We  copy  this  song,  by  permission,  from  the  Mis- 
cdlatuous  PoemSy  vol.  i.  p.  22  : — 

I  am  a  poor  workman,  as  rich  as  a  Jew — 
A  strange  sort  of  tale,  but  however  'tis  true ; 
Come  listen  awhile,  and  I'll  prove  it  to  you. 

So  as  nobody  can  deny. 


I  am  a  poor  workman,  you'll  easily  grant, 
Yet  I'm  rich  as  a  Jew,  for  there's  nothing  I  want ; 
I  have  meat,  drink,  and  clothes,  and  am  hearty 
and  cant,* 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 

*  Cheerful. 


192  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

I  live  in  a  cottage,  and  yonder  it  stands ; 

And  while    I   can  work  with  these  two  honest 

hands, 
I'm  as  happy  as  they  that  have  houses  and  lands, 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 


I  keep  to  my  workmanship  all  the  day  long, 
I  sing  and  I  whistle,  and  this  is  my  song — 
"Thank  God,  who  has   made   me  so  lusty  and 
strong," 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 


I  never  am  greedy  of  delicate  fare  : 
If  God  give  me  enough,  though  'tis  ever  so  bare. 
The  more  is  His  love,  and  the  less  is  my  care, 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 


My  clothes  on  a  working-day  looken*  but  lean, 
But  when  I  can  dress  me,  on  Sundays  I  mean, 
Though  cheap,   they  are  warm ;    though  coarse, 
they  are  clean, 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 

*  The  Lancashire  plural  of  look. 


OF  LA  NCA  SHIRE,  1 93 

Folk  cry  out,  "  Hard  times/'  but  I  never  regard, 
For  I  ne'er  did,  nor  will,  set  my  heart  upo*  th' 

ward;* 
So  'tis  all  one  to  me,  bin*  they  easy  or  hard, 

Which  nobody  will  deny. 

I  envy  not  them  that  have  thousands  of  pounds, 
That   sport    o'er    the    country   with   horses    and 

hounds ; 
There's  nought  but  contentment  can  keep  within 

bounds, 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 

I  ne'er  lose  my  time  o'er  a  pipe  or  a  pot. 
Nor  cower  in  a  nook,  like  a  sluggardly  sot ; 
But  I  buy  what  is  wanting  with  what  I  have  got, 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 

And  if  I  have  more  than  I  want  for  to  spend, 
I  help  a  poor  neighbour  or  diligent  friend  ; 
He  that  gives  to  the  poor,  to  the  Lord  he  doth 
lend, 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 

^   Upon  the  world.  *  Another  Lancashire  phiral,  be. 

0 


194  BALLADS  &*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

I  grudge  not  the  gentlefolk  dressen  so  fine ; 
At  their  gold  and  their  silver  I  never  repine ; 
But  I  wish  all  their  guts  were  as  hearty  as  mine, 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 

With  quarrelsio'  th'  countiy,  and  matters  of  state, 
With  Tories  and  Whigs  I  ne*er  puzzle  my  pate ; 
There  are  some  that  I  love,  but  »one  that  I  hate, 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 

WHiat  though  my  condition  be  ever  so  coarse, 
I  strive  to  embrace  it  for  better  or  worse. 
And  my  heart,  I  thank  God,  is  as  light  as  my 
purse. 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 

Whatever,  in  short,  my  condition  may  be, 
'Tis  God  that  appoints  it,  as  far  as  I  see, 
And  Tm  sure  I  can  never  do  better  than  He, 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 


L 


J^5<^^sSB^IwO 


^^'^-^ 


SIR  GUALTER. 

A  Tradition  of  Nor  then  Boat- House, 

In  the  Phcsnix,  a  Manchester  literaiy  journal,  in 
1828,  the  following  legendary  ballad  appeared, 
and  purported  to  have  been  preserved  by  "one 
Maister  Lovelle;"  its  writer  being  really  William 
Rowlinson,  a  young  Manchester  poet,  who,  in 
his  love  for  poesy  in  an  antique  garb,  and  in 
other  respects,  resembled  poor  Chatterton.  Row- 
linson was  drowned,  whilst  bathing  in  the  Thames, 
in  June  1829.  As  the  old  orthography  in  which 
it  was  written  does  not  improve  the  ballad,  we 
print  it  in  modem  dress.  At  Northen,  near 
Manchester,  there  was,  till  very  recently,  an 
ancient  ferry  across  the  river  Mersey  from  I^n- 
cashire  to  Cheshire,  called  "  Northen  Boat;"  the 
village  of  Northen,  or  Northenden,  being  in  the 
latter  county  : — 


196  BALLADS  fir*  .VaV^^' 

"  Now  feny  me  o'er,  thou  good  boatman  ! 
I  prithee,  ferry  me  o'er ! 
That  I  may  see  my  lady  to-night, 
Or  I  never  may  see  her  more." 

"  The  winds  blow  high,  and  the  stream  runs  strong, 
And  I  dare  not  ferry  thee  o'er ; 
Thou  canst  not  see  thy  lady  to  night, 
If  thou  never  dost  see  her  more." 

"  I  will  see  her  to-night  if  my  life  be  spared, 
For  IVe  heard  the  death-owl's  scream ; 
Who  has  heard  it  once  may  not  hear  it  twice, 
She  must  hear  my  awful  dream." 

"  My  boat  is  moor'd,  and  I  will  not  cross ; 
Sir  Knight,  thou  may'st  away ; 
Or  rest  thee  to-night  till  the  morning's  light, — 
We  will  o'er  at  break  of  day." 

"  Here's  gold  in  store,  and  thou  shalt  have  more, 
To  venture  across  with  me  ; 
If  we  die  ere  we  reach  the  other  bank, 
A  mass  shall  be  said  for  thee." 

The  boat  is  unmoor'd,  and  they  both  leap  in, 

And  steer  for  the  other  side ; 
Now  swim  thou  swiftly,  thou  fearless  boat, 

Against  the  rushing  tide. 


OF  LA  XCA  SHIRE.  1 97 

Now,  now  for  thy  life,  thou  boatman,  push, 

For  the  stream  runs  swifter  on  ; 
Another  boat's  length,  with  all  thy  strength, 

And  the  bank  ye  have  safely  won. 

'Tis  past,  'tis  past,  they  have  reached  the  side, 
And  they  both  leap  on  the  bank  : 

Tis  well !  'tis  well !  with  an  eddying  whirl 
That  boat  hath  swiftly  sank. 

Sir  Gualter  hath  given  the  boatman  gold, 
Thence  hastes  to  the  trysting-tree ; 

What  a  rueful  sight  for  a  gallant  knight 
Was  there  for  him  to  see  ! 


The  Lady  Isabel  blacken'd  and  scorch'd 
By  the  lightning  blast  of  heaven  ; 

And  that  stately  tree,  where  they  oft  had  met. 
Was  leafless,  and  blasted,  and  riven  ! 

He  kneel'd  him  down  o'er  that  lifeless  form ; 

And  the  death-owl  o'er  him  flew. 
And  it  scream'd  as  it  pass'd   on  the  rushing 
blast ; 

Then  his  fate  Sir  Gualter  knew. 


198  BALLADS  &•  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

Then  he  gather'd  that  fonn  within  his  arms, 

And  nish'd  to  the  river's  side ; 
Then  plunged  from  the  bank,  and  both  of  them 
sank 

In  the  darkly  rolling  tide. 

There  is  a  tradition  in  the  neighbourhood  that 
the  spirits  of  the  knight  and  the  lady  are  still 
occasionally  to  be  seen  at  midnight,  especially 
in  storms,  beneath  the  aged  yew,  as  if  still  bent 
on  keeping  their  tryst, — love  stronger  than  death 
itself! 


( 

^^^^^VJ^HHL.i  I    >yui^^^^V^L.  W 

i 

.-^-^/X^/  "11 

WARRINGTON  ALE. 


The  following  song,  by  a  deceased  author,  we 
believe,  has  never  before  been  printed.  It  is  a 
favourite  in  Warrington,  especially  with  those  by 
whom  the  beverage  it  celebrates  is  preferred. 

Your  doctors  may  boast  of  their  lotions, 

And  ladies  may  talk  of  their  tea ; 
But  I  envy  them  none  of  their  potions  :  • 

A  glass  of  good  stingo  for  me. 
The  doctor  may  sneer  if  he  pleases, 

But  my  recipe  never  will  fail ; 
For  the  physic  that  cures  all  diseases 

Is  a  bumper  of  Warrington  ale. 

D'ye  mind  me,  I  once  was  a  sailor. 
And  in  different  countries  IVe  been  ; 

If  I  lie,  may  I  go  for  a  tailor, 

But  a  thousand  fine  sights  I  have  seen. 


200   BALLADS  &-  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

IVe  been  crammed  with  good  things  like  a 
wallet, 

And  I've  guzzled  more  drink  than,  a  whale  ; 
But  the  very  best  stuff  to  my  palate 

Is  a  glass  of  your  Warrington  ale. 

When  my  trade  was  upon  the  salt  ocean, 

Why,  there  I  got  plenty  of  grog, 
And  I  liked  it,  because  Td  a  notion 

It  set  one's  good  spirits  agog. 
But  since  upon  land  I've  been  steering, 

Experience  has  alter'd  my  tale ; 
For  nothing  on  earth  is  so  cheering 

As  a  bumper  of  Warrington  ale. 

Into  France  I  have  oftentimes  follow'd, 

And  once  took  a  trip  into  Spain ; 
And  all  kinds  of  liquor  I've  swallow'd, 

From  spring-water  up  to  champagne. 
But  the  richest  of  wines,  to  my  thinking, 

Compared  with  good  stingo  is  stale ; 
For    there's    nothing    in    life    that's    worth 
drinking, 

I  .ike  a  bumper  of  Warrington  ale. 


DROYLSDEN  WAKES  SONG. 

In  Mr.  Higson's  History  of  Droylsdm  is  the  fol- 
lowing account,  under  the  title  of  "Threedy- 
Wheel:"— 

"  A  singular  Wakes  custom  was  introduced  into 
Droylsden,  about  1814,  from  Woodhouses  (near 
Failsworth),  where  it  had  been  prevalent  for  more 
than  the  third  of  a  century.  Chambers,  in  his 
Edinburgh  Journal  of  November  rg,  1824,  gives 
it  a  notice,  as  does  also  Bell,  under  the  title  of 
"The  Greenside  Wakes  Song,"  in  his  annotated 
edition  of  the  English  poets.  The  ceremonial 
issued  from  Greenside  (a  hamlet  in  Droylsden), 
and  consisted  of  two  male  equestrigtns  grotesquely 
habited.  One,  John,  son  of  Robert  Hulme  of 
Greenside,  personified  a  man;  the  other,  James, 
son  of  Aaron  Etchells  of  Edge  Lane,  a  woman. 
They  were  engaged  with  spinning-wheels,  spin- 
ning flax  in  the  olden  style,  and   conducting    a 


202  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

rustic  dialogue  in  limping  verse,  and  gathering 
contributions  from  spectators.  Latterly,  a  cart 
was  substituted  for  a  saddle,  as  being  a  safer 
position  in  case  they  grew  tipsy.  Both  Bell  and 
Chambers  translate  the  rhyme  into  "gradely 
English,"  and  render  threedywheel,  "  tread  the 
wheel ;"  but  it  is  evidently  thread  the  wheels  as 
will  be  seen  by  a  perusal  of  the  original  idio- 
matic and  more  spirited  version : — 


He. 
It's  Dreighlsdin  wakes,  un*  we/re  comin*  to  teawn, 
To  tell  yo  o'  somethin'  o*  greet  reneawn ; 
Un'  if  this  owd  jade  ull  lem'mi  begin, 
Aw^l  show  yo  heaw  hard  un  how  fast  au  con  spin. 
Chorus, — So  it's  threedywheel,  threedywheel, 

dan,  don,  dill,  doe. 

She. 
Theaw  brags  o'  thisel';  bur  aw  dunno'  think  it's 

true, 
For  aw  will  uphowd  the,  thy  faurts  am't  a  few ; 
For  when  theaw  hast  done,  un*  spun  very  hard, 
O'  this  aw'm  weel  sure,  thi  work  is  ill  marr'd. 

Chorus, — So  it's  threedywheel,  etc 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  203 

He. 

Theaw  saucy  owd  jade,  theaw'dst  best  howd  thi  tung, 
Or  else  aw'st  be  thumpin'  thi  ere  it  be  lung ; 
Un'  iv'ot  aw  do,  theaw'rt  sure  for  to  rue, 
For  aw  con  ha'  monny  o'  one  as  good  as  you. 

Chorus. — So  it's  threedywheel,  etc 

She. 
What  is  it  to  me  whoe  yo  con  have  ? 
Aw  shanno'  be  lung  ere  aw'm  laid  i'  my  grave ; 
Un'  when  ot  aw'm  deod,  un'  have  done  what  aw 

con, 
Yo  may  foind  one  ot'll  spin  os  hard  os  aw've  done. 

Chorus. — So  it's  threedywheel,  etc. 

He. 
Com,  com,  mi  dear  woife,  aw'U  not  ha'  th^  rue, 
Un'  this  aw  will  tell  yo,  un'  aw'U  tell  yo  true, 
Neaw  iv  yo'll  forgie  me  for  what  aw  have  said, 
Aw'll  do  my  endavur  to  pleos  yo  instead 

Chorus. — So  it's  threedywheel,  etc. 

She. 
Aw'm  glad  for  to  yeor  *ot  yo  win  me  forgive, 
Un'  aw  will  do  by  yo  os  lung  os  aw  live ; 
So  let  us  unite,  un'  live  free  fro'  o'  sin, 
Un'  then  we  shall  have  nowt  to  think  at  but  spin. 

Chorus. — So  it's  threedywheel,  etc. 


204  BALLADS  &^  SONGS 

Both. 

So  now  let's  conclude,  and  here  undeth  eawr  sung, 
Aw  hope  it  has  pleost  this  numerous  thrung ; 
Bur  iv  it  'os  mist,  yo  need'nt  to  fear, 
We'll  do  eawr  endavour  to  pleos  yo  next  year. 

Chorus. — So  it's  threedywheel,  threedywheel, 

dan,  don,  dill,  doe. 

Mr.  Higson  informs  us  that  this  queer  dia- 
logue song,  which  is  sung  to  a  somewhat  plaintive 
tune,  has  been  collected  from  various  persons, 
and  collated  with  the  version  of  one  of  the  actors 
and  singers,  an  elderly  man,  who  has  often  been 
dressed  as  the  female,  and  taken  that  part  in 
the  dialogue  or  duet.  On  one  occasion  her  hus- 
band got  so  tipsy  that  he  fell  off  his  horse  in 
the  yard  of  Cinderland  Hall,  and  she  had  to  ex- 
temporise and  instruct  another  to  take  his  part. 
They  each  bore  a  small  spinning-wheel  before 
them,  which  was  turned  lustily  during  the  chorus, 
which  may  have  been  originally  "  speed  the  wheel." 
Amongst  the  variations  or  interpolations  some- 
times heard  is  one  that  seems  to  indicate  hemp 
or  flax  spinning  at  an  early  period  : — 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  205 

"  The  t(rw  that  aw  spin  is  five  shilling  a  peawnd, 
Un  that   yo   mun   kneaw   by  mi   wheel   going 
reawnd. 

So  it's  threedywheel,"  etc 

One  brags  to  the  other — 

"  Aw  con  o'er-spin  thee,  by  th'  mass ;" 
And  the  rejoinder  seems  to  be — 

"Aw  con  o'er-sing  thee,  by  th'  mass." 

Another  piece  of  abuse  is — 

"  Theaw  cankert  owd  besom,  aw  conno*  endure 
Ony  lunger  a  temper  loike  thoine  is,  aw'm  sure." 

Altogether,  the  ballad,  as  it  reaches  us,  seems 
but  the  debris  of  an  ancient  dialogue-song,  in  which 
man  and  wife  quarrel  over  the  domestic  manu- 
facture of  linen  yam. 


^ 

'^'^ 

mi 

4 

V^.r 

i 

■••■^ 

rvV'' 

1 

-^^ 

)JV^>    •  •  ■••   ^^  ,/i 

t 

<£:''^- 

RADCLIFFE  OTTER-HUNT. 

The  scenes  of  the  following  ballad  are  laid  in 
the  Irwell  and  its  banks,  from  Prestwich  to  Clifton 
and  RadclifFe.  The  hunt  probably  took  place  in 
the  last  century ;  for  it  is  long  since  an  otter  was 
seen  in  the  Irwell,  though  the  Editor  remembers 
two  being  captured  about  1849  in  the  Bollin, 
near  Bowdon.  The  ballad  is  printed  from  a  MS. 
copy  sent  to  the  Editor  by  Mr.  John  Higson  of 
Droylsden.     The  otter  tells  his  own  story  : — 

I  am  a  bold  otter,  as  you  shall  hear, 
I've  rambled  the  country  all  round  ; 

I  valued  no  dogs  far  or  near, 

In  the  water,  nor  yet  on  the  ground. 


I  valued  no  dogs,  far  or  near. 

But  I  roved  through  the  country  so  wide, 
Till  I  came  to  a  river  so  clear. 

That  did  Clifton  and  Prestwich  divide.* 

The  Irwell  forms  the  boundary  between  these  townships. 


BALLADS  &-  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE.   207 

As  through  the  wild  country  I  rambled, 

I  liv'd  at  extravagant  rate  ; 
On  eels,  chubs,  and  gudgeons  I  feasted ; 

The  fishermen  all  did  me  hate. 

Yet  still  up  the  rivers  I  went, 

Where  the  fishes  my  stomach  did  cheer, 
Till  a  challenge  from  RadclifTe'  they  sent  me, 

They  quickly  would  stop  my  career. 

Next  morning  those  dogs  did  assemble ; 

Jack  Allen,*  he  swore  I  must  die ; 
It  made  me  full  sorely  to  tremble. 

To  hear  those  stout  hounds  in  full  cry. 

It  was  near  Agecrofl  Bridge  *  I  oft  went, 
Where  with  me  they'd  had  many  a  round ; 

So  closely  they  stuck  to  the  scent, 

That  they  forced  me  to  take  to  fresh  ground. 

Jack  Allen,  the  darling  of  hunters. 
And  Ploughman,  the  glory  of  hounds ; 

You  may  search  all  the  country  over. 
Their  equals  are  not  to  be  found. 

'  Radcliffe  is  on  the  bank  of  the  Irwell,  and  a  bridge 
there  spans  the  river. 
'  The  huntsman. 
*  The  bridge  near  Kersal  Moor,  Higher  Broughton. 


2o8  BALLADS  <5-  SONGS 

Although  I  my  country  did  leave, 
It  was  sorely  against  my  own  will ; 

They  pursued  me  with  courage  so  brave, 
That  they  proved  a  match  for  my  skill. 

Again  through  the  country  I  rambled ; 

To  the  Earl  of  Wilton's  *  I  came, 
Where  I  made  bold  his  fish-pond  to  enter, 

And  there  I  found  plenty  of  game. 

But  the  Earl  being  now  at  his  hall, 
He  swore  that  my  life  they  must  end  ; 

So  straight  for  Tom  Thorpe*  he  did  call. 
And  for  Squire  Lomas'  hounds  they  did  send. 

Then  the  dogs  and  the  huntsmen  arrivM, 
Thinking  my  poor  life  for  to  end  ; 

But  to  gain  my  old  ground  I  contrived, 
Where  I  could  myself  better  defend. 

It  was  near  Master  Douglas's  mill, 

Where  they  swam  me  three  hours  or  more ; 

And  yet  I  did  baffle  their  skill, 

Till  at  length  they  were  forced  to  give  o'er. 

*  Heaton  Park,  in  Prestwich. 

*  Tlien  keeper  to  the  Earl,  and  ancestor  of  the  present 
keeper. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  209 

At  length  by  misfortune  I  ventured 

Again  up  the  river  to  steer, 
When  into  a  tunnel  I  entered. 

Not  thinking  my  death  was  so  near. 

But  those  dogs  from  old  Radcliffe  they  came, 

And  into  my  hold  did  me  cry  j 
The  hunters  they  all  did  the  same, 

And  they  swore  they  would  take  me  or  die. 

'Twas  on  the  next  morning  so  early 
They  forced  me  from  my  retreat ; 

Then  into  the  river  I  div^d. 

Thinking  all  their  sharp  schemes  to  defeat 

But  those  dogs  they  did  soon  force  me  out, 
Because  that  my  strength  it  did  fail ; 

Tom  Damport,'  that  tailor  so  stout, 
He  quickly  laid  hold  of  my  tail 

Then  into  a  bag  they  did  put  me, 
And  up  on  their  backs  did  me  fling ; 

And  because  that  in  safety  they  'd  got  me, 
They  made  all  the  valleys  to  ring. 

^  The  Lancashire  and  Cheshire  pronunciation  of  Daven- 
port. 


2IO  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

Then  right  for  old  Radchffe  did  steer, 
And  soon  at  Bob  Hampson's  did  call ; 

And  hundreds  of  people  were  there, 
To  drink  and  rejoice  at  my  fall. 

The  same  afternoon  they  contrivki 

With  me  more  diversion  to  have ; 
Put  me  into  a  pit,  where  I  divM, 

Just  like  a  stout  otter  so  brave. 

And  yet  I  remained  so  stout, 

Though  they  swam  me  for  three  hours  or  more, 
The  dogs  they  could  not  force  me  out. 

Till  with  stones  they  did  pelt  me  full  sore. 

Thus  forcing  me  out  of  the  water. 
Because  that  my  strength  it  did  fail ; 

And  then  in  a  few  moments  after 
Jack  Ogden'  laid  hold  of  my  tail. 

And  so  now  they  had  got  me  secure, 
They  right  to  the  "Anchor"  did  steer; 

But  my  lot  was  too  hard  to  endure, 

And  my  death  was  approaching  too  near. 

•  Another  well-known  man  in  his  day,  three  of  whose 
nephews  now  live  at  Gravel  Hole,  Gorton. 


OF  LA.VCASHmE.  2\\ 

Next  morning  to  Whitefield'  they  took  me. 

To  swim  as  before  I  had  done ; 
When  out  of  the  b^  they  did  put  me, 

Alas  !  -my  poor  life  it  was  gone. 

And  so  now  this  old  otter  you've  killed. 
You  may  go  to  Bob  Hampson's  and  sing ; 

Drink  a  health  to  all  true-hearted  hunters, 
Success  to  our  country  and  king. 

*  Whitefield  is  a  hamtet  in  Ihe  township  of  Tilkingtnn, 
parish  of  Preslwich,  six  miles  N.N.W.  of  Manchcaler. 


JONE  O'  GRINFILTS  RAMBLE. 

7>ft^  Original  Song, 

In  Bell's  5^«^x  ««//  Ballads  of  the  English  Peasantry^ 
one  of  the  various  versions  of  this  song  is  printed, 
and  it  is  there  stated  to  be  a  production  of  the 
1 8th  century.  But  Samuel  Bamford,  in  his  Walks, 
etc  (p.  169),  observes  that  the  celebrated  song  of 
Jone  o*  Grinfilt,  beginning, 

"  Sed  Jone  to  his  wife  on  a  whot  summer's  day/' 

of  which,  perhaps,  more  copies  were  sold  among 
the  rural  population  of  Lancashire  than  of  any 
other  song  known,  has  been  generally  ascribed  to 
the  pen  of  James  Butterworth,  the  author  of  a 
poem  called  "  Rochervale,"  and  other  productions 
of  creditable  literary  merit.  The  writer  of  this 
[Bamford]  long  held  the  common  opinion  as  to 
the  origin  of  Jone.  The  song  took  amazingly.  It 
was  war  time ;  volunteering  was  all  the  go  then  \ 


BALLADS  ds*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE,    213 

and  he  remembers  standing  at  the  bottom  of 
Miller  Street,  in  Manchester,  with  a  cockade  in 
his  hat,  and  viewing  with  surprise  the  almost  rage 
with  which  the  very  indifferent  verses  were  pur- 
chased by  a  crowd  that  stood  around  a  little  old- 
fashioned  fellow,  with  a  withered  leg,  who,  leaning 
on  a  crutch,  with  a  countenance  full  of  quaint 
humour,  and  a  speech  of  the  perfect  dialect  of  the 
county,  sang  the  song,  and  collected  the  halfpence 
as  quickly  as  he  could  distribute  it  Some  years 
ago  the  writer  fell  in  with  this  same  personage  at 
Ashton-under-Lyne,  and  took  the  opportunity  for 
acquiring  further  information  respecting  the  origin 
of  a  song  once  so  much  in  vogue.  He  accordingly 
invited  the  minstrel  to  a  little  rest  and  chat  at  a 
neighboiuing  tavern,  where,  over  a  pipe  and  a  pot 
or  two  of  ale,  he  learned  all  he  wished  to  know  on 
the  subject,  which  he  noted  down  in  short-hand  as 
the  narrator  gave  it.  It  was  a  cold  and  rainy  day 
in  winter ;  the  door  was  accordingly  shut,  the  fire 
stirred  up  to  a  warm  glow.  The  cripple  sat  bask- 
ing before  the  fire,  with  his  lame  leg  thrown  across 
his  crutch,  his  other  foot  on  the  fender,  when, 
after  putting  a  quid  of  tobacco  into  his  mouth, 
and  taking  a  swig  of  the  ale,  he  went  on  gaily 
with  his  narrative  for  some  minutes,  until,  glancing 


214  BALLADS  fir*  SONGS 

towards  the  paper,  and  seeing  uncouth  figures 
multiplying  upon  it,  he  sprang  on  his  one  foot, 
and,  with  a  look  of  astonishment  not  unmixed 
with  concern,  he  exclaimed,  "  Heigh !  heigh ! 
theer,  I  say !  Wot  mack  o'  letters  art  'o  settin 
deawn?  Theer,  I  say!  Wot  dust  *o  ko  [call] 
thoose  lett-ters  ?  Dust  'o  think  'at  nobody  knows 
wot  theaw  'rt  dooin'  ?  Busithe  [but  see  thee],  I  'd 
ha'  the  to  know  'at  I  know  wot  theaw  'rt  doin'  az 
well  az  theaw  duz  thisel.  Theaw  pretends  to  rule 
th'  plannits,  dust  'o1  Busithe  I  con  rule  um  as 
weel  az  theaw  con,  an*  that  I'll  let-te  know,  iv 
theaw  awses  [attempts]  to  put  ony  o'  thi  tricks  o' 
me."  A  hearty  laugh,  a  brief  explanation,  and, 
more  than  both,  a  kindly  invitation  to  the  drink 
and  tobacco,  soon  brought  the  guest  to  his  seat 
again,  and  to  his  wonted  jovial  humour.  He  then 
said  there  were  thirteen  "  Jones  o'  Grinfilt"  pro- 
duced within  a  short  time ;  but  the  original  one — 
that  above  mentioned — ^was  composed  by  Joseph 
Lees,  a  weaver  residing  at  Glodwick,  near  Old- 
ham, and  himself — Joseph  Coupe — who,  at  the 
time  of  its  composition,  was  a  barber,  tooth-drawer, 
blood-letter,  warper,  spinner,  carder,  twiner,  stubber, 
and  rhymester,  residing  at  Oldham.  He  said  they 
were  both  in  a  terrible  predicament,  without  drink. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  2 1 5 

or  money  to  procure  any,  after  having  been  drink- 
ing all  night  They  had  been  at  Manchester  to 
see  the  play,  and  were  returning  to  Oldham  the 
day  following ;  when,  in  order  to  raise  the  wind, 
they  agreed  to  compose  a  song,  to  be  sung  at 
certain  public-houses  on  the  road,  where  they  sup- 
posed it  would  be  likely  to  take,  and  procure  them 
what  they  wanted,  the  means  for  prolonging  their 
dissipation.  A  storm  came  on,  and  they  sheltered 
under  a  hedge,  and  the  first  verse  of  the  song  was 
composed  by  him  [Coupe]  in  that  situation.  Lees 
composed  the  next  verse;  and  they  continued 
composing  verse  and  verse  until  the  song  was 
finished  as  afterwards  printed.  But  it  took  them 
three  days  to  complete  it  They  then  "  put  it  i' 
th'  press;"  and  he  said,  "We  met  ha*  bin  worth 
mony  a  hunthert  peawnd,  iv  widdin  ha'  sense  to 
ta*  care  o'  th*  brass.'* — Mr.  John  Higson  states 
that  formerly  an  Oldham  man  used  to  come  every 
year  to  Gorton  wakes,  in  order  to  sing  this  song, 
which  he  did  in  turn  at  the  three  public-houses 
then  existing  in  the  village.  He  was  known,  not 
only  there  but  in  all  the  villages  round,  as  "  Owd 
Jone  o'  Grinfilt,"  from  his  being  a  regular  visitor 
at  their  annual  wakes,  and  singing  this  favourite 
ballad.     The  Jacobins  issued  a  polite  parody  of 


2i6  BALLADS  6r*  SONGS 

this  song,  which  never  became  popular,  and  is 
supposed  to  be  almost  wholly  forgotten.  In  it 
some  pavioiirs  on  the  road  point  out  Jone  to  one 
another,  saying— 

"  Sithee  that's  mon  as  con  nouther  walk  nor  ride." 
Jone  hears  them  and.  detects  Aem  : — 

"  But  aw  fin*  by  their  jeers,  un'  comical  sneers, 
They'me  akin  to  th'  owd  makker  o'  stays."* 


JONE  O*  GRINFILT. 

Says  Jone  to  his  woife  on  a  whot  summer's  day, 
"  Aw'm  resolvt  i'  Grinfilt  no  lunger  to  stay ; 
For  aw'U  goo  to  Owdham  os  fast  os  aw  can. 
So  fare  thee  weel  Grinfilt,  an'  fare  thee  weel  Nan ; 

For   a  sodger   aw*ll   be,    an*    brave    Owdham 
aw'U  see, 

An'  aw'U  ha'e  a  battle  wi'  th'  French." 

"  Dear  Jone,"   said   eawr  Nan,   un'  hoo  bitterly 

cried, 
"  Wilt  be  one  o'  th'  foote,  or  theaw  meons  for  t' 

ride  ]" 

^  Tom  Paine  was  a  staymaker. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  217 

**  Ods  eawns !   wench>  aw'U  ride  oather  ass  or  a 

mule, 
Ere  aw'U  keawer  i*  Grinfilt  os  black  os  th'  dule, 
Booath   clemmin',*   un*    starvin',    un*    never   a 

fardin^ 
It  'ud  welly  drive  ony  mon  mad." 


"  Ay,  Jone,  sin*  we  coom  i*  Grinfilt  for  t*  dwell, 
We/n  had  mony  a  bare  meal,  aw  con  vara  weel 

tell." 
'^  Bare  meal,  ecod  !  ay,  that  aw  vara  weel  know,     . 
There's  bin  two  days  this  wick  'ot  wey'n  had  nowt 
at  o' : 
Aw'm  vara  near  sided,  afore  aw'U  abide  it, 
Aw'U  feight  oather  Spanish  or  French. 

Then  says  my  Noant  Marget,  "  Ah  !  Jone,  theaw'rt 

so  whot, 
Aw'd  ne'er  go  to  Owdham,  boh  i'  Englond  aw'd 

stop." 

'  *'  Clemming''  is  hungering  or  famishing.  The  editor  of 
Songs  of  the  Peasantry  says  that  taming  the  termination  ing 
into  ink  is  one  of  the  most  striking  peculiarities  of  the  Lan- 
cashire dialect.  On  the  other  hand,  Samuel  Bamford  says 
it  is  not  Lancashire  at  all,  hut  Cheshire. 


2i8  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

"  It  matters  nowt,  Madge,  for  to  Owdham  awMI 

goo, 
Aw*st  ne*er  clem  to  deeoth,  boh  sumbry  [some- 
body] shall  know : 
Furst  Frenchmon  aw  find,  aw'll  tell  him  meh 

mind, 
Un'  if  he*ll  naw  feight,  he  shall  run." 

Then  deawn  th*  broo  aw  coom,  for  weh  livent  at 

top, 
Aw  thowt  aw'd  raich  Owdham  ere  ever  aw  stop ; 
Ecod !  heaw  they  staret  when  aw  getten  to  th* 

Mumps, 
Meh  owd  hat  i'  my  hont,  un'  meh  clogs  full  o* 
stumps ; 
Boh  aw  soon  towd  'um,  aw're  gooin'  to  Owdham, 
Un*  aw'd  ha*e  a  battle  wi*  th*  French. 


Aw  kept  eendway  thro*  th'  lone,  un*  to  Owdham 

aw  went, 
Aw  ax*d  a  recruit  if  they'd  made  up  their  keawnt  % 
"  NoWe,  nowe,  honest  lad "   (for  he  tawked  like 

a  king), 
"Goo  wi*  meh  thro*  th*  street,  un*  thee  aw  will 

bring 


OF  LA  NCA  SHIRE,  2 1 9 

Wheere,  if  theaw'rt   willin*,  theaw  may  ha'e  a 

shillin\" 
Ecod  !  aw  thowt  this  wur  rare  news. 

He  browt  meh  to  th*  pleck,  where  they  measum 

their  height, 
Un*  if  they  bin  height,  there*s  nowt  said  abeawt 

weight ; 
Aw  ratched  meh  un*  stretched  meh,  un*  never  did 

flinch  : 
Says  th'  mon,  "  Aw  believe  theaw'rt  meh  lad  to  an 

inch." 
Aw  thowt  this*ll  do ;  aw'st  ha'e  guineas  enoo*. 
Ecod  !  Owdham,  brave  Owdham  for  me. 

So  fare  thee  weel,  Grinfilt,  a  soger  aw'm  made  : 
Aw  getten  new  shoon,  un'  a  rare  cockade ; 
Aw'll  feight  for  Owd  Englond  os  hard  os  aw  con, 
Gather  French,  Dutch,  or  Spanish,  to  me  it's  o' 
one; 
Aw'll  mak'  'em  to  stare,  like  a  new-started  hare, 
Un*  aw'll  tell  'em  fro'  Owdham  aw  coom. 

In  several  copies  in  print  and  MS.  the  song 
ends  here ;  but  in  others  several  stanzas  are  added> 
of  which  the  following  will  serve  as  a  sample  : — 


220  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

When  aw  went  for  a  soger,  aw  ment  for  to  ride, 
Soa  they  brought  meh  a  tit^  un'  aw   gat  on  at 

wrang  side, 
Aw  geet  at  wrang  side,  boh  aw  soon  tumbled  o'er  ; 
Meh  officer  said  aw  should  niver  ride  more. 

Aw  thowt,  that's  quite  reet,  aw  con  goo  o*  meh 

feet 
As  fur  as  aw  wish  for  to  goo. 

Soa  they  browt  meh  a  gun,  and  caw*d  lift  an*  reet, 
Theaw  mun  howd  up  thy  yed,  and  keep  slippin' 

thy  feet ; 
Oh  !  they  wheelt  me  abeawt  till  aw  leant  to  one 

side. 
An  meh  officer  said  aw  could  noather  walk  nor 

ride. 

Peace    is    proclaimed,  and  John  goes  home 
again  : — 

Soa  neaw  aw'm  at  whoam,  an'  th'  loom's  set  agate, 
Wee'n  plenty  o'  praties  an'  dumplins  to  ate ; 
And  now  peeace  is  made,  th'  weyvers  may  laugh 
At  Billy's  brown  loaf,  made  o'  bran  an'  o*  chaff. 

etc.  etc. 

The  song  had  many  imitations,    as    already 
noticed.     The  following  are  specimens  : — 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  22 1 

JONE  O*  GRINFILT'S  RETURN. 

Aw'm  J  one  o'  Marget's,  fro*  Grinfilt  aw  went, 
To  conquer  th*  Frenchmen  aw  were  fully  bent ; 
Ot  Owdham  aw*  Mistud,  un  went  to  the  wars, 
Aw  feort  noather  dangers,  nur  battles,  nur  scars  ; 
To  conquer  or  die,  aw  resolv'd  fur  4o  try, 
Un*  humble  the  proide  o'  th'  French. 

Wi*  my  kit  on  my  back,  aw  fro*  Owdham  did  go ; 
Aw  thowt  if  aw  fun'  'em,  aw'd  soon  ler  'em  know 
That  Jone  eawt  o'  Grinfilt  no  quarter  would  give. 
Boh  would  feight  fur  Owd  Englond  os  lung  as  he 
lived. 
Gather  French,  Dutch,  or  Spanish,  aw  think  aw 

con  manage. 
Aw  think  aw'm  the  lad  'ot  can  crack. 

Aw  met  an  owd  freend  as  aw're  gooin*  up  th*  lone. 
He    stopt  me,  un  said,    "Wheere  neaw,  honest 

Jone  ?" 
"  Mon,   aw'm  gooin'  a  feightin'  o*   th'   French.*' 

"  Bur  theaw  mun  goo  whoam. 
For  aich  body  says  'ot  they  darno*  coom.** 

Ecod  !  aw*ll  uphowd  *em  *ot  sumbry*s  towd  *em, 
That  aw're  upo*  th*  road  fur  to  feight 


222  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

"  Heawever,"  said  Dick,  "  theaw  had  better  go  see, 
Un  if  theaw  conno*  mon  'em,  be  sure  send  fur 

me. 
"  O  Dick,  never  mind  me,  awUl  do  whot  aw  con  ; 
Remember  my  love  to  booath  Marget  and  Nan ; 

Un*  tell  *em  naw  fret,  some  money  aw'll  get, 

Un  aw*ll  coom  to  Grinfilt  again.'* 

When  aw  was  hardly  begun  o'  my  trade, 
My  officers  towd  me  *ot  pecoce  wur  made. 
"  If  there  be  no  feightin',  whoam  lemmi  goo, 
Un*  if  they'll  no*  be  quiet,  be  sure  t*  let  me  know. 
If  to  Grinfilt  yoan  coom,  yo*ll  foind  me  a- whoam. 
Next  dur  to  Noant  Marget's  aw  live." 

As  aw're  gooin*  up  th'  broo*,  fiir  we  livent  o't  top. 
Aw  said  aw'd  raich  Grinfilt  *fore  ever  aVd  stop, 
The're  such  peepin*  un*  whisp'rin'  as  aw  wenten 

by  th*  Mumps, 
"  That's  Jone,  'ot  went  up  wi'  his  clogs  full  o' 
stumps, 
Wi*  his  cap  and  his  fither,  he  looks  very  cliver, 
Noant  Marget  *ull  wonder  whoa's  coom.*' 

When  aw  geet  into  Grinfilt  eawr  Nan  were  a-whoam, 
Hoo  run  into  Noant  Marget's,  un'  towd  her  aw*d 
coom. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  223 

"  What !  is  he  coom  back  ?     Ecod  it's  quoite  reet, 
If  he's  byetten  th*  French,  wey*ll  ha'e  one  merry 
neet; 
Eawr  Jone,   it's  no  deawt,  has   browt    things 

abeawt ; 
He  is  true  to  booath  country  and  king." 

JONE  O'  GRINFILT  JUNIOR. 

The  following,  Mr.  Higson  informs  us,  was  once 
a  very  popular  song,  and  was  taken  down  from 
the  singing  of  an  old  hand-loom  weaver  at 
Droylsden.  It  was  written  just  after  the  battle 
of  Waterloo,  when  times  were  bad,  and  hand- 
loom  weavers*  wages  fell  from  about  £,7^  to  a 
guinea  or  25s.  a-week — /.^.,  for  three  or  four  days' 
work ;  for  then  weavers  could  seldom  be  induced 
to  "buckle  to"  on  Monday,  Tuesday,  or  often 
on  Wednesday;  these  days  being  devoted  to 
recreations  procured  with  high  wages. 

Aw'm  a  poor  cotton-wayver,  as  mony  a  one  knaws, 
AwVe  nowt  t'  ate  i'  th'  heawse,  un*  aw've  worn 

eawt  my  cloas, 
Yo'd  hardly  gie  sixpence  fur  o*  aw've  got  on, 
Meh  clogs  ur'  booath  baws'n,  un'  stockins  awVe 

none ; 


224  BALLADS  dr*  SONGS 

Yo*d   think  it  wur   hard,  to  be  sent   into    th' 

ward' 
To  clem*  un'  do  best  'ot  yo*  con. 

Eawr  parish-church  pa'son*s  kept  tellin'  us  lung, 
We' St  see  better  toimes,  if  aw'd  but  howd  my  tung ; 
AwVe  howden  my  tung,  till  aw  con  hardly  draw 

breoth, 
Aw  think  i'  my  heart  he  meons  t'  clem  me  to 
deoth ; 
Aw  knaw  he  lives  weel,  wi*  backbitin'  the  de'il, 
Bur  he  never  picKd  o^et^  in  his  loife. 

Wey  tooart  on  six  week,  thinkin'  aich  day  wur  th' 

last, 
Wey  tarried  un*  shifted,  till  neaw  wey're  quite  fast ; 
Wey  liv't  upo'  nettles,  whoile  netdes  were  good, 
Un'  Wayterloo  porritch  wur*  th'  best  o*  us  food ; 

Aw*m  tellin*  yo'  true,  aw  con  foind  foak  enoo, 

Thot*re  livin*  no  better  nur  me. 

Neaw,  owd  Bill  o*  Dan's  sent  bailies  one  day, 
Fur  t*  shop  scoar  aw*d  ow'd  him,  *ot  aw'  couldn*t 
pay; 

*  World.       *  Starve,  hunger.       '  Threw  the  shutde,  wove. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  225 

Bur  he  just  to  lat,  fur  owd  Bill  o'  Bent, 

Had  sent  tit  un*  cart,  un'  ta'en  goods  fur  rent ; 

They  laft  nowt  bur  a  stoo*  *ot*i:e  seeots  for  two ; 

Un'  on  it  keawrt  Maiget  un*  me. 

The  bailies  sceawlt  reawnd  os  sly  os  a  meawse, 
When  they  seedn  o'  th*  things  wur  ta'en  eawt  o* 

th*  heawse  ; 
Un  t'one  sajrs  to  th*  tother,  "  O's  gone,  theaw  may 

see." 
Aw  said,  "  Never  fret,  lads,  youVe  welcome  ta'c 
me : 
They  made  no  moor  ado,  bur  nipt  up  th*  owd 

stoo', 
Un'  wey  booath  leeten  swack  upo'  th'  flags. 

Aw  geet  howd  o'  eawr  Marget,  for  hoo're  strucken 

sick, 
Hoo  said,  hooM  ne'er  had  sich  a  bang  sin'  hoo're 

wick, 
The  bailies  sceawrt  off,  wi'  th'  owd  stoo'  on  their 

back, 
Un  they  wouldn't  ha'e  caret  if  they'd  brokken  her 
neck. 
They'm  so  mad  at  owd  Bent,  'cos  he'd  ta'en 

goods  fur  rent. 
Till  they'm  ready  to  flee  us  alive. 

Q 


226  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

Aw  said  to  eawr  Marget,  as  wey  lien  upo  th'  floor, 
"Wey  ne'er  shall  be  lower  i'  this  wo'ald,  aw'm 

sure, 
Bur  if  wey  mun  alter,  aw'm  sure  wey  mun  mend, 
Fur  aw  think  i'   my  heart  wey're  booath  at  fur 
end, 
Fur  mayt  wey  han  none,  nur  no  looms  to  wayve 

on, 
Ecod  !  th'  looms  are  as  well  lost  as  fun." 

My  piece  wur  cheeont  off,  un'  aw  took  it  him 

back ; 
Aw  hardly  durst  spake,  mester  looked  so  black ; 
He  said,  **  Yo*re  overpaid  last  toime  'ot  yo  coom." 
Aw  said,  "If  aw'  wur*,  *twur  wi*  wayving  beawt 
loom; 
Un  i'  t'  moind  *ot  aw'm  in,  aw'st  ne'er  pick  o'er 

again, 
For  awVe  wooven  mysel'  to  th'  fur  end." 

So  aw  coom  eawt  o'  th'  wareheawse,  un'  laft  him 

chew  that, 
When  aw  thowt  'ot  o'  things,  aw're  so  vext  that  aw 

swat; 
Fur  to  think  aw  mun  warch,  to  keep  him  un'  o* 

th'  set, 
O'  th'  days  o'  my  loife,  un'  then  dee  i'  the'r  debt : 


j»-. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  227 

But  aw'll  give  o'er  this  trade,  un  work  wi'  a 

spade, 
Or  goo  un'  break  stone  upo'  th'  road. 

Eawr  Marget  declares,  if  hoo'd  clooas  to  put  on, 
Hoo'd  go  up  to  Lunnun  to  see  the  great  mon ; 
Un'  if  things  didno'  awter,  when  theere  hoo  had 

been, 
Hoo  says  hoo'd  begin,  un'  feight  blood  up  to  th'  e'en, 
Hoo's  nout  agen  th'  king,  bur  hoo  loikes  a  fair 

thing, 
Un'  hoo  says  hoo  con  tell  when  hoo's  hurt. 


JONE  O'  GREENFEELTS  RAMBLE  IN 
SEARCH  OF  TH'  GREEN  BAG.* 

Says  Jone  to  his  wife,  I've  great  news  for  t'  tell, 
IVe  bin  t*  Lunnon  fowt,  aw  th*  road  by  mysel : 

'  To  those  of  our  readers  who  are  not  old  enough  to  re- 
member the  circumstances  of  the  memorable  trial  of  Queen 
Caroline,  the  consort  of  George  IV.,  it  may  be  necessary  to 
explain  that  much  of  the  documentary  evidence  produced  on 
that  occasion  in  the  House  of  Lords  came  from  a  certain 
green  bag,  which,  in  the  state  of  public  feeling  at  that  time, 
became  an  object  of  popular  indignation,  if  not  of  contempt, 
like  the  celebrated  ^^  Non  mi  recordo^"*  (**  I  do  not  recollect") 
of  an  Italian  witness  against  the  Queen,  on  that  trial. 


228  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

I  geet  up  won  morning  afore  break  o'  day, 
I  thowt  I  should  meet  th*  green  bag  i'  my  way, 
I'd  no'  porritch  enow,  so  I  run  like  a  foo, 
And  ne'er  stopt  till  I  seed  Lunnon  fowt. 

And  when  I  geet  there  I  walk'd  up  and  deawn, 
Kept  looking  abeawt  me  like  some  country  cleawn; 
They  wanted  for  t*  know  what  I  had  i'  my  rag, 
I  said  it  wur  meal  for  f  put  i'  th*  green  bag. 
I  begun  for  to  swagger,  and  said  he's  a  beggar, 
That  mon  that  keeps  stuffing  th'  green  bag. 

I  think  by  my  troth  I  mun  write  to  eawr  Nan,  » 
For  f  tell  her  t'  come  here  as  hard  as  hoo  con, 
Becose  hoo's  so  brazent  and  fears  no  face. 
And  I  want  for  f  see  that  mon  'ot  mays  brass. 
I'll  tie  up  my  lugs,  and  run  i'  my  clogs, 
And  doff  off  my  hat  to  th'  green  bag. 

There  is  more  of  this;   but  enough  has  been 
given  to  show  its  character. 

JONE  O'  GRINFILT  GOING  TO  TH' 
ROOSHAN  WAR. 

Another  of  the  many  imitations  of  this  favourite 
song,   but   very   far   short   of  the  spirit   of  the 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  229 

original.     We  take  a  specimen  of  it  from  a  printed 
ballad-sheet  or  broadside  : — 

Yo  Lankyshire  lads,  coom  listen  awhoile, 
AVU  sing  yo  a  sung,  'ot  'uU  mak  yo  o'  smoile, 
Of  owd  J  one  o*  Grinfilt,  yoVe  often  yeard  tell, 
Fur  at  Grinfilt  near  Owdham  lung  toime  aw  did 
dwell. 


Aw*re  at  Wayterloo,  wheere  aw  fowt  loike  a  mon, 
Bur  me  age  'ot  that  toime  it  wur  scarce  twenty-one, 
So  aw  geet  me  discharge  when  th'  peace  it  wur 

made, 
Un*  aw  went  back  to  Grinfilt  to  start  i'  th'  owd 
trade. 
Bur  weyving  un  me,  we  shan  never  agree. 
So  aw'U  goo  for  a  sodger  again. 

Aw'm  towd  as  owd  Alexander  the  Czar 

Is  fully  detarmint  to  keep  on  the  war ; 

So  aw'U  goo  to  Rushar  beawt  ony  fear, 

Un*  help  my  brave  countrymen  in  the  Crimear. 


So  fare  thee  weel,  Englont !  aw'm  bound  o'er  t'main, 
Bur  if  aw're  t'good  luck  fur  to  coom  back  again, 


230  BALLADS  &»  SONGS 

Aw' 11  tell  yo  a  teal,  *ot'll  mak  yo  o*  stare, 
About  Alexander  th*  greet  Rushan  bear. 

Un  if  aw  chance  catch  him,  to  Englont  aw '11 
fetch  him, 

Un  shaw  him  at  tuppence  apiece. 


JONE  O'  GRINFILTS  VISIT  TO 
MR.  FIELDEN, 

fVM  a  Petition  to  the  Queen  to  fill  every  hungry 

belly. 

Another  imitation,  with  reference  to  the  late 
Mr.  John  Fielden  of  Todmorden,  M.P.  for  Old- 
ham, who  was  a  great  opponent  of  the  new  Poor 
Law.  The  extracts  we  take  from  a  printed  ballad 
broadside : — 

Says  Jone  eawt  o'  Grinfilt,  "Aw '11  tell  yo  what, 

Nan, 
Aw'll  see  Mester  Fielden,  as  aw  am  a  mon." 


Says  Nan  o'  meh  Gronn/s,  "  This  is  meh  belief. 
Aw  think  Mester  Fielden  con  banish  this  grief, 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  231 

To  Lunnun  aw 'II  walk,  wi*  meh  clogs  on  meh  feet, 
To  ax  Bob  and  Nosey'  if  they  cawn  it  reet. 
Aw'U  tell  eawr  young  queen,  aw'm  asheamt  to  be 
seen, 
Fur  aw've  hardly  a  smock  to  meh  back. 

•  *  •  ■  • 

Jone  talks  of  going  to  Ireland  to  consult  Father 
Matthew ;  and  of  asking  the  Tory  for  meat,  the 
Whig  for  a  plate,  and  the  Chartist  for  a  glass  of 
pop.     Then — 

When  aw  coom  back  fro*  Irelont,  to  Lunnun  aw  11 

goo, 
Un'  o*  abeawt  Grinfilt  aw '11  let  him  to  know, 
Un'  if  they  should  caw  meh  a  country  cleawn, 
Aw'U  say  aw'm  a  felly  fro'  Saddleworth  teawn. 
Wi'  meh  hat  i'  meh  hont,  aw  *11  tell  *em  aw  want 
Some  porritch  fur  Marget  and  Nan. 

Aw'll  say  aw'm  so  clemm'd  'ot  aw  connot  aboide, 
Un'  meh  guts  are  as  bare  as  a  jackass's  hoide, 
Aw '11  tell  Bob  and  Nosey  these  toimes  are  so  hard. 
They're  o'  empty  heawses  welly  in  eawr  ward ; 
Now  money's  so  scant,  they  mun  o'  drop  their  rent. 
Or  th'  landlords  *ull  very  soon  break. 

*  Sir  Robert  Peel  and  the  Duke  of  Wellington. 


-tf  ^/»^^ 


^if 


«r»', 


/»^  ^ 


m::M^^S^>.'!i^ 


THE  BURNLEY  HAYMAKERS. 

To  Mr.  T.  T.  Wilkinson,  of  Burnley,  we  are  in- 
debted for  this  Lancashire  song.  He  informs  us 
that  it  was  hawked  and  sung  about  Burnley  and 
the  neighbourhood  more  than  a  century  ago  by 
a  noted  Burnley  ballad-singer  called  "  Robin 
O'Green,"  whose  portrait  was  painted,  and  was 
afterwards  engraved  by  or  for  one  of  the  Towneleys 
of  Towneley.  He  was  still  living  in  1790.  The 
song  is  a  satire  on  some  weather-prophet  of  his 
day,  whose  name  has  not  been  preserved ;  but 
whose  astrological  jaigon  and  prophecies  of  fine 
weather  are  ridiculed  in  somewhat  learned  phraseo- 
logy for  a  ballad.  There  are  yet  left  in  the 
neighbourhood  a  few  astrologers,  or,  as  they  are 
termed,  "  wise  men,"  who  are  said  to  make  a  good 
thing  of  it  This  song  is  supposed  to  have  been 
written  by  Mr.  Cottam,  a  schoolmaster. 


I. 


Help  goddess-muse  to  sing  of  revelation. 
Fanatic  dreams  or  news  from  the  stars, 


BALLADS  Is*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE.    233 

Knowledge  refined,  mysterious  speculation, 
Secondary  causes  of  peace  or  wars : 
See  how  the  plotting  heavens 
In  a  summer's  even 
Together  make  weather  at  their  own  dispose,' 
And  to  the  sons  of  art, 
Their  secrets  do  impart. 
And  all  their  consultations  most  willingly  disclose. 


2. 

Sol  went  down  clear  one  evening  to  the  ocean, 

And  gentle  breezes  perfumed  the  air, 
Up  to  a  mount  as  if  to  pay  devotion 

For  such  a  blessing,  this  artist  did  repair, 
Telescopes  and  glasses, 
Fitting  for  such  asses. 
He  took  and  thro'  them  did  look  up  to  the  flatter- 
ing sky, 

And  Aquarius  spy. 
Laying  his  pitcher  by. 
And  nothing  but  fair  weather  appeared  to  his  eye. 

3- 
Just  when  the  sun  took  lodging  with  the  lion, 
Or  near  that  time,  if  I  do  not  mistake, 


234  BALLADS  Sr*  SONGS 

More  weeping  weather  we  mortals  ne'er  set  eye 
on; 
The  sky  wore  a  mantle  for  many  days  of 
black, 

The  Hindes  (1)  disputed, 
Would  not  be  confuted, 
They'd  power  that  time  to  shower  down  all  their 
influence, 

The  moist  triplicity, 
Within  their  powers  might  be, 
But  mark  how  they  deceived  a  man  of  mighty 
sense. 

4. 
Venus  had  dried  her , 


Which  caused  the  wet;  Orion  had  put  on 
His  girdle  close ;  thinks  he,  I  cannot  miss  it, 
Now,  now,  for  hay-time,  and  so  he  marched 
home. 

Crying,  mow  your  meadows. 
Husbands,  wives,  and  widows, 
Cut  down  throughout  the  town,  and  you  may  take 
your  rest ; 

The  hay  itself  will  make ; 
Hang  me  if  I  mistake. 
For  prejudicing  any  is  not  my  intent. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  235 

I  with  Molly,  Peggy,  Sue,  and  Betty, 

But  five  in  number,  dare  well  undertake. 
The  planets  smile  and  th'   evening   looks  so 
pretty, 
Half  of  the  hay  in  this  town  ourselves  to  make, 
No  opposition, 
To  change  condition, 
I  spy  throughout  the  sky,  fair  weather  to  prevent ; 
Then  cut  your  meadows  down. 
And  if  the  heavens  frown. 
Or  rain  while  So^s  in  La?^  Til  bum  my  instrument. 

6. 
Credulous  fools  gave  ear  to  this  imposter, 

Cheats  find  acceptance  above  their  deserts, 
Down  go  the  meadows,  each  strove  which  could 
mow  faster. 
Merely  confiding  in  this  rare  son  of  arts  : 
He  himself  did  bluster. 
And  his  train  did  muster, 
With  rake  and  fork  to  make  what  he  had  under- 
taken ; 

But  coming  to  the  field, 
He  to  his  grief  beheld. 
The  sky  enveloped  with  clouds  that  threatened  rain. 


236  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

7- 
Yet  confident,  he  called  it "  pride  of  the  weather,'* 

And  was  assured  that  it  was  no  rain  : 

^olus   lets   loose   his   wings    with   moistened 

feathers, 

Dipp'd  in  the  ocean  to  cast  'em  here  again, 

Astroeus  puffs  and  blusters, 

Drove  the  clouds  in  clusters, 

Here  rushing,  there  crushing,  till  they  pour'd  down 

Such  mighty  clouds  of  rain, 

As  if  they  strove  again, 

By  force  of  a  new  deluge  this  lower  globe  to  drown. 

8. 
For  many  days  continued  such  foul  weather. 
That  all  the  hay  cut  down  at  that  time  was 
spoiled ; 
The  bubbled  fanners  they  all  met  together. 
Blaming  their  folly  to  be  so  much  beguiled ; 
But  this  lying  prophet 
Made  no  matter  of  it, 
His  book  he  had  mistook,  or  taken  a  wrong  text ; 
His  tubes  and  telescopes 
Had  quite  deceived  his  hopes ; 
But  he  would  be  more  certain  when  he  predicted 
next. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  237 

His  book  is  only  a  lying  errapater. 

His  telescope  is  a  poor  hollow  bark ; 
Yet  with  such  tools  this  fool  himself  doth  flatter 
To  be  Heaven's  counsellor,  or  the  planets' 
clerk. 

We  have  law  for  witches, 
That  studies  mischief, 
Some  burning,  others  turning  in  a  hempen  string ; 
And  can  there  any  be, 
Deserves  more  than  he. 
Who  did  such  an  inconveniency  upon  his  neigh- 
bours bring) 


.f^h. 


THE  PRAISE  OF  LANCASHIRE  MEN. 

OR, 

A  feiu  lifus  which  here  is  penned 
Wherein  they  Lancashire  lads  cotnmetid. 

Turn, — **  A  Job  for  a  Journeyman  Shoemaker." 

You  Muses  ail  assist  my  pen, 

I  earnestly  require, 
To  write  the  praise  of  the  young  men 

Bom  in  Lancashire  : 
They  are  both  comely,  stout,  and  tall, 

And  of  most  mild  behaviour ; 
Fair  maids,  I  do  intreat  you  all 

To  yield  to  them  your  favour. 


When  a  Lancashire  lad  doth  feel  the  dart 

Of  Cupid's  bow  and  quiver, 
And  aim  to  take  a  fair  maid's  part, 

I'm  sure  he'll  not  deceive  her : 


BALLADS  &•  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  239 

Unto  their  promise  they  will  stand, 
Which  they  to  you  propounded ; 

They  will  not  break  for  house  or  land, 
If  love  their  hearts  have  wounded. 


There  is  knights'  sons  and  gentlemen, 

That* s  bom  in  Lancashire, 
That  will  be  merry  now  and  then, 

If  need  it  do  require  : 
The  plowman  likewise  is  our  friend, 

Who  doth  use  plow  and  harrow ; 
He  freely  will  his  money  spend 

When  he  meets  with  his  marrow.' 

In  Lancashire  there's  brisk  young  lads 

As  are  within  oiu*  nation, 
Most  of  them  of  several  trades, 

Or  of  some  occupation ; 
That  their  wives  they  can  well  maintain, 

And  bring  them  store  of  treasiu-e ; 
All  by  their  labour  and  their  pain, 

They  live  with  joy  and  pleasure  : 

'  Mate,  companion,  lover,  match. 


240  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

It  is  a  most  delightful  thing, 

And  pleasure  for  to  hear, 
These  boys  their  songs  and  catches  sing 

When  they  drink  their  ale  and  beer  : 
They  will  be  merry,  great  and  small. 

When  they  do  meet  together ; 
And  freely  pay  for  what  they  call — 

A  fig  for  wind  and  weather ! 

At  pleasant  sports  and  football  play 

They  will  be  bl)rthe  and  jolly  ; 
Their  money  they  will  freely  lay, 

And  cast  off  melancholy. 
When  Lancashire  lads,  of  several  trades, 

They  have  a  jovial  meeting, 
Each  man  a  glass  unto  fair  maids 

Will  drink  unto  his  sweeting. 

Brave  Lancashire  lads  are  soldiers  stout. 

Whose  valour  have  been  tryed 
At  sea  and  land  in  many  a  bout, 

When  thousands  brave  men  died ; 
And  always  scorned  for  to  yield 

Although  the  foes  were  plenty ; 
If  they're  but  ten  men  on  the  field. 

They  surely  will  fight  twenty. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  .  241 

• 

Great  James  our  King'  they  will  defend 

As  well  as  any  shire  ; 
To  England  they  will  prove  a  friend, 

If  need  it  do  require. 
They  loyal  subjects  still  have  been, 

And  most  of  them  stout-hearted, 
Who  still  will  fight  for  king  and  queen, 

And  never  from  them  started. 

Now  to  conclude,  and  make  an  end 

Of  this  my  harmless  sonnet : 
I  hope  no  man  I  do  offend ; 

Each  man  put  off  his  bonnet. 
And  drink  a  health  to  James  our  king, 

And  to  our  English  nation; 
God  us  defend  in  everything. 

And  keep  us  from  invasion  ! 

*  This  fixes  the  date  of  the  ballad  as  in  the  reign  of 
James  I.  or  II. 


K 


WILL,  THE  FERRYMAN  : 

A    WATER    ECLOGUE. 

Written,  to  accompany  a  particular  piece  of  musiCy 

by  Dr,  Fref, 

The  following  lines,  which  appear  in  tlie  Gentle- 
mar^  s  Magazine  for  June  1758,  seem  to  have  taken 
their  rise  from  a  circumstance  still  spoken  of  by 
tradition,  and  which  is  sufficiently  evident  from 
the  lines  themselves. — An  Account  of  Runcorn  and 
its  Environs,  by  the  Rev,  John  Greswell,  Master  of 
the  Grammar  School  in  Manchester  (p.  1 6). 

Pale  shone  the  moon  on  Mersey's  flood, 
The  midnight  silence  was  profound  ; 

Save  that  where  Elfled's  castle*  stood. 
The  sea-gull  sometimes  scream'd  around  : 

<  Ethelfleda,  or  Elfleda,  widow  of  Eldred,  Duke  of  Merda, 
who  died  about  a.d.  912,  erected  a  castle  in  the  year  916 
upon  the  site  which  still  retains  the  name  of  Castle  Rock, 
though  no  vestige  of  the  castle  remains. 


BALLADS  &*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE,   243 

And  village  dog  by  fits  did  howl, 
And  from  the  lofty  yew,  that  grows 

Near  old  Rumcosa's  kirk,'  the  owl 
Her  hollow  note  would  interpose  : 

When  from  a  cavern  on  the  strand 
Poor  Will  the  Ferryman  appeared, 

Who  late  had  slept  upon  the  sand. 
And  frantic  then  his  head  uprear'd. 

For  to  a  ship  he  call'd  aloud, 

Whose  whitening  sail  he  chanced  to  spy, 
"  I  see  her  hand — I  see  her  shroud — 

O  Molly,  stay— O  stay — 'tis  I  ! 

"  What  though  within  the  churchyard  near 
Thy  lifeless  body  low  was  laid  \ 
Thy  roving  spirit  will  be  here. 
For  ever  here  thy  restless  shade. 

"  For  in  this  chamber  of  the  rock,* 

Which  tides  have  worn,  and  time  hath  eat, 

*  Runcorn  was  called  in  the  Saxon  annals  Runcofan  ;  by 
Huntingdon,  Runuovai ;  by  other  writers,  Runcmfeii  or  Run- 
cofan ;  and  in  the  king's  books,  Ronchestorn. 

•  Probably  that  adjoining  to  the  Bathing-house,  below 
the  Lovers'  Walk. 


244   BALLADS  ^  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

I  gave  thy  virtue  first  the  shock 

Which  made  thy  future  woe  complete. 

"  From  Liverpool  then  full  blythe  we  came ; 
Here  on  the  beach  the  boat  we  moor'd ; 
Thou  lost  thy  life  by  loss  of  fame  : 
And  fame  once  lost  is  ne'er  restored. 

"  Then  pale  the  rose  grew  on  thy  cheek, 
And  yellow  what  was  lily-white ; 
Then  sunk  thy  heart  and  spirit  meek, 
And  eye  that  sparkled  with  delight 

"O  com'st  thou  near?"  he  said;  "then  come  I" 
(For  now  the  sails  did  nearer  show) ; 
"  O  reach  thy  hand,  and  take  me  home."  — 
But  billows  whelm'd  him  far  below. 

The  ebbing  waters  soon  retum'd 

To  Castle  Rock  his  floating  corse ; — 

They  rung  his  knell — the  village  moum'd — 
And  his  new  sweetheart  deck'd  his  hearse. 


^ 


THE  LOVER'S  LEAP. 

The  following  song,  by  an  anonymous  writer,  is 
printed  in  Book  iv.  oi  E/egarii  Ex/racis  (poetry) : — 

Hard  by  the  hall  our  master's  house. 
Where  Mersey  flows  to  meet  the  main. 

Where  woods,  and  winds,  and  waves  dispose 
A  lover  to  complain  ; 

With  arms  across,  along  the  strand 

Poor  Lycon  walk'd,  and  hung  his  head  ; 

Viewing  the  footsteps  in  the  sand 
Which  a  bright  nymph  had  made. 

The  tide,  said  he,  will  soon  erase 
The  marks  so  lightly  here  imprest ; 

But  time  or  tide  will  ne'er  deface 
Her  image  in  my  breast. 


246  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

Am  I  some  savage  beast  of  prey  ? 

Am  I  some  horrid  monster  grown  ? 
That  thus  she  flies  so  swift  away, 

Or  meets  me  with  a  frown  1 

That  bosom  soft,  that  liiy  skin 

(Trust  not  the  fairest  outside  show) 

Contains  a  marble  heart  within — 
A  rock  hid  under  snow. 

Ah  me  !  the  flints  and  pebbles  wound 
Her  tender  feet,  from  whence  there  fell 

Those  crimson  drops  which  stain  the  ground, 
And  beautify  each  shell. 

Ah  !  fair  one,  moderate  thy  flight, 

I  will  no  more  in  vain  pursue. 
But  take  my  leave  for  a  long  night ; 

Adieu,  lov'd  maid,  adieu  ! 

With  that  he  took  a  running  leap. 

He  took  a  lover's  leap  indeed. 
And  plunged  into  the  sounding  deep, 

Where  hungry  fishes  feed. 

The  melancholy  her'n  stalks  by ; 
Around  the  squalling  $ea-gulls  yell ; 


OF  LANCASHIRE. 

Aloft  the  croaking  ravens  fly, 
And  toll  his  funeral  knell.  | 

.  The  waters  roll  above  his  head ; 
The  billows  toss  it  o'er  and  o'ei 
His  ivory  bones  lie  scatterfid, 
And  whiten  all  the  shore. 


DEATH  OF  AN  OLD  HUNTSMAN. 

The  following  song  (communicated  by  Mr.  Higson, 
of  Droylsden)  is  said  to  have  been  sung  more  than 
forty  years  ago.  The  Gartside  named  in  the  first 
verse  is  said  to  have  lived  near  Hartshead  Pike. 
Edmund  Freer  was  huntsman  to  the  Ashton-under- 
Lyne  pack  of  hounds. 

1. 
Of  Tro/s  famed  walls,  of  Iliad's  king, 
Of  Hector's  might,  let  poets  sing. 
And  celebrate  in  strains  sublime 
The  heroic. deeds  of  ancient  time  : 
A  humbler  muse  inspires  my  verse 
Whilst  I  old  Gartside's  *  fate  rehearse. 


2. 


Where  Greenfield  rears  her  rocks  on  high, 
O'ertops  the  clouds  and  meets  the  sky, 


»  ?  Freer' s. 

4 


BALLADS  &*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE.    249 

And  greets  the  first  approach  of  mom 
This  hero  of  the  chase  was  bom  ; 
A  huntsman  he  of  great  renown, 
To  many  noble  sportsmen  known. 

3- 
The  crafty  fox,  the  timid  hare, 
The  kite  that  skims  so  blythe  in  air, 
The  falcon  swift,  the  grovelling  mole, 
The  marten  sleek,  the  moping  owl ; 
All  birds  and  beasts  of  every  shape, 
None  could  his  wily  toil  escape. 


When  withering  age  his  nerves  unstmng. 
The  sportsmen  all,  both  old  and  young, 
Crowd  to  his  cot  their  grief  to  tell, 
And  bid  their  dying  friend  farewell. 
All,  seeing  death  approach  so  near, 
They  cried,  "  Alas !  poor  Edmund  Freer !" 

5- 
When  to  the  churchyard  he  was  bome 
By  village  hinds,  with  looks  forlom. 
And  herdsmen,  too,  his  corse  attend. 
To  show  their  love  to  their  old  friend  ; 


250  BALLADS  ^  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

For  death  has  ended  the  career 

Of  the  brave  huntsman,  Edmund  Freer. 

6. 
No  more  his  horn  the  huntsman  hears  ; 
No  more  his  voice  the  village  cheers ; 
No  more  the  fox,  with  artful  care, 
Eludes  the  chase,  or  fears  the  snare ; 
Since  death  has  ended  the  career 
Of  that  brave  huntsman,  Edmund  Freer. 

7. 

The  turf  that  covers  his  remains 
Is  much  revered  by  rustic  swains ; 
And  sportsmen  all,  as  they  pass  by. 
Pay  the  soft  tribute  of  a  sigh, 
Or  drop  a  sympathetic  tear, 
Sajdng,  "Alas !  poor  Edmund  Freer !" 


^X^>w 


j^'lr 


HAND-LOOM  v.  POWER-LOOM. 

This  song  of  a  transitional  era  in  weaving  was 
sung  by  John  Grimshaw,  better  known  by  his 
sobriquet  of  "Comnton,"  of  Gorton,  near  Man- 
chester. 

Come  all  you  cotton-weavers,  your  looms  you  may 

pull  down  ; 
You  must  get  employ'd  in  factories,  in  country  or 

in  town. 
For  our  cotton-masters  liave  found  out  a  wonderful 

new  scheme, 
These   calico   goods  now  wove  by  hand  they're 

going  to  weave  by  steam. 

In  comes  the  gruff  o'erlooker,  or  the  master  will 

attend  ; 
It's  "  You  must  find  another  shop,  or  quickly  you 

must  mend  ; 


252  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

"  For  such  work  as  this  will  never  do ;  so  now  1*11 

tell  you  plain, 
We  must  have  good  pincop-spinning,  or  we  ne'er 

can  weave  by  steam. 

There's  sow-makers  and  dressers,  and  some  are 

making  warps ; 
These  poor  pincop-spinners,  they  must  mind  their 

flats  and  sharps, 
For  if  an  end  slips  under,  as  sometimes  perchance 

it  may, 
They'll  daub  you  down  in  black  and  white,  and 

youVe  a  shilling  to  pay. 

In  comes  the  surly  winder,  her  cops  they  are  all 

marr'd ; 
"They  are  all  snarls,  and  soft,  bad  ends;  for  Tve 

roved  off  many  a  yard ; 
"  I  'm  sure  1  '11  tell  the  master,  or  the  joss,  when  he 

comes  in :" 
They'll  daub  you  down,  and  you  must  pay ; — so 

money  comes  rolling  in. 

The  weavers'  turn  will  next  come  on,  for  they  must 

not  escape. 
To  enlarge  the  master's  fortunes,  they  are  fined  in 

every  shape. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  253 

For  thin  places,  or  bad  edges,  a  go,  or  else  a  float, 
They'll  daub  you  down,  and  you  must  pay  three- 
pence, or  else  a  groat 

If  you  go  into  a  loom-shop,  where  there's  three  or 

four  pair  of  looms. 
They  all  are  standing  empty,  incumbrances  of  the 

rooms; 
And  if  you  ask  the  reason  why,  the  old  mother  will 

tell  you  plain. 
My  daughters  have  forsaken  them,  and  gone  to 

weave  by  steam. 

So,  come  all  you  cotton-weavers,  you  must  rise  up 

very  soon, 
For  you  must  work  in  factories  from  morning  until 

noon : 
You  mustn't  walk  in  your  garden  for  two  or  three 

hours  a-day. 
For  you  must  stand  at  their  command,  and  keep 

your  shuttles  in  play. 

[The  rest  wanting.] 


i^Q<ii^^~:^$^fci<::% 


GORTON  TOWN. 

This  song,  communicated  by  Mr.  John  Higson,  of 
Droylsden,  he  says,  is  "translated  from  the  ver- 
nacular." It  will  be  the  more  intelligible  to  the 
non-Lancashire  reader.  Gorton  is  a  chapelry  in 
the  parish  of  Manchester,  and  about  three  miles 
from  that  city.  This  was  sung  in  February  1865, 
at  the  naming  of  a  dog  "  Ringwood"  at  the 
Hare  and  Hounds  inn,  Abbey  Hey,  Gorton,  by 
Samuel  Beswick,  a  nephew  of  the  composer  of  the 
tune,  and  author  or  compiler  of  the  words — the 
late  John  Beswick,  alias  "  Parish  Jack,"  a  singer, 
fluter,  and  fiddler,  in  great  request  at  "stirs"  and 
merry-makings,  where  his  vocal  and  instrumental 
services  were  often  paid  in  kind — ^in  meat,  clothes, 
or  liquor.  He  was  also  in  the  choir  of  Gorton 
chapel  (now  St  James's  Church),  where  he  was 
buried  a  few  years  ago.  It  has  been  printed  as  a 
broadside. 


BALLADS  &»  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE.    255 

Gosh  dang  it,  lads,  we're  coining  again, 
Though  many  a  mile  I  Ve  been ; 

A  Gorton  lad  I  'm  bred  and  bom, 
And  lots  of  sights  I've  seen. 

But  when  I  did  come  back  again, 

I  nearly  fell  in  fits. 
For  times  and  folk  so  altered  look'd, 

I  thought  rd  lost  my  wits. 

I  tum'd  me  north,  I  tum'd  me  south, 

I  tum'd  me  east  and  west, 
And  everything  so  alter'd  look'd. 

And  some  were  none  for  th'  best ; 

They'n  even  altered  Goose  Green  pump, 
They'n  tum'd  it  upside  down ; 

And  th'  well  they*n  choked  with  paving-stones, 
Since  I  left  Gorton  town. 

When  I  left  home  some  years  ago, 
Th'  old  folks  had  lots  o'  trade ; 

Some  right  good  jobs  came  tumbling  in. 
And  every  one  well  paid. 

We'd  good  roast-beef  and  pudding. 
And  ale  some  decent  swigs ; 


256  BALLADS  &•  SONGS 

Egad  !  they  liv'd  like  fighting-cocks, 
And  got  as  fat  as  pigs. 

But  now,  egad  !  there's  none  such  things ; 

Poor  folks  have  empty  tripes ; 
'There's  no  roast-beef  to  stuff  their  hides, 
It's  Poor  Law  soup  and  swipes. 

An  honest  working-man 's  no  chance ; 

Grim  want  does  on  him  frown ; 
I  ne*er  thought  things  would  come  to  this, 

When  I  left  Gorton  town. 

In  days  gone  by  our  fine  young  men 
Ne'er  told  such  dismal  tales ; 

They'd  ne'er  a  man  transported  then 
As  far  as  New  South  Wales. 

We'd  honest  men  in  Parliament, 
Both  Tories,  Rads,  and  Whigs ; 

They  were  never  known  poor  folk  to  rob. 
But  now  they've  tum'd  to  prigs. 

Our  manufacturers  work'd  full  time. 
Their  mills  were  seldom  stopt ; 

No  general  turn-outs  were  there  then, 
Their  wages  never  dropt. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  257 

Those  Com>law  folks  and  Chartist  lads 

Might  talk  till  all  were  brown, 
Without  being  sent  to  treading-roills. 

When  I  left  Gorton  town. 

In  da)rs  gone  by  I  never  thought 
Such  days  would  come  as  these, 

When  lads  were  all  as  gay  as  larks, 
And  wenches  bright  as  bees. 

Right  merrily  they  jogg'd  to  th'  fairs 

In  clogs  and  light  shalloon, 
And  every  one  could  sport  a  face 

Just  like  a  harvest  moon. 

But  now  the  clogs  and  light  shalloons 

Each  one  has  thrown  aside, 
And  lasses  now  are  faded  moons ; 

They're  grown  too  proud  to  stride. 

The  foolish  frumps  sport  mutton  pumps, 

And  yet,  their  pride  to  crown, 
They've  bustles  tied  behind  'em 

Half  as  large  as  Gorton  town. 

But  dang  it,  lads  !  aw*st  ne'er  forget, 
When  first  I  came  i'th'  town, 

S 


258  BALLADS  ^  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE, 

A  pretty  wench  came  up  to  me, 

And  says,  "  Where  art  thou  boun'  ?" 


But  putting  all  these  jokes  aside, 
We'll  hope  these  times  will  mend ; 

There'll  come  a  day  yet  when  the  rich 
Will  prove  the  poor  man's  friend. 

When  work  and  honest  poverty 

Will  meet  with  due  regard ; 
And  plotting  knaves  and  creeping  slaves 

Will  get  their  just  reward. 

It's  soon  or  late,  as  sure  as  fate. 
Such  things  will  come  to  pass ; 

And  when  we  all  get  lots  of  work, 
We'll  soon  get  lots  of  brass. 

With  right  good  trade,  and  fairly  paid, 

I  dare  bet  thee  a  crown, 
There'll  not  be  such  a  place  i'  th'  world 

As  merry  Gorton  town. 


THE  HAND-LOOM  WEAVERS'  LAMENT. 

Mr.  John  Higson,  of  Droylsden,  obtained  this 
song  from  the  singing  of  John  Grimshaw,  alias 
"  Common,"  of  Abbey  Hey,  Gorton. 

You  gentlemen  and  tradesmen,  that  ride  about  at 

will. 
Look  down  on  these  poor  people ;  it's  enough  to 

make  you  crill;* 
Look  down  on  these  poor  people,  as  you  ride  up 

and  down, 
I  think  there  is  a  God  above  will  bring  your  pride 
quite  down. 

Chorus. — ^You  tyrants  of  England,  your  race 
may  soon  be  run. 
You  may  be  brought  unto  account 
for  what  youVe  sorely  done. 

You  pull  down  our  wages,  shamefully  to  tell ; 
You  go  into  the  markets,  and  say  you  cannot  sell ; 

*  Chilly,  goose-fleshy. 


26o  BALLADS  &*  SONGS 

And  when  that  we  do  ask  you  when  these  bad 

times  will  mend. 
You  quickly  give  an  answer,  "  When  the  wars  are 

at  an  end." 

When  we  look  on  our  poor  children,  it  grieves 

our  hearts  full  sore, 
Their  clothing  it  is  worn  to  rags,  while  we  can 

get  no  more, 
With    little    in    their  belHes,  they    to  their  work 

must  go, 
Whilst  yours  do  dress  as   manky  as  monkeys  in 

a  show. 

You  go  to  church  on  Sundays,  Tm  sure  it's  nought 

but  pride. 
There  can  be  no  religion  where  humanity's  thrown 

aside ; 
If  there  be  a  place  in  heaven,  as  there  is  in  the 

Exchange, 
Our  poor  souls  must  not  come  near  there;  like 

lost  sheep  they  must  range. 

With  the  choicest  of  strong  dainties  your  tables 

overspread. 
With  good  ale  and  strong  brandy,  to  make  your 

faces  red ; 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  261 

You   caird  a  set  of  visitors — it  is  your  whole 

delight — 
And  you  lay  your  heads  together  to  make    our 

faces  white. 

You  say  that  Bonyparty  he's  been  the  spoil  of  all, 
And   that   we  have  got  reason  to  pray  for  his 

downfall ; 
Now    Bonypart/s    dead    and    gone,    and    it    is 

plainly  shown 
That  we  have  bigger  tyrants  in  Boneys  of  our 

own. 

And  now,  my  lads,  for  to  conclude,  it's  time  to 

make  an  end ; 
Let's  see  if  we  can  form  a  plan  that  these  bad 

times  may  mend ; 
Then  give  us  our  old  prices,  as  we  have  had 

before, 
And  we  can  live  in  happiness,  and  rub  off  the 

old  score. 

This  ballad  was  sung  to  the  favourite  air  of 
"A  hunting  we  will  go,"  but  better  known  in 
and  near  Manchester  by  a  song  of  the  time,  of 
which  one  verse  runs — 


26z  BALLADS  &•  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

With  Henry  Hunt  we'll  go,  we'll  go. 
With  Henry  Hunt  we'll  go ; 

Well  raise  the  cap  of  liberty, 
In  spite  of  Nadin  Joe.' 

'  Joseph  Nadin  was  deputy-constable  of  Manchester  for 
more  than  twenty  years.  He  resigned  in  March  l8zt,  aod 
was  succeeded  by  Mr.  .Stephen  Lavender,  bvm  London. 


""'4a'  ■ 

I^jj 

i» 

THE  MIDDLETON  OVERSEER  AND  THE 

MADMAN. 

Th£  following  ballad  is  said  to  be  founded  on 
fact  It  was  taken  down  by  Mr.  Higson,  of 
Droylsden,  as  sung  by  John  Grimshaw,  better 
known  as  "  Common,"  of  Abbey  Hey,  Gorton. 
Middleton  is  a  market-town  and  parish,  midway 
between  Manchester  and  Rochdale.  We  have 
also  seen  it  in  print  as  an  ordinary  ballad-sheet. 

It's  of  a  clever  overseer,  as  crafty  as  a  mouse,  sir, 
He  brought  a  man  from  Middleton  to  Lancaster 

mad-house,  sir; 
The  overseer  laughed   in  his  sleeve,   in  view  of 

speculation. 
But  little  did  he  think  to  meet  with  such  a  de- 
solation. 

Right  fal  the  ral,  the  raddy  oh. 

Right  fal  the  looral  lido  ; 
Right  fal  the  ral,  the  raddy  oh, 
Right  fal  the  looral  lido. 


264  BALLADS  &•  SONGS 

When  they  arriv'd  at  Lancaster,  says  the  mad- 
man, "  We're  at  home,  sir." 

They  walked  about  Lancaster  streets,  like  Darby 
and  his  Joan,  sir ; 

The  madman  and  the  overseer,  they  went  to  bed 
together : 

Says  the  overseer  to  himself,  '^  I'll  stick  to  him 
like  leather." 

Right  fal,  etc. 


Then  the  overseer  did  lie  down,  and  the  madman 

he  did  creep,  sir. 
And  by  his  cunning,  crafty  tricks,  got  the  overseer 

asleep,  sir ; 
The  note  out  of  his  pocket  drew,  which  lay  behind 

his  head,  sir ; 
Got  up  and  left  the  overseer  quite  fast  asleep  in 

bed,  sir. 

Right  fal,  etc. 


By  chance  he  met  a  gentleman  ;  says  he,  "  Where 

are  you  bound,  sir]" 
He  says,  "  Fm  going  to  take  a  view  of  Lancaster 

fine  town,  sir." 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  265 

Says  he,    "  I'm  an  overseer,   Fm  come  upon  a 
cruise,  sir; 

I've  a  message  that  I  must  take  down  to  Lan- 
caster mad-house,  sir." 

Right  fal,  eta 


When  he  got  to  Lancaster  mad-house  loudly  he 

rang  the  bell,  sir, 
And  when  the  governor  did  appear,  he  cut  a  noble 

swell,  sir ; 
Says  he,  "  A  madman  I  have  got,  FU  show  you 

my  receipt,  sir ; 
I've  had  him  in  my  custody,  struggling  all  the 

neet,  sir." 

Right,  fal,  etc 

Says  the  lunatic,   '*  He  is  so  mad,  perhaps  he'll 
form  a  plan,  sir. 

And  when  this  morning  we  do  come,  he'll  swear 
/  am  the  man,  sir ; 

For  he  is  so  obstreporous,  that  no  one  can  en- 
dure him ; 

And  when  he  says  that  I'm  the  man,  that  instant 
you  secure  him." 

Right  fal,  etc. 


266  BALLADS  Or*  SONGS 

He  went  straight  back  to  th'  public-house,  and 

loudly  he  did  say,  sir, — 
"  Why,  overseer,  do  you  intend  to  lie  in  bed  all 

day,  sir  1" 
The  overseer  was  so  alarmed  with  fear  beyond  re- 
lation. 
To  see  the  lunatic  awake  and  free,  yet  full  of  con- 
versation. 

Right  fal,  etc, 


Says  the  overseer,  "  I  will  get  up ;  we'll  have  i. 
little  meat,  sir ; 

And  after  that  we'll  take  a  walk,  and  look  at  my 
estate,  sir." 

After  they  had  breakfasted,  they  kindly  did'  em- 
brace, sir : 

Says  the  overseer,  "  Yonder  is  a  most  elegant  place 


sir." 


Right  fal,  etc 


Then    the    overseer    his    pockets    groped,    and 

straight  began  a-crying : 
His  receipt  was  gone,  he  knew  not  how ;  it  set 

him  near  a-dying. 


OF  LANCASHIRE,  267 

Says  the  overseer,  "  I  must  form  a  plan,  all  for 

to  get  him  in,  sir." 
Says  the  lunatic  unto  himself^  '^  I  wish  you  would 

begin,  sir." 

Right  fal,  etc. 


Then  the  overseer  he  rang  the  bell,  without  any 

further  thought,  sir : 
Say^the  madman  to  the  turnkey,  "'  This  is  the 

man  I've  brought,  sir." 
They  got  hold  of  the  overseer,  and  hauled  him 

into  the  place,  sir ; 
Puird  ofif  his  dothes,  and  shaved  his  head,  and 

then  they  washed  his  face,  sir. 

Right  fal,  etc 

Then  he  was  so  ungovernable,  and   kicked   up 

such  a  racket. 
That  quick  they  bound  him  hand  and  foot,  put 

on  him  a  strait-jacket : 
When  the  operation  did  commence,  his  mind  was 

filled  with  stitches. 
And  the  overseer  looked  in  their  face   like  one 

with  dirty  breeches. 

Right  fal,  etc. 


268   BALLADS  &»  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE, 

Says  the  lunatic,    "I  will  go  home,  my  sorrows 

are  all  over ; 
I'm  as  happy  now  as  ever  cow  was  in  a  field 

of  clover." 
"Where  have  you  left  the  overseer?"     "Where 

they  will  make  him  civil : 
I've  left  him  in  Lancaster  'sylum,  as  mad  as  any 

devil !" 

Right  fal,  etc. 

A  note  was  sent  immediately  by  the  cpach,  the 

"Volunteer,"  sir. 
To  get  to  Lancaster  with  speed,  to  release  the 

overseer,  sir ; 
And  now,  poor  man,  at  home  again,  his  mind's 

full  of  reflection. 
He'll  remember  Lancaster  mad-house  to  the  day 

of  resurrection. 

Right  fal,  etc. 


4^ 


i^i^' 


•»r» 


'^^:<-::M'^^^^^^:-'\'i^ 


MARY  MELVIN  OF  THE  MERSEY  SIDE. 

This  is  a  favourite  song,  on  the  broadsides  printed 
and  sold  in  Liverpool  and  the  neighbourhood. 

Give  ear  with  patience  to  my  relation, 

All  you  that  ever  felt  Cupid's  dart, 
I'm  captivated  and  ruinated 

By  a  young  female  that  made  me  smart. 
My  mind's  tormented,  I  can't  prevent  it, 

Her  glancing  beauty  has  me  destroy'd, 
I  speak  sincerely,  I  suffered  dearly — 

For  Mary  Melvin  of  the  Mersey  side. 

In  the  month  of  May,  when  the  lambkins  play, 

By  the  river-side  as  I  chanc'd  to  rove, 
There  I  spied  Mary,  both  light  and  airy. 

And  singing  sweetly  as  she  did  rove. 
I  got  enchanted,  I  throbbM  and  panted. 

Like  one  delirious  I  stood  and  cried, 
"  Ah  !  lovely  creature,  the  boast  of  nature, 

Did  Cupid  send  you  to  the  Mersey  sidel" 


270  BALLADS  df*  SONGS 

She  made  this  ansuver,  "  It's  all  romancing 

For  you  to  flatter  a  simple  dame ; 
I'm  not  so  stupid,  or  dup'd  by  Cupid, 

So  I  defy  you  on  me  to  scheme. 
My  habitation  is  near  this  plantation, 

I  feed  my  flocks  by  the  river-side ; 
Therefore  don't  tease  me,  and  you  will  please  me," 

Said  Mary  Melvin  of  the  Mersey  side. 


I  said,  "  My  charmer,  my  soul's  alarmer, 

Your  glancing  beauty  did  me  ensnare ; 
If  I've  offended,  I  never  intended 

To  hurt  your  feelings,  I  do  declare. 
You  sang  so  sweetly,  and  so  discreetly, 

You  cheer'd  the  woods  and  valleys  wide, 
That  fam'd  Apollo  your  voice  would  follow. 

Should  he  but  hear  you  near  the  Mersey  side. 


»» 


"  Young  man  you're  dreaming,  or  you  are  scheming. 

You're  like  the  serpent  that  tempted  Eve ; 
Your  oily  speeches  do  sting  like  leeches. 

But  all  your  flattery  shan't  me  deceive. 
Your  vain  delusion  is  an  intrusion ; 

For  your  misconduct  I  must  you  chide ; 
Therefore  retire,  it  is  my  desire," 

Said  Mary  Melvin  of  the  Mersey  side. 


OF  LANCASHIRE.  27 1 

"  Don't  be  so  cruel,  my  dearest  jewel, 

I'm  captivated,  I  really  vow; 
To  show  I'm  loyal,  make  no  denial, 

Here  is  my  hand,  and  I'll  wed  you  now. 
I  want  no  sporting,  nor  tedious  courting, 

But  instantly  I'll  make  you  my  bride; 
Therefore  surrender,  I'm  no  pretender. 

Sweet  Mary  Melvin  of  the  Mersey  side." 

She  then  consented,  and  quite  contented 

Unto  the  church  we  went  straightway. 
And  quickly  hurried,  and  both  got  married, 

And  join'd  our  hearts  on  that  very  day. 
Her  parents  bless'd  us,  and  then  caress'd  us ; 

A  handsome  portion  they  did  provide ; 
We  bless  the  day  that  we  chanc'd  to  stray 

By  the  lonely  banks  on  the  Mersey  side. 


v^ 

HLUvijil^^^^^kXI 

r'-^y  " 

^  X^^\ 

GRIMSHAWS  FACTORY  FIRE, 


In  1790  Mr.  Robert  Grimshaw,  of  Gorton  House, 
Gorton,  near  Manchester  (having  contracted  with 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Cartwright,  the  inventor  of  the 
power-loom,  for  the  privilege  of  using  500  of  his 
looms),  erected,  for  their  reception,  a  weaving 
factory  at  Knott  Mill,  with  steam-power.  The 
mill  was  finished,  and  the  machinery,  including  30 
power-looms,  had  not  been  many  weeks  at  work 
before  the  whole  building  was  burned  to  the 
ground.  As  the  proprietor  had  previously  re- 
ceived several  anonymous  letters  threatening  de- 
struction to  the  mill  if  he  persisted  to  work  it, 
there  is  every  reason  to  conclude  that  the  fire  did 
not  happen  without  design,  but  was  the  work  of 
an  incendiary.  Mr.  Grimshaw  was  about  erecting 
another  mill  in  Gorton,  but  this  fire  not  only  de- 
terred him,  but  others,  from  bringing  the  invention 
into  use ;    and    the    next    attempt    to    introduce 


BALLADS  ^  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  i-ji 

power-looms  into  Manchester  was  not  made  till 
sixteen  years  afterwards.  About  the  time  of  the 
fire  there  lived  up  the  Ginnel,  near  the  Chapel- 
Houses,  Gorton,  a  man  named  Lucas,  a  hand- 
loom  weaver  and  crofter  or  bleacher.  Though 
very  illiterate, — ^not  able  to  write,  and  scarcely  to 
read, — he  enjoyed  considerable  local  fame  as  a 
rh)anester.  He  composed  a  ditty  on  the  destruc- 
tion of  Grimshaw's  mill,  which  was  regularly  set 
to  music,  printed,  and  sold  by  the  ballad-dealers 
of  Manchester.  The  entire  song  cannot  now  be 
recovered,  but  the  following  fragment  has  been 
orally  gleaned  from  five  old  men,  each  of  whom 
well  recollects  singing  it  at  the  time  of  its  cur- 
rency. It  reveals  the  feelings  of  the  working- 
classes  of  that  day  on  the  introduction  of 
machinery  and  steam-power.  For  the  above 
particulars  we  are  indebted  to  Mr.  John  Higson, 
of  Droylsden  : — 

Come  all  ye  country  gentlemen 

Come  listen  to  my  story ; 
It's  of  a  country  gallant 

Who  was  cropped  in  his  glory, 

All  by  a  new  invention, 

As  all  things  come  by  natur*, 

T 


274  BALLADS  ^  SONGS 

Concerning  looms  from  Doncaster* 
And  weyvin'  done  by  wayter. 
Chorus, — ^Then,  eh,  the  looms  from  Doncaster 
That  lately  have  come  down — 
That  they  never  had  been  carried 
Into  Manchester  town. 

For  coal  to  work  his  factory 

He  sent  unto  the  Duke,*  sir ; 
He  thought  that  all  the  town 

Should  be  stifled  with  the  smoke,  sir  ; 
But  the  Duke  sent  him  an  answer, 

Which  came  so  speedily, 
That  the  poor  should  have  the  coal, 

If  the  Devil  took  th*  machinery. 

Then,  eh,  etc 

He  got  all  kinds  of  people 

To  work  at  his  invention. 
Both  English,  Scotch,  and  Irish, 

And  more  than  I  could  mention. 
He  kept  such  order  over  them, 

Much  more  than  they  did  choose,  sir, 

*  Dr.  Cartwright  had  erected  a  mill  for  power-looms  at 
Doncaster,  but  with  so  little  success  that  it  was  abandoned. 
■  The  Duke  of  Bridgewater,  the  great  coal  owner. 


OF  LANCASHIRE. 

They  left  him  land  for  liberty ; 

Please  God  to  spare  their  shoes,  sir. 
Then,  eh,  etc 

The  floor  was  over  shavings. 
Took  fire  in  the  night,  sir ; 

But  now  he's  sick  in  bed  ; 
Some  say  it's  with  affright,  sir. 

[The  rest  wanting.] 


THE  BONNY  GRAY. 

This  song  celebrated  a  famous  cock-fight  in  the 
days  of  "  the  old  Lord  Derby" — Edward,  the  12th 
earl — who  was  very  fond  of  the  sport,  and  who 
died  in  1834.  He  was  grandfather  of  the  present 
earl.  The  song  appears  to  indicate  that  the  cock- 
pit in  which  the  battle  was  fought  was  in  Liverpool ; 
and  it  is  clear  that  the  Earl  and  the  Prescot  lads 
backed  the  cock  named  "  Charcoal  Black,"  while 
the  Liverpool  folks  supported  the  ''  Bonny  Gray,'* 
which  proved  the  victor.  We  take  this  song  from 
a  printed  ballad^sheet : — 

Come  all  you  cock-merchants  far  and  near, 
Did  you  hear  of  a  cock-fight  happening  here  1 
Those  Liverpool  lads,  I've  heard  them  say, 
Tween  the  Charcoal  Black  and  the  Bonny  Gray. 


We  went  to  Jim  Ward's,   and  call'd  for  a  pot. 
Where  this  grand  cock-battle  was  fought ; 

'  The  jMJgilist,  who  kept  an  inn  in  Liverpool. 


BALLADS  Sr  SOXGS  OF  LANCASHIRE.    277 

For  twenty  guineas  a-side  these  cocks  did  play, 
The  Charcoal  Black  and  the  Bonny  Gray. 

Then  Lord  Derby  came  swaggering  down  : 
"I'll  bet  ten  guineas  to  a  crown, 
If  this  Charcoal  Black  he  gets  fair  play. 
He'll  clip  the  wings  of  your  Bonny  Gray." 

Now  when  these  cocks  came  to  the  sod. 

Cry  the  Liverpool  lads,  "  How  now  1  what  odds  I" 

The  odds,  the  Prescot  lads  did  say, 

'Tween  the  Charcoal  Black  and  the  Bonny  Gray. 

This  cock-fight  was  fought  hard  and  fast. 
Till  Black  Charcoal  he  lay  dead  at  last 
The  Liverpool  lads  gave  a  loud  huzza. 
And  carried  away  Ihe  Bonny  Gray  I 


y''*^^,^ 


? ,  J»-^«-i>Hie.>„..,.- 


•••■.-•-^^ 


LANCASHIRE  WITCHES. 

We  print  this  from  a  street  ballad-sheet : — 

In  vain  I  attempt  to  describe 

The  charms  of  my  favourite  fair ; 
She's  the  sweetest  of  Mother  Eve's  tribe. 

With  her  there  is  none  to  compare. 
She's  a  pride  of  beauty  so  bright, 
Her  image  my  fancy  enriches  ; 
My  charmer's  the  village  delight, 

And  the  pride  of  the  I^ancashire  witches. 
Then  hurrah  for  the  Lancashire  witches, 
Whose  smile  every  bosom  enriches ; 
Oh,  dearly  I  prize 
The  pretty  blue  eyes 
Of  the  pride  of  the  Lancashire  witches. 

They  may  talk  of  the  dark  eyes  of  Spain — 
'Tis  useless  to  boast  as  they  do — 

They  attempt  to  compare  them  in  vain 
With  the  Lancashire  ladies  of  blue. 


BALLADS  &•  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE,    279 

Only  view  the  dear  heavenly  belles, 

You  Ye    soon    seized    with    love's    sudden 
twitches, 
Which  none  could  create  but  the  spells 
From  the  eyes  of  the  Lancashire  witches. 
Then  hurrah,  etc. 

The  Lancashire  witches,  believe  me, 

Are  beautiful  every  one  ; 
But  mine,  or  my  fancy  deceives  me, 

Is  the  prettiest  under  the  sun. 
If  the  wealth  of  the  Indies,  I  swear, 

Were  mine,  and  I  wallow'd  in  riches, 
How  gladly  my  fortune  I'd  share 

With  the  pride  of  the  Lancashire  witches. 
Then  hurrah,  etc. 


THE  LANCASHIRE  BAGPIPKR. 

In  Mr.  Halltwell's  curious  collection  of  broad- 
sides, ballads,  etc.,  in  Chetham's  Library  (vol. 
xix.  No.  1878),  is  an  engraved  two-part  song 
or  duet,  words  and  music,  entitled,  "  The  Italian 
song  called  Paslordla  made  into  an  English  dia- 
logue, by  Mr.  Thomas  d'Urfey."  Some  one  has 
furnished  another  title  in  MS. — "  The  Lancashire 
Bagpiper,  and  the  Pedlar  Woman,  his  Wife."  The 
first  verses  of  this  will  suffice.  The  names  given 
are  Colin  and  Blowzabella : — 

He. 

Blowzabella,  my  bouncing  doxy. 

Come,  let's  trudge  it  to  Kirkham  Fair ; 

There's  stout  liquor  enough  to  fox  me. 
And  young  cullies  to  buy  thy  ware. 


BALLADS  dr*  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  281 

She. 
Mind  your  matters,  you  sot,  without  meddling, 

How  I  manage  the  sale  of  my  toys ; 
Get  by  piping,  as  I  do  by  peddling ; 

You  need  never  want  me  for  supplies. 


Printed  by  R.  Clakk,  Edtnbutf;h. 


LANCASHIRE  LYRICS: 


MODERN 


SONGS  AND  BALLADS 


OFTHh 


COUNTY  PALATINE. 


EDITED  BY 


JOHN    IIARLAND.    F.S.A.. 

EDITOR  OF  "ballads  AND  SONGS  OP  LANCASHIRE,  CHIEFLY  OLDER  THAN 

THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY." 


LONDON: 

WHITTAKER  &  CO.,  AVE  MARTA  T^ANFl. 

1866. 


ONE   OP  ONE    HUNDRED  /COPIES 


Printed  on  Large  Paper. 


PREFACE. 


In  the  Preface  to  a  former  volume  of  '*  Ballads  and  Songs 
of  Lancashire,  chiefly  older  than  the  Nineteenth  Century," 
a  promise  was  given—  should  that  book  find  favour — to  pub- 
hsh  another  of  the  "  Modem  Songs  and  Ballads  of  Lanca- 
shire;" and,  in  fulfilment  of  that  promise,  the  present 
volume  is  offered  to  the  public.  In  the  course  of  its  pre- 
paration, however,  it  was  found  that  its  materials  were  too 
extensive  to  be  compressed  into  a  single  volume.  More- 
over, they  separated  themselves,  both  in  character  and  garb^ 
into  two  broadly  distinct  classes.  Most  of  the  pieces  in  this 
volume  are  expressions  of  the  deep  affections  and  aspirations 
of  humanity ;  and  in  elevation  of  thought  and  sentiment,  no 
less  than  in  rh3rthmical  and  poetic  qualities,  they  are  not  to 
be  classed  with  the  ordinary  street  ballad.  Many  of  them 
rise  into  the  region  of  true  poetry  ;  and  in  this  respect,  it  is 
hoped,  the  present  volume  may  be  accepted  in  refutation  of 
the  notion,  especially  rife  at  a  distance,  that  Lancashire  is 
altogether  too  hard,  cold,  and  sterile  a  soil  to  bear  kindly 
the  flowers  and  blossoms  of  poesy.  So  far  from  this  collec- 
tion being  an  exhaustive  one,  the  writings  of  many  Lanca- 
shire authors  of  both  sexes  have,  from  various  circumstances, 
been  excluded. 

The  pieces  in  this  volume  appearing  to  the  Editor  to  be 
susceptible  of  some  classification,  he  has  thus  arranged 
them : — I.  Romantic  and  Legendary  Ballads.  II.  Songs 
of  Love  and  Praises  of  the  Fair.  III.  Songs  of  Home  and 
its  Affections.  IV.  Songs  of  Life  and  Brotherhood.  V.  Lays 
of  the  Cotton  Famine.  VI.  Sea  Songs.  There  still  remain, 
in  reserve,  Songs  of  the  Volunteers  of  the  Eighteenth  and  Nine- 


vi  PREFACE, 

teenth  Centuries;  Political  and  Party  Songs;  Songs  Descrip* 
tive  of  Local  Scenes  and  Events ;  Songs  of  Factory  Life ;  other 
Trade  Songs ;  Songs  of  Field  Sports,  Poaching,  Races,  && ; 
and  Songs  of  Humour.  Many  of  these  are  in  the  Lancashire 
dialect,  and  have  the  stamp  of  that  dry  yet  racy  humour, 
which  the  writings  of  Edwin  Waugh,  Benjamin  Brierley,  the 
Wilson  Family,  and  others,  have  made  extensively  known 
as  indigenous  to  Lancashire.  It  is  proposed  to  produce  here- 
after another  volume  of  selections  from  the  mass  of  materials 
in  the  Editor's  possession,  under  some  such  title  as  "  I.An- 
cashire  Local  and  Humorous  Songs,  many  in  Dialect" 

The  pleasurable  duty  remains  of  thanking  all  those  to 
whom,  far  more  than  to  the  Editor,  this  volume  owes  its  ex- 
istence. He  has  merely  gathered  the  flowers  of  Lancashire 
song  into  a  garland.  Theirs  is  the  fragrance  of  these  poetic 
blossoms;  theirs  the  rich  and  varied  tints  that  delight  the 
eye.  To  thank  each  individually  by  name  would  be  simply 
to  repeat  the  table  of  contents ;  and  he  can  therefore  only 
tender  to  one  and  all,  his  most  grateful  thanks  for  the  court- 
eous and  ready  kindness  with  which  they  have  acceded  to 
his  request  To  the  surviving  representatives  of  deceased 
writers,  and  to  various  publishing  firms  holding  copyrights, 
he  must  take  leave,  in  like  manner,  to  tender  his  sincere 
acknowledgments. 

SwiNTON,  October  1865. 


*«*  In  songs  with  a  chorus,  refrain^  hourdon^  or  burden,  the  Editcn' 
has  either  wholly  omitted  the  repetition  after  the  first  verse,  or  indi- 
cated its  place  by  "ftc"  In  song^  in  the  Lancashire  dialect,  he  has 
left  each  writer  to  his  own  mode  of  spelling;  to  convey  the  pronunda* 
tion ;  only  marking  tho  distinction  between  the  sound  of  a//,  represented 
by  the  vowel  o  standing  alone,  and  the  elision  (in  speech)  of  the  words 
^and  tfif,  marked  by  d  with  an  apostrophe, — as  in  "o  maks  o'  things," 
— all  makes  of  things.  "  Hoo  "  (Anglo-Saxon,  keo^  the  feminine  of  he) 
is  she.  Most  really  difficult  words  and  phrases  are  explained  in  the 
notes. 


CONTENTS. 


I.-ROHANTIC  AND  LEGENDARY  BALUDS. 


AUTHOK.                                       PAGE 

Introduction, 

• 

•                 •                 •                 • 

I 

The  Last  Wolf, 

• 

"  Tristram,'' 

2 

The  Eve  of  St  John, 

• 

Charles  Srvain^ 

9 

The  Wild  Ridkk,     . 

• 

Samuel  Bamford,     . 

12 

A  Legend  of  the  Heart,  . 

yohn  Bolton  Rogerson, 

21 

The  Carrion  Crow, 

• 

William  Harrison  Ainsworth, 

24 

Ballad— "Why  Leave 

you 

• 

thus," 

• 

Charles  Swain, 

25 

The  Maiden's  Fate, 

• 

John  Bolton  Rogerson, 

26 

The  Mandrake, 

• 

WiUiam  Harrison  Ainsworth, 

27 

The  Hunter's  Sonc^ 

■ 

Rev.  Richard  Parkinson,  D,D^ 

29 

Ballad  —  "Cast  the 

GAY 

Robes    from    off 

THY 

FOBM," 

• 

John  Bolton  Rogerson, 

32 

King  Frost,  . 

• 

Charles  Swain, 

33 

Clayton  Hall, 

• 

Elijah  Ridings, 

34 

The  Wanderer, 

• 

Charles  Swain, 

36 

The  Billmen  of  Bowland, 

From  "  Ned  of  the  Fell;*      . 

39 

Black  Bess,  . 

■ 

William  Harrison  Ainsworth^ 

41 

Gypsy  Ballad, 

• 

Charles  Swain, 

44 

VIU 


CONTENTS, 


Old  Grindrod's  Ghost, 
The  Young  Cid, 
The  Keeper's  Son,  . 
Ballad  op  James  and  Jane, 
Derwentwater's  Fate, 


AUTHOR.  I'AGK 

William  Harrison  A  insworthy  45 

Robert  Rockliffy  .  .  49 

Richard  R,  BeaUy^  .  .  52 

Henry  Kirky  .  .  54 

Anonymous^  •  •  57 


II -LOVE  SONGS  AND  PRAISES  OF  THE  FAIR. 


Introduction, 

•                     •                     • 

.      62 

Love's  Evil  Choice, 

Mrs  Habergkam^ 

.      63 

The  Sprig  of  Thyme, 

From  the  Greaves  Collection^ 

65 

Colin  and  Phebe,    . 

John  Byram^  M,A,,  F.R.S 

.,     67 

Songs — 

"The  Moon  is  Bright,*' 

'   William  Rowlinson^ 

.      71 

IM^ABRABm* 

.  72 
73 

"  Remember  Me," 

•                        \ 

•                       1 

Xhic  TWTTAXmM 

.  74 
75 

A  XI  Jit   Xil  V  1  A  A  1  iwPI,                         • 

Ki  TIT  AND  Robin,     . 

•                       1 

Author  of  '*  Scarsdale,'' 

The  Lover's  Call,   . 

yohn  Critchley  Prince^ 

77 

Meg  or  Jenny  ? 

Author  of  "  Scarsdale;' 

78 

"Oh,    Well    I    Love  my 

GENTLE  Maid," 

John  Bolton  Rogerson, 

79 

My  Wynder, 

Samuel  Bamford^     . 

81 

Canzonettet-"  There  is  a 

Place," 

John  Bolton  Rogerson^ 

83 

Peggy  Dill,  .           .           . 

Henry  Kirk, 

.      84 

"  She's  not  so  Fair," 

Charles  Swain, 

.      8s 

Bertha, 

Henry  Kirk, 

.      86 

My  Johnny,   . 

Richard  R.  Bealey,  . 

.      87 

To  Mary, 

The  Editor, 

89 

"Come,  Love,  and  Sing,"  . 

John  Bolton  Rogerson, 

90 

CONTENTS, 

ix 

AUTHOS. 

rACB 

England's  Maidens, 

Henry  Kirk^ 

■       91 

Deceived! 

Mrs  G,  Linnaus  Banks^ 

92 

Serenade, 

WiUiam  Mart, 

.      93 

CaNZONETI'B— **  I     KNOW 

A 

Star," 

John  Critchley  Prince^ 

.      94 

Mally, 

Richard  R,  Beaiey,   . 

.      95 

Lucy  Neale,  . 

TheEditor^  , 

102 

Love's  History, 

CharUs  Swain^ 

103 

"We Met,"    . 

Henry  Kirk^ 

104 

The  Maid  OF  Diss,   . 

George  Richardson^  . 

105 

"  I  'll  tell  my  Mother," 

John  Bolton  Rogerson, 

,      106 

Th'  Sweetheart  Gate, 

Edwin  Wdugh^ 

108 

The  Loved  and  Lost, 

Henry  Kirk^ 

.      109 

The  Farewkt.t, 

Rev,  Richard  Parkinson^  D.L 

>.,  Ill 

Lovely  Susannah,  . 

Thomas  Nicholson^  . 

112 

Maggie, 

Richard  R,  Bealey,  . 

"3 

SULINA, 

Henry  Ktrk^ 

114 

Better  than  Beauty, 

Charles  Swain^ 

"5 

Nothing  MuRe, 

John  Bolton  Rogerson^ 

.    116 

Nuptial  Lines, 

George  Richardson^  . 

.    118 

The  Faithless, 

Henry  Kirk^ 

.    119 

Chirrup, 

Edwin  fVaugh, 

120 

"I  Gazed  o*er  the  Blue 

Still  Waters," 

James  HorUm  Groves^ 

122 

Minona, 

Henry  Kirky 

'     "3 

"But  I  AM  Sad,"      . 

Richard  R.  Bealey,  . 

.     124 

To  Miss  M.  B., 

Henry  Etrk, 

.     125 

Poets'  Fictions, 

The  Editor,  . 

.     127 

"  Oh,  Mirk  and  Stormy,' 

1 

James  Horton  Groves, 

.     128 

"In  a  Snug  Little  Nook," 

Thomas  Brier  ley. 

.    130 

The  Ardfnt  Lover, 

• 

Edward  Rushton, 

.    131 

The  Lancashire  Witch, 

• 

John  Scholes, 

.     133 

"TheDule's  Tthis  Bonnet 

\ 

o'Mine,"    . 

■ 

Edwin  fVaugh, 

.    135 

Th'  Heart  Bsokkkn,           .     Jain  ffigson,  .  .     136 

The  Love-Draught,             .    Rottrf  Rectlif,         .  .     138 

The  Dohihib's  Codktshif,  .  .    138 


Ill.-SONGS  OF  HOME  AHD  ITS  AFFECTIONS. 

Inteoduction,  and  Links  by  Jain  CriaJUty  Prince, 

It  is  but  a  Cottage,  .  Ckarlts  Saain, 

The  Pleasures  o'  Wkoam,  Jastfh  RamsboUem,  . 

"FabewbLLTOMVCotiagb,"  Samud Bamjord, 

Houe,  .  .  Charlet  Swain, 

Early  Haunts  Visited,      .  S.  IV.  PrBcter, 

The  Music  in  ook  Houe,    .  Mn  Wm.  Hoiseit,  . 

The  Old  Place,        .  .  Henry  Kirk, 

The  Sonos  of  our  Fathers,  Mrt  Uemans, 

Domestic  Melody,   .  ,  Jahn  Criuiiey  Princi, 

Home  and  Friends,  .  Charla  Swain, 

**"■■'  .  .  Mti  G,  Ltatiaia Bankt, 

lALLAD,      .  R.  W.  Procter, 
TixywERS 

.  5r»*«  CrikAUy  Prince, 

ViPB,        .  fVmiamMbri, 

.  Mn  Tragard  WhUekead, 

,"  Edmin  WaiigA, 

[ousEHOLD,  Join  Critckley  Prince, 
EET,"  Geor^  Richardiim,   . 

yBkidI"     SamudLayeect, 
H,  William  Marl, 

.     John  Critihley  Prinei, 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


Loved  and  Lost, 

AUTHOK. 

Mrs  Trajfbrd  Whitehead,    , 

PACE 

Eawr  Bessy,  . 

Richard  R.  Bealey,  . 

.       177 

The  Child  and  the  Dew- 

drops, 

John  Critchley  Prince^ 

.       182 

Edith, 

Richard  R.  Bealey^  . 

.       184 

"MoiOwdMon,"    . 

Author  of  "  Scarsdale, " 

.       185 

To  Little  Angel  **  Charlie,' 

'  Richard  R,  Rea/ey,  . 

.       186 

The  last  Behest,     . 

William  Mort, 

.       188 

Mi  Gronfeyther,     . 

Samuel  Laycoch, 

.       190 

The  Christmas  Tree, 

The  Editor,  . 

,       192 

"  God  Bless  these  poor  Wim- 

men  that's  Cnn.DMi  !**  . 

Thomas  Brierley, 

194 

The  Kiss  beneath  the  Holly,  Mrs  William  Hobson^ 

195 

"Aw  coNNUT  Dry  my  Heen, 

Robin,"       . 

John  Scholes, 

.       196 

Eawr  Folk,  . 

Edivin  Waugh, 

200 

Lines  to  my  Wife,    . 

Samuel  Bamford, 

203 

Angfj.  Annie, 

Mrs  William  Hobson, 

206 

My  Ideal  Home, 

208 

■  '             •            • 

IV.-SONGS  OF  LIFE  AND  BROTHERHOOD. 


Introduction, 

The  Songs  of  the  People, 

Festive  Strains, 

•*  Why,  prithee  now," 

ulr£,  °    •  •  •  • 

The  Child,    . 

"There's  No  Chap  should 

EVER  Lose  Pluck," 
The  Hermit, 


John  Critchlfy  Prince, 
George  Richardson,  . 
John  Byrom,  M,A.,  F.R.S., 
Charles  Swain, 
John  Briggs, 


211 
212 
213 
213 
214 
215 


Richard  R.  Realty,  ,  .     217 

John  Byrom,  M.A.,  F.RS.,    218 


xii                                 CONTENTS. 

AUTHOK. 

PAGE 

The  Garland  of  I^ifb, 

John  Bolton  Rogersotiy 

219 

The     Toper's     Plea    for 

Drinking,  . 

Rev.  Thomas  Wilson^ 

221 

"  He  AW  QUAREIS  THIS  LOIFE ! 

"  Thomas  Brierley^     . 

222 

Human  Brotherhood, 

John  Critchley  Prince^ 

224 

The  Good  Spirit,     . 

Mrs  G.  Lintueus  Banks^ 

225 

The  Sun  and  the  Flowers, 

James  IVaison, 

226 

Song  of  the  Exile, 

Rev.  Richard  Parkinson^  D.D. 

,   227 

The  Bride,    . 

WUliam  Mort, 

229 

Avarice, 

Rev.  Thomas  Wilson,  B.D., 

231 

Think  not  of  Failure, 

Mrs  WiUiam  Hobson, 

232 

A  Welcome,  . 

James  Damson^  jun.^ 

233 

Do  A  Good  Turn  when  you 

C'AN,               •              ■              ■ 

Charles  Swain, 

235 

Love,  Honour,  and  Death, 

Henry  Kirk, 

235 

Lines  Written  in  a  Boat, 

Rev.  Richard  Parkinson,  D.D. 

,236 

Hope  and  Perseverance,   . 

John  Critchley  Prince, 

238 

The  Weaver  of  Wellbrook, 

Benjamin  BrierUy,  . 

239 

The  Lesson  of  the  Leaves, 

Mrs  G.  Linncnis  Banks, 

240 

•*  My  Piece  is  o  bu*  Woven 

Eawt," 

Richard  R.  Bealey, . 

241 

Our  Daily  Paths,    . 

Mrs  Hemans, 

243 

Help  One  Another, 

Thomas  BrierUy,    • 

246 

Songs  of  the  People— 

The  Gathering,    . 

WiUiam  Mort, 

248 

Bowton's  Yard, 

Samuel  Laycock,      • 

251 

Welcome  Whitsuntide,.     . 

Mrs  William  Hobson, 

254 

Lowly  Worth, 

The  Editor, 

256 

Stanzas  Written  to  Music,   Rev. Richard Parkinson,D.D.,  257 
The  Song  OF  Other  Days,      Robert  Rockliff,        .  .    258 

To  Falsehood,  .    John  Briggs,  .  .    259 

Good  Neet,    .  .  James  Dawson,  fun,,  .     261 

The  Friends  of  *•  Auld  Lang 

Syne,"  .  .  .     Mrs  William  Hobson,  .     26a 


CONTENTS, 

Xlll 

AUTHOR. 

PAGB 

F AME^  •              •              •              • 

Thomas  Britrley^     . 

.       263 

"Be  Kind  to  Each  Other  !" 

Charles  Stvain^ 

.       265 

Farewell, 

John  yust,  . 

.       266 

Kindly  Words, 

y^fhn  Critehley  Prince, 

.       268 

The  Song  op  Night, 

Mrs  Hemans, 

269 

Song  for  the  Brave, 

Samuel  Bamfird,    . 

.        271 

Friends  do  not  Die, 

Richard  R.  Beaiey, 

•       272 

"There  are  Moments  in 

Life," 

Charles  Swain, 

.       273 

England's  Dead, 

Mrs  Hemians, 

.    474 

The  Tried  and  the  True,  . 

Mrs  G,  Linnaus  Banks, 

.    276 

The  Pass  of  Death, 

Samuel  Bamford,     . 

.    277 

Finis,  .... 

Charles  Swain, 

1 

.    280 

V.-LAYS  OF  THE  COTTON  FAMINE. 


Introduction, 

•           •          • 

•     281 

The  Mill-Hands'  Petition, 

From  a  Broadside,  • 

.     282 

The  Factory  Lass,  . 

Joseph  Ramsbotiom, 

.     283 

"Short  Time,  Come  again 

NO  More,"  . 

From  a  Broadside,    . 

.    285 

Eawt  0'  Wark, 

Joseph  Ramsbotiom, 

.     285 

The  SMOKET.F.SS  Chimney,   . 

Mrs  Bellasis, 

.     289 

"Cheer  up  a  bit  longer," 

Samuel  Laycock, 

.     292 

Philip  Clough's  Tai.f, 

Joseph  Ramsbotiom, 

.     293 

Tickle  Times, 

Edwin  IVttugh, 

.    295 

FRETriN*, 

Joseph  Ramsbotiom, 

.     297 

Th'  Shurat  Weaver's  Song, 

Samuel  Laycock, 

.     298 

Coin'  t*  Schoo*. 

Joseph  Ramsbotiom, 

.     300 

Sewin'-class  Song,  . 

Samuel  Laycock, 

.     302 

XIV 


CONTENTS. 


AUTHOR. 

Hard     Times  ;     or,    The 

Weyvur  to  his  Wife,      .    James  Bowker^ 
"God  bless  'em,  it  shows 

THEY  'n  some  Thowt  ! "    .    Samuel  Laycock^ 


PAGB 


VI.-SEA  SOHGS. 


Introduction, 
Will  Clewline, 
The  Farewell, 
Absence, 

The  Neglected  Tar 
The  Lass  of  Liverpool, 
"When  the  Broad  Arch 
OF  Heaven," 


Edward  Ruskton^ 


309 

309 
312 

314 
315 
317 

319 


MODERN  SONGS  AND  BALLADS 
OF  LANCASHIRE. 


I. 
IKomantit  anb  lleg:en&ar?  Balla&0. 

As  we  approach  the  present  time,  we  find  this  class 
of  baUads  becoming  more  rare.  The  present  age  is 
so  literal,  practical,  and  matter-of-fact,  and  withal  has 
brought  with  it  so  many  material  cares  and  struggles 
for  the  people  of  Lancashire,  that  it  cannot  be  matter 
for  surprise  that  old  legendary  marvels  and  ballads  of 
the  imagination  and  the  fancy  have  become  ''few  and 
far  between.'^  The  flame  is,  however,  still  kept  alive 
by  the  poet;  and  the  few  examples  we  are  able  to  give 
are  almost  all  derived  from  some  of  those  who  have 
added  lustre  to  the  literary  annals  of  Lancashire. 


2  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

THE  LAST  WOLF: 

A  LEGEND  OF  HUMPHREY  HEAD.* 

By  "Tristram." 

(Abridged from  the  ^* Lonsdale  Magazine^^  Feb,  1821.) 

At  a  remote  period,  a  bold  and  intrepid  knight, 
named  Harrington,  fixed  his  residence  at  Wraysholme 
Tower,  near  Humphrey  Head,  on  the  northern  shore 
of  Morecambe  Bay.  The  remains  of  the  tower,  dark 
and  gloomy,  are  still  visible,  sheltered  by  clumps  of 
old  trees,  with  deep  green  foliage  of  sombre  hue.  The 
knight,  in  erecting  the  tower,  constructed  the  walls  of 
stone,  cemented  with  lime  and  ox-blood,  designing 
them  to  endure  for  ages.  His  strange,  wayward 
fancy  is  manifest  in  the  shape  of  the  present  struc- 
ture, which  is  considerably  wider  at  the  top  than  the 
bottom.  In  his  days  a  few  wolves  still  remained  in 
the  extensive  forest  of  Cartmel,  and  these  he  hunted 
with  a  determination  to  exterminate.  In  one  of  these 
excursions,  Harrington  had  ridden  away  from  his 
companions,  and  had  ascended' the  summit  of  Hum- 
phrey Head,  in  order,  if  possible,  to  regain  a  sight  of 
his  fellow-sportsmen.  While  traversing  the  forest  on 
a  fleet  horse,  he  heard  shrieks,  and  on  reaching  the 
spot  from  whence  they  proceeded,  he  beheld  a  young 
and  lovely  female,  crouching  in  a  cleft  of  the  rock, 
while  an  enormous  wolf  was  endeavouring  to  reach 
her;  barking  loudly,  and  with  fierce,  flashing  eyes. 
The  knight  succeeded  in  transfixing  the  ferocious 

*  The  great  length  of  this  interesting  ballad  (seventy-five  verses)  pre. 
eludes  our  giving  it  entire ;  but  we  have  preserved  the  more  salient  fea- 
tures of  the  story. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  3 

animal  with  his  hunting-spear;  and  then,  dismount- 
ing, he  assisted  to  release  the  lady  from  her  rough 
and  precarious  asylum.  The  result  may  be  antici- 
pated. Gratitude  was  quickly  succeeded  by  love ; 
for  the  knight  was  young,  handsome,  brave,  graceful, 
eloquent,  and  kind.  The  neighbouring  chapel  soon 
received  their  exchanged  vows.  They  lived  long  and 
happily,  and  a  numerous  progeny  crowned  their 
union.  This  wolf,  says  the  tradition,  was  the  last 
ever  seen  in  England ;  on  which  account  tht  knight 
assumed  it  as  his  crest  The  happy  pair,  when  they 
passed  away,  were  laid  together  in  a  niche  in  Cartmel 
church.  Their  effigies  were  cut  in  stone,  with  a  figure 
of  the  wolf  at  their  feet  A  few  Runic  knots,  to  mark 
the  descent  of  the  knight,  were  carved  on  the  walls ; 
but,  without  a  word  of  inscription,  their  monument 
remains  to  perplex  the  modem  antiquary.  The  ballad 
varies  considerably  from  the  tradition. 

The  sun  hath  set  qu  Wraysholme*s  Tower, 
And  o'er  broad  Morecatnbe's  Bay, — 

The  moon  from  out  her  eastern  bower 
Pursues  the  path  of  day. 

Within  those  walls  may  now  be  seen 

The  festive  board  displayed ; 
And  round  it  many  a  knight,  I  ween, 

And  many  a  comely  maid. 

For  know,  that  on  the  morrow's  dawn, 

With  all  who  list  to  ride, 
Sir  Edgar  Harrington  hath  sworn 

To  hunt  the  country  side. 


MODERN  SONGS  AND 

A  Wolf, — the  last,  as  rumour  saith, 
In  £ngland*s  spacious  realm,  - 

Is  doom'd  that  day  to  meet  its  death. 
And  grace  the  conqueror's  helm. 

And  he  hath  sworn  an  oath,  beside, 
Whoe'er  that  wolf  shall  quell, 

ShaU  have  his  fair  niece  for  a  bride, 
With  half  his  lands  as  well 


But  two  there  are  who  little  feel 
The  mirth  abounding  there. 

Yon  red-cross  knight.  Sir  John  Delisle, 
And  Adela  the  fair. 

An  orphan  maid  was  Adela, 
Sir  Edgar's  cherish'd  ward, 

For  beauty  famous  wide  and  far. 
And  bounteous  deeds  adored. 


Though  oft  by  neighb'ring  swains  besought. 

She  ne'er  had  wooed  but  one, 
Now  dead  in  foreign  lands,  'twas  thought. 

Whose  name  was  Harrington. 

'Tis  whisper'd  that  in  happier  times 

They  plighted  mutual  troth, 
And  then  the  youth  sought  other  climes. 

Beneath  his  father^s  wrath. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

But  as  he  scans  yon  stranger  knight, 

You  hear  old  Hubert  vow, 
That  love-lorn  wanderer  meets  his  sight, 

Whate'er  his  name  be  now. 

•  •  ■  •  •  • 

Beyond  him,  by  Sir  Edgax's  side, 

Sits  Laybume  at  the  board, 
Gose  suitor  for  the  bonny  bride, 

But  from  her  soul  abhorr'd. 


With  mom  comes  the  great  chase-^ 

Full  threescore  riders  mount  with  speed ; 

Lo !  Laybume  there  bestrides 
A  stalwart  steed  of  Flemish  breed. 

That  well  his  weight  abides. 

Whilst  mounted  on  an  Arab  white, 

Of  figure  lithe  and  free. 

Rides  young  Delisle,  the  stranger  kiiight, 

So  wrapt  in  mystery. 
•  ••••• 

[The  wolf,  scared  from  his  covert  on  Humphrey 
Head,  leads  the  hunters  a  long  and  weary  chase,  even 
reaching  and  swimming  over  a  part  of  Windermere ; 
and  then,  being  headed,  makes  for  his  lair  on  Hum- 
phrey Head,  which  he  reaches  at  even-tide.] 

Of  aU  that  goodly  companie. 

Rode  forth  at  break  of  day, 
But  two  bold  riders  now  are  nigh, 

Delisle  and  Laybume  they. 


MODERN  SONGS  AND 

And  left  of  all  the  gallant  pack 

That  swelled  their  lusty  cheer, 
Two  tireless  bloodhounds  keep  the  track, 

As  evening's  shades  appear. 

But  these,  unspent  in  limb  and  wind, 

Now  press  the  quarry  home  ; 
It  hears  their  hollow  pants  behind, 

And  feels  its  hour  is  come. 

Thus  slow  they  strain  o'er  Humphrey's  height. 

When,  lo !  a  chasm  appears, 
That  dips  in  darkness  from  the  sight, 

And  fills  the  heart  with  fears. 

First  Laybume  nears  the  giddy  brink, 

With  spur  and  slacken'd  rein, 
And  then  his  steed  is  seen  to  shrink, 

Nor  face  the  chasm  again. 

Now,  bold  Ddisle !  ah,  well  I  wot, 

Though  manfully  thou  strive. 
No  rider  may  explore  that  grot 

And  leave  its  shades  alive ! 

Vain  care  I  he  crests  its  craggy  brow 

And,  spurring  down  amain. 
Cries,  "  Adela,  I  *ll  win  thee  now. 

Or  ne'er  wend  forth  again." 

A  while  from  side  to  side  it  leapt. 

That  steed  of  mettle  true ; 
Then,  swiftly  to  destruction  swept, 

Like  flashing  lightning  flew. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

The  shingles  in  its  headlong  course 

With  rattling  din  give  way ; 
The  hazels  snap  beneath  its  force. 

The  mountain  savins  sway. 

•  ••••• 

Meantime,  upon  her  palfrey  light 

The  ladye  waits  beneath ; 
When  lo !  the  wild  wolf  bursts  in  sight, 

And  bares  its  glistening  teeth. 

Her  eyes  are  closed  in  mortal  dread, 

And  ere  a  look  they  steal, 
The  wolf  and  Arab  both  lie  dead, 

And  scatheless  stands  Delisle. 

Full  promptly  from  the  slaughtered  prey 
He  plucks  his  reeking  spear, 

And  cries, ''  O  beauteous  Adela ! 
Behold  thy  true  love  here ! 

^  Rememberest  thou  thy  early  vow. 
Thou  ne'er  wouldst  wed  but  one  ? 

He  comes,  I  trow,  to  claim  it  now. 
Thine  own  John  Harrington. 

**  Though  many  a  day  hath  pass'd  away 
Since  those  ^bright  times  we  knew. 

This  heart,  though  not  so  light  and  gay, 
Is  still  as  warm  and  true. 

^  Oh  lovely  star  of  auld  lang  syne ! 

That  long  hast  ruled  its  core, 
This  day  at  last  hath  made  thee  mine. 

To  part,  I  ween,  no  more." 


8  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

"  Now,  by  my  troth,"  Sir  Edgar  cried, 
"  Right  welcome  back,  my  son  ; 

Full  surely  shalt  thou  wed  the  bride 
Thou  hast  5o  bravely  won." 

Even  as  the  sire  his  son  embraced, 

(By  chance  it  so  befeU,) 
The  Prior  of  St  Mary's  passed 

To  drink  the  Holy  WelL 

Sir  Edgar  straight  the  priest  besought 

To  tarry  for  a  while ; 
Who,  when  the  lady's  eye  he  caught, 

Assented  with  a  smile. 

•  ••••• 

The  monk  he  had  a  mellow  heart, 
And,  scrambling  to  the  spot, 

Full  blithely  there  he  pla/d  his  part, 
And  tied  the  nuptial  knot 

And  hence  that  cave  on  Humphrey  Hill, 
Where  these  fair  deeds  befell. 

Is  caird  Sir  Edgar's  Chapel  still. 
As  hunters  wot  full  well. 

And  still  that  holy  fount  is  there 

To  which  the  prior  came ; 
And  still  it  boasts  its  virtues  rare, 

And  bears  its  ancient  name. 

And  long  on  Wraysholme's  lattice  light 
A  wolfs  head  might  be  traced, 

In  record  of  the  red-cross  knight 
Who  bore  it  for  a  crest. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

In  Cartmers  church  his  grave  is  shown, 

And  o'er  it,  side  by  side. 
All  graved  in  stone,  lie  brave  Sir  John, 

And  Adela  his  bride. 


THE   EVE   OF   ST  JOHN: 

A   LEGENDARY   BALLAD. 

By  Charles  Swain. 

She  waiteth  by  the  forest  stream. 

She  sitteth  on  the  ground ; 
While  the  moonlight,  like  a  mantle. 

Wraps  her  tenderly  around ! 
She  sitteth  through  the  cold,  cold  night. 

But  not  a  step  draws  near ; 
Though  his  name  is  on  her  trembling  lips, 

His  voice  meets  not  her  ear ! 

Hist  I  was 't  the  haunted  stream  that  spoke  ? 

What  droning  sound  swept  there  ? 
She  listens ! — StiU  no  human  tone 

0*erhears  she  anywhere  I 
Oh  I  was 't  the  forest  bough  that  took 

That  sad  and  spectral  mien  ? 
She  looketh  round  distractedly. 

But  there  is  nothing  seen ! 

Dark,  in  the  quiet  moonlight. 

Her  shadowy  form  is  thrown ; 
With  a  strange  and  lonely  mournfulness, 

//  seetns  not  like  her  own  / 


lo  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

She  glanceth  o*er  her  shoulder  fair, 
The  moon  is  gleaming  wide ; 

She  tumeth — Jesu  !  what  is  there 
Pale  sitting*by  her  side  ? 


She  pauseth  for  a  single  breath — 

She  hearkens  for  a  tone  ; 
And  terror  pains  her  chilling  veins, 

For  breath  or  sound  is  none  ! 
The  silence — oh  I  it  racks  her  brain, 

It  binds  it  like  a  cord  ; 
She  'd  given  worlds,  though  but  to  hear 

The  chirping  of  a  bird. 

The  shadow  rose  before  her, 

It  stood  upon  the  stream : 
''  O  blessed  shadow,  ease  my  soul, 

And  tell  me  'tis  a  (Iream  ! 
Thou  tak'st  the  form  of  one  they  vow'd 

Mine  eyes  should  see  no  more !" 
The  shadow  stood  across  the  stream, 

And  beckon'd  pale  before. 

The  shadow  beckon*d  on  before. 

Yet  deign'd  her  no  reply  ; 
The  lady  rose,  and  straight  the  stream 

To  its  pebbly  breast  was  dry. 
It  passed  the  wood,  it  cross'd  the  court, 

The  gate  flew  from  its  chain ; 
The  gentle  ladye  knew  she  stood 

Within  her  own  domain  ! 


I 

I 

f 

J 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  1 1 

And  still  the  awful  shadow  glid, 

Without  or  breath  or  tone, 
Until  it  came  to  a  sullen  sluice, 

'Mid  yellow  sand  and  stone ; 
But  rock  and  sand  disdain'd  to  stand, 

The  water  scom'd  to  flow ; 
Thus  blood  was  seen  down  the  rift  between. 

And  the  dead  reveal'd  below. 

The  dead  was  seen,  in  the  space  between, 

And  the  ladye  knew  it  well ! 
She  kiss'd  its  cheek,  with  a  piercing  shriek, 

With  a  woe  no  tongue  may  telL 
The  gory  shadow  beckon*d  on, 

And  still  her  steps  implored  ; 
But  she  follow'd  not,  for  on  that  spot 

She  found  a  shiver'd  sword. 

She  grasp*d  the  hilt,  its  silken  thread 

Her  own  fair  skill  had  wove ; 
A  brother's  hand  had  struck  the  dead — 

His  sword  had  slain  her  love ! 
She  took  the  corpse  upon  her  knees, 

Its  cheek  lay  next  her  own  ; 
Like  sculpture  fair,  in  the  moonlight  there, 

Like  misery  turned  to  stone ! 


No  food  to  seek  for  the  ravens'  beak. 
The  gibbet  serves  them  true. 

With  young  and  sweet  and  dainty  meat. 
As  e'er  the  ravens  knew ; 


1 2  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

And  few  they  see  near  the  gibbet  tree, 

For  a  bleeding  form  glides  on^ 
From  the  haunted  stream,  in  the  moon^s  cold  beam 

On  the  eve  of  good  Saint  John  1 


THE  WILD  RIDER. 
(a  legendary  talk.) 

By  Samuel  Bamford. 

part  first. 

Now  unto  fair  Alkrington  tidings  there  came, 

And  the  gallant  young  knight  he  soon  heard  of  the 

same, 
That  a  gentle  young  damsel  had  passed  that  morn, 
And  was  gone  up  a  hunting  with  hound  and  with  horn ; 
^' And  oh  !''  said  Sir  Ashton,  "  if  that  be  the  case, 
Methinks  I  would  fain  join  the  maid  in  the  chase, 
And  so  bid  my  groom-boy,  withouten  delay, 
Bring  forth  my  white  hunter,  I  '11  ride  her  to-day." 

And  soon  his  white  hunter  was  led  to  the  gate. 
Where,  neighing  and  pacing,  she  scarcely  would  wait ; 
She  champ'd  the  steel  bit,  and  she  flung  her  head  high. 
As  if  she  would  fain  snuff  the  air  of  the  sky. 
And  wist  not  to  breathe  the  low  wind  of  the  plain. 
Which  spread  like  a  white  cloud  hqjr  tail  and  her  mane ; 
"  And  oh ! ''  thought  the  knight,  as  he  view'd  her  with 

pride, 
"^  The  game  should  be  love  when  my  Arab  I  ride." 


I 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  13 

The  knight  he  rode  south,  over  Blakeley*s  high  land, 
But  tidings  he  heard  not  of  maid  or  her  band ; 
The  knight  he  rode  east,  towards  the  uprising  sun, 
But  the  broad  heaths  of  Moston  lay  silent  and  dun  ; 
And  then  he  sped  north,  but  she  did  not  appear ; 
The  cry  of  the  hunter  came  not  to  his  ear. 
Till  o'er  lonely  Syddall  awoke  a  far  strain. 
And  he  rode  till  he  join'd  the  fair  maid  and  her  train. 

And  who  was  the  maiden  that,  plumM  so  gay, 
Went  forth  with  the  hounds  and  good  hunters  that  day  ? 
And  why  did  the  damsel  make  slight  of  all  heed, 
Or  whither  she  went  with  her  hound  and  her  steed  ? 
And  why  reck'd  she  little  of  all  that  gay  band. 
But  still  cast  her  long-looking  gaze  o'er  the  land ; 
And  smiled  not,  though  often  she  turned  and  sigh'd, 
Till  a  snowy-white  courser  afar  she  espied  1 

Sweet  Mary,  twin  rose  of  the  AsshMon  line. 
Was  she  who  came  forth  like  a  Dian  divine ; 
And  often  the  knight  and  the  damsel,  of  late, 
Had  met  at  the  hunting,  through  love  or  through  fate ; 
And  now  she  bade  welcome  with  maidenly  pride — 
The  knight  waved  his  hand  and  rode  on  by  her  side ; 
But  ere  the  old  woodlands  of  Bowlee  were  cross'd, 
Both  knight  and  fair  maid  to  the  hunters  were  lost 


For  there,  while  thoMihase  hurries  on  like  the  wind, 
The  twain  of  young  lovers  have  tarried  behind  ; 
And  leaving  their  steeds,  the  deep  woodlands  they  pace. 
His  arm  round  the  maid,  and  his  looks  on  her  face ; 


14  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

He  whispers  sweet  words  from  his  heart's  inmost  core, 
He  would  love  her  through  life  and  through  death,— 

could  he  more  ? 
And  fondly,  in  tears,  she  emplighteth  her  vow, 
'<  In  life  and  in  death  Til  be  faithful  as  thou  ! " 


PART  SECOND. 

Now  unto  fair  Alkrington  tidings  there  came, 
And  soon  was  the  knight  made  aware  of  the  same. 
That  Mary,  his  loved  one,  was  held  in  deep  thrall, 
Cose  bolted  and  barr'd,  down  at  Middleton  Hall ; 
And  that  her  old  father  had  sworn  by  his  life. 
His  daughter  should  ne*er  to  Sir  Ashton  be  wife  ; 
And  that  one  Sir  Morden,*  a  knight  from  South-land, 
Had  come  down  to  claim  Lady  Mary's  fair  hand. 

Oh !  woe  unto  true  love,  when  kindred  severe 
Would  stifle  affection  and  chill  its  warm  tear  1 
And  woe  unto  true  love,  when  trials  come  fast, 
And  friendship  is  found  but  a  shadow  at  last ! 
And  woe  to  the  heart  that  is  reft  of  its  own. 
And  bidden  to  languish  in  sorrow  alone ! 
But  woe  beyond  weeping  is  that  when  we  prove 
That  one  we  love  dearly  hath  ceased  to  love ! 

Thus  mournful  the  fate  of  the  maid  did  appear ; 
Her  sire,  though  he  loved  her,  was  stem  and  austere, 
And  friends  who  came  round  her  when  bright  was  her 

day,  • 

Were  silent,  or  doubtful,  or  kept  quite  away. 

*  This  is  a  misnomer,  as  the  monument  of  the  last  of  the  Asshetons  in 
Middleton  church  testifies.    The  name  should  be  Harbord. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  15 

But  Hope,  like  an  angel,  bright  visions  still  drew, 
And  pictured  her  knight  ever  constant  and  true, 
Till  one  came  and  told  her  he  'd  ta'en  him  a  bride ; — 
Her  young  heart  then  wither'd,  her  tears  were  all  dried. 

How  sweet  is  the  music  of  wedding-day  bells, 
On  sunny  bright  uplands,  and  down  the  green  dells ; 
All  gaily  melodious  it  comes  in  the  air, 
As  if  undying  pleasure  were  carolling  there  ; 
Like  golden-wing'd  seraphs  all  broken  astray. 
And  playing  on  cymbals  for  bright  holiday  1 
E'en  such  was  the  music  one  gay  morning  timo^ 
Which  the  bells  of  St  Leonards  did  merrily  chime. 

And  why  rang  St  Leonards  that  merry-mad  tune  ? 
And  why  was  the  church  path  with  flowers  bestrewn  ? 
And  who  was  that  marble-pale  beauty  that  moved 
As  nothing  she  hoped  for,  and  nothing  she  loved — 
Who  gave  her  white  hand,  but  'twas  clammy  and  cold  ? 
Who  sigh'd  when  she  look'd  on  her  ring  of  bright  gold? 
O  Mary !  lost  Mary !  where  now  is  thy  vow, 
*^  In  life  and  in  death  I  '11  be  faithful  as  thou  ?" 


PART  THIRD. 

In  a  ruinous  cottage,  at  Cambeshire  bam, 

An  old  withered  crone  sat  unravelling  yam ; 

A  few  heapM  embers  lay  dusty  and  white ; 

A  lamp,  gpreen  and  fetid,  cast  ominous  light ; 

A  cat  strangely  bark'd,  as  it  hutch'd  by  the  hob ; 

A  broody  hen  crow'd  from  her  perch  on  a  cob ; 

The  lamp  it  bum*d  pale,  and  the  lamp  it  bum'd  blue. 

And  fearfully  ghast  was  the  light  which  it  threw. 


i6  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

*^  And  who  cometh  here  ?**  said  the  mumbling  old  crone, 
^  And  why  comes  a  gentleman  riding  alone  ? 
And  why  doth  he  wander  areawt*  such  a  night, 
When  the  moon  is  gone  down  and  the  stars  not  alight ; 
When  those  are  abroad  would  stab  a  lost  child, 
And  the  wind  comes  up  muttering,  fearful  and  wild. 
And  the  hen  *gins  to  crow,  and  the  dog  'gins  to  mew, 
And  my  grave-fatted  lamp  glimmers  dimly  and  blue  ? 

''When  the  dog  'gins  to  mew,  and  the  cat  'gins  to  bark. 
And  yon  musty  old  skull  snaps  its  teeth  in  the  dark. 
And  the  toad  and  the  urchin  crawl  in  from  the  moor, 
And  the  frightful  black  adder  creeps  under  the  door, 
And  the  hapless  self-murder'd,  that  died  in  her  sin, 
Comes  haunting  the  house  with  her  dolorous  din. 
And  stands  in  the  nook  like  an  image  of  clay. 
With  the  sad  look  she  wpre  when  her  life  pass'd  away.'' 

A  knocking  was  heard  at  the  old  hovel  door. 

And  forth  stepped  a  dark  muffled  man  on  the  floor ; 

He  threw  back  his  mantle  of  many  a  fold, 

And  he  cross'd  the  wan  palm  of  the  sibyl  with  gold. 

^  Now  Sir  Knight  of  Alkrington,  what  wouldst  thou 

know. 
That,  seeking  my  home,  thou  entreatest  me  so  ? 
The  world-sweeping  mower  thy  heart-wound  must  cure. 
But  she  who  lies  mourning  hath  more  to  endure  1 

*^  But  warning  I  give  thee,  a  sign  from  afar — 
There's  a  cloud  on  thy  sun,  there's  a  spot  on  thy  star. 
Go,  climb  the  wild  mountain,  or  toil  on  the  plain, 
Or  be  outcast  on  land,  or  be  wreck'd  on  the  main ; 

^  Areawt— out  of  doors— abroad. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  17 

Or  seek  the  red  battle,  and  dare  the  death-wound, 
Or  mine  after  treasure  a  mile  under  ground  ; 
For,  sleeping  or  waking,  on  ocean  or  strand, 
Thy  life  is  prolong'd,  if  thou  hold  thine  own  hand.*' 

What  further  was  said  'twixt  the  knight  and  the  crone. 
Was  never  repeated,  and  never  was  known  ; 
But  when  he  came  back,  to  remount  him  again. 
One,  fearful  and  dark,  held  his  stirrup  and  rein — 
His  horse,  terror-shaking,  stood  cover'd  with  foam  ; 
It  ran  with  him  miles  ere  he  tum*d  it  towards  home ; 
The  gray  morning  broke,  and  the  battle-cock  crew. 
Ere  the  lorn-hearted  Icnight  to  his  chamber  withdrew. 

PART  FOURTH. 

And  who  hath  not  heard  how  the  knight,  from  that  day 
Was  altered  in  look,  and  unwont  in  his  way  ; 
And  how  he  sought  wonders  of  every  form. 
And  things  of  all  lands,  from  a  gem  to  a  worm ; 
And  how  he  divided  his  father's  domain, 
And  sold  many  parts,  to  the  purchasers'  gain  ; 
And  how  his  poor  neighbours  with  pity  were  sad. 
And  said.  Good  Sir  Ashton,  through  love,  was  gone 
mad? 

But  strangest  of  all,  on  that  woe-wedding  night, 
A  black  horse  was  stabled  where  erst  stood  the  white ; 
The  grooms,  when  they  fed  him,  in  terror  quick  fled. 
His  breath  was  hot  smoke,  and  his  eyes  burning  red ; 
He  beat  down  a  strong  wall  of  mortar  and  crag ; 
He  tore  his  oak  stall,  as  a  dog  would  a  rag, 
And  no  one  durst  put  forth  a  hand  near  that  steed. 
Till  a  priest  had  read  ave,  and  pater,  and  creed. 

B 


1 8  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

And  then  he  came  forth,  the  strange,  beautiful  thing, 
With  speed  that  could  lead  a  wild  eagle  on  wing ; 
And  raven  had  never  spread  plume  on  the  air, 
Whose  lustreful  darkness  with  his  might  compare. 
He  bore  the  young  Ash  ton — none  else  could  him  ride — 
O'er  flood  and  o'er  fell,  and  o'er  quarry-pit  wide ; 
The  housewife  she  bless'd  her,  and  held  fast  her  child, 
And  the  men  swore  both  horse  and  his  rider  were  wild. 

And  then,  when  the  knight  to  the  hunting-field  came, 
He  rode  as  he  sought  rather  death  than  his  game ; 
He  hallooed  through  woods  where  he'd  wandei'd  of  yore, 
But  the  lost  Lady  Mary  he  never  saw  more ! 
And  no  one  durst  ride  in  the  track  where  he  led, 
So  fearful  his  leaps,  and  so  madly  he  sped ; 
And  in  his  wild  frenzy  he  gallop'd  one  day 
Down  the  church-steps  at  Rochdale  and  up  the  same 
way. 


This  story  (says  Mr  Bamford)  is  mainly  founded  on 
traditionary  reminiscences,  many  of  which  are  current 
amongst  the  old  people  of  the  district  Sir  Assheton 
Lever,  of  Alkrington,  is  still  represented  in  these  old 
stories  as  the  accepted  lover  (accepted  by  the  lady)  of 
Miss  Assheton,  eldest  daughter,  and  (with  her  sister 
Eleanor)  co-heiress  of  Sir  Ralphe  Assheton,  who  was 
lord  of  all  the  lands  of  Middleton,  Thomham,  Pils- 
worth,  Unsworth,  Radcliffe,  Great  and  Little  Lever, 
and  Ainsworth.  Sir  Ashton  Lever  was  the  first  knight 
of  his  name,  and  the  last.  He  was  of  a  line  not  as 
anciently  titled  as  the  Asshetons,  and  consequently. 


1 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  19 

as  is  supposed,  his  attentions  were  not  quite  agreeable 
to  the  proud  old  baronet  Some  stories  impute  his 
rejection  to  a  personal  difference  betwixt  the  two 
families.  H  owever  it  was,  the  breaking  off  of  the  match 
has  always  been  considered  by  the  residents  of  the 
district  as  unfortunate  to  both  the  properties  ;  that  of 
Middleton  might  certainly  as  well  have  been  annexed 
to  Hanover  as  to  Gunton.  Sir  Ash  ton  Lever,  in  after 
years,  expended  vast  sums  in  forming  and  establishing 
the  Leverian  Museum.  He  was  an  excellent  bowman, 
and  a  fearless  rider ;  and  tradition  has  handed  down 
stories  of  feats  of  horsemanship  analogous  to  those  re- 
cited in  the  ballad,  accompanied  with  sage  insinua- 
tions that  no  horse  could  have  carried  him  save  one 
of  more  than  earthly  breed  or  human  training.  That 
he  performed  the  daring  feat  of  riding  at  full  gallop 
down  the  long  and  precipitous  flight  of  steps  leading 
from  Rochdale  churchyard  into  Packer  Street,  and  up 
again,  is  still  considered  as  doubtless  as  is  the  exist- 
ence of  the  steps  which  remain  there.  He  latterly 
sold  many  farms  and  plots  of  land,  for  sums  to  be  paid 
yearly  during  his  life ;  and,  soon  after,  died  suddenly 
at  the  BuU's-head  Inn  in  Manchester.  Rumour  said, 
at  the  time,  that  he  died  by  his  own  hand.  The  lady 
was  married  to  Harbord  Harbord,  Esq.,  nephew  and 
heir  of  Sir  William  Morden,  of  Gunton,  Norfolk,  and 
afterwards  the  first  Lord  Suffield,  who  took,  with  her, 
the  estates  of  Middleton  and  Thomham.  After  mar- 
riage,  the  lady  seldom  visited  the  hall  of  her  fatheic, 
and  the  ancient  portion  of  it  was  levelled  with  the 
ground.  It  was  one  of  the  finest  old  relics  of  the  sort 
in  the  county ;  built  of  frame-work  and  plaster ;  with 
pannels,  carvings,  and  massy  black  beams,  strong 


20  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

enough  for  a  mill  floor.  The  yard  was  entered 
through  a  low  wicket,  at  a  ponderous  gate  ;  the  inte- 
rior was  laid  with  small  diamond-shaped  flags ;  a  door 
on  the  left  led  into  a  large  and  lofty  hall,  hung  round 
with  matchlocks,  steel  caps,  swords,  targets,  and  hunt- 
ing-weapons, intermixed  with  trophies  of  the  battle- 
field and  the  chase.  But  all  disappeared  before  the 
spirit  of  vandalism  which  commanded  the  annihilation 
of  that  most  interesting  relic  of  an  ancient  line.  With 
respect  to  the  other  personages  and  accessories  in  the 
story,  it  may  be  mentioned  that  "the  withered  crone" 
was  in  being  in  the  author's  days.  '^Owd  Mai  o' 
Cambeshur"  was  a  name  of  terror  to  the  children, 
and  of  questionable  import  to  their  elders.  The 
''ruinous  cottage"  at  Cambeshire  has  fared  better 
than  the  bride*s  chamber  at  the  lordly  halL  It  has 
been  improved,  and  is  now  inhabited  by  the  family  of 
a  weaver.  The  place  is  at  Cambeshire,  on  the  top  of 
Bowlee,  in  the  township  of  Heaton.  Sometimes  it  is 
called  "  Katty  Green."  "  The  old  woodlands  of  Bow- 
lee "  have  long  since  disappeared  before  the  axe ;  and 
all  the  best  timber  of  the  two  townships  of  Middleton 
and  Thomham  has  shared  the  same  fate :  the  country 
has,  in  fact,  been  pretty  well  swept  out  [Mr  Bamford 
denies  that  the  "black  horse"  in  the  ballad  was  de- 
rived from  the  horse  "  Darkness  "  in  the  poem  of  Fes- 
tus,  of  which  he  knew  nothing  till  January  1843.] 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  21 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  HEART, 
By  John  Bolton  Rogerson. 

The  lights  have  vanish'd  one  by  one, 

Till  every  taper's  blaze  hath  gone  ; 

The  moonbeams  through  each  casement  creep, 

And  all  seems  hush'd  in  death-like  sleep. 

Young  Imma  lists  with  anxious  ear, 
But  not  a  single  sound  can  hear ; 
She  leaves  the  chamber  of  her  rest 
And  couch  of  snowy  white  unpress*d. 

With  silent  footsteps  steals  the  maid, 
And  starteth  oft,  as  though  afraid 
The  beatings  of  her  heart  are  heard, 
That  flutters  like  a  captive  bird. 

With  cautious  step  she  treads  each  stair, 
Her  light  foot  dwells  a  moment  there ; 
Around  a  hurried  glance  is  thrown, 
And  then  again  she  glideth  on. 

Now  she  hath  pass*d  the  winding  stairs, 
And  with  a  quicker  pace  repairs 
Along  the  wide  and  high-roof  d  hall, 
Till  she  hath  gain'd  the  outer  wall 

The  pale  moon  shines  on  dark-green  tree. 
The  low  wind  sighs  its  minstrelsy. 
And,  shaken  from  the  shrub  and  flower. 
The  bright  dew  falls  in  silver  shower. 


22  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

She  hurries  on,  the  lovely  one, 
Around  her  form  a  mantle  thrown  ; 
Whilst  pours  the  sweet-voiced  nightingale 
Upon  her  ear  its  mournful  tale. 

She  passeth,  as  a  star  when  driven 
Along  the  cloudless  face  of  heaven  ; 
Her  fair  hair  floating  in  the  wind  : 
Tree,  shrub,  and  flower  are  left  behind. 

A  bounding  tread  is  heard,  a  rush, 
And  to  her  face  upsprings  the  blush  ; 
To  earth  are  cast  her  fawn-like  eyes, 
Whilst  to  her  arms  a  dear  one  flies. 

Yes  !  they  had  chosen  that  still  hour, 
When  all  was  hush'd  in  hall  and  bower, 
To  meet — no  witness  to  their  love. 
Save  gleaming  moon,  that  smiled  above. 

But  who  is  he  that  meeteth  there 
That  lady,  graceful,  proud,  and  fair  ? 
Why  doth  she  leave  her  fathei's  hall, 
And  steal  beyond  the  outer  wall  ? 

The  youth  is  one  of  low  estate, 
The  maiden's  sire  is  rich  and  great ; 
But  what  cares  love  for  high  degree  ? 
He  laughs  at  wealth  and  ancestry. 

Ever  are  secret  raptures  sweet — 
The  youth  is  at  the  lady's  feet ; 
He  poureth  forth  impassioned  sighs, 
And  readeth  answers  in  her  eyes. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  33 

Oh  !  would  that  you  had  never  met. 
For  watchful  spies  are  round  you  set ; 
The  aged  sire,  in  furious  mood, 
Is  bent  upon  a  deed  of  blood. 

There  comes  a  swift  and  wingM  dart, 
Which  cleaves  its  way  through  beating  heart, 
And  he  who  lately  blest  her  charms 
Lies  dead  within  the  lady's  arms ! 

And  shaU  I  tell  the  maiden's  fate  ? 
She  lived  on  long,  though  desolate ; 
Better  had  she  been  with  the  dead. 
For  reason's  guiding-star  had  fled. 

Though  by  her  kindred  guarded  well. 
When  shades  of  night  around  her  fell. 
She  ever  left  her  father's  hall, 
And  wandei'd  round  the  outer  wall 

It  is  a  legend  of  old  date, 
Which  ancient  gossips  oft  narrate. 
And  some  who  tell  the  mournful  tale. 
Say  they  have  heard  the  lady's  waiL 

They  tell  that  still  her  form  is  seen. 
Gliding  the  moon's  white  rays  between, 
That  she  may  mourn  the  hapless  fate 
Of  him  who  died  through  love  and  hate. 


24  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


THE  CARRION  CROW* 

By  William  Harrison  Ainsworth. 

The  carrion  crow  is  a  sexton  bold, 
He  raketh  the  dead  from  out  of  the  mould  ; 
He  delveth  the  ground  like  a  miser  old, 
Stealthily  hiding  his  store  of  gold. 

Caw!  caw/ 

The  carrion  crow  hath  a  coat  of  black, 
Silky  and  sleek,  like  a  priest's,  to  his  back  ; 
Like  a  lawyer  he  grubbeth — no  matter  what  way — 
The  fouler  the  offal,  the  richer  his  prey. 

Caw  /  caw  /  the  carrion  crow  I 
Dig!  dig!  in  the  ground  below  ! 

The  carrion  crow  hath  a  dainty  maw. 
With  savoury  pickings  he  crammeth  his  craw ; 
Kept  meat  from  the  gibbet  it  pleaseth  his  whim. 
It  never  can  hang  too  long  for  him  ! 

Caw!  caw  I 

The  carrion  crow  smelleth  powder,  'tis  said, 
Like  a  soldier  escheweth  the  taste  of  cold  lead ; 
No  jester  or  mime  hath  more  marvellous  wit. 
For  wherever  he  lighteth  he  maketh  a  hit ! 

Caw  !  caw  !  the  carrion  crow  ! 

Dig  !  dig  !  in  the  ground  below  ! 

*  This  song  has  been  set  to  music  by  Mr  F.  Romer. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  25 


BALLAD. 
By  Charles  Swain. 

Why  leave  you  thus  your  father's  haU, 

And  hie  to  the  gate  so  oft  ? 
'Tis  only  to  watch  the  moonlight  fall 

0*er  the  waves  that  sleep  so  soft 
And  why  do  you  seek  one  small  blue  flower 

Through  every  sylvan  spot  ? 
Oh,  'tis  but  a  gem  for  a  maiden's  bower, 

A  little  "  forget-me-not ! " 

Why  wear  you  that  wreath  so  dim  and  dry, 

With  its  leaves  all  pined  and  dead  ? 
The  maid  look'd  up  with  a  tearful  eye, 

But  never  a  word  she  said. 
And  why  for  every  word  you  speak 

Have  you  twenty  sighs  of  late  ? 
The  maiden  hath  hied,  with  a  blushing  cheek, 

Again  to  the  moonlit  gate. 

Hark !     Is  it  a  sound,  indeed,  that  rings  ? 

A  hoof  o*er  the  wild  road  press'd  ? 
Oh,  is  it  her  own  true  knight  that  springs 

And  folds  her  to  his  breast  ? 
And  is  it  that  wreath  so  dark  and  dry 

That  meets  her  knight's  fond  kiss  ? 
Again  was  a  tear  in  the  maiden's  eye, 

But  oh  !  'twas  a  tear  of  bliss  ! 


26  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


THE  MAIDEN'S  FATE : 

A  LEGEND. 

By  John  Bolton  Rooerson. 

It  was  Sir  Hugh,  the  baron  bold, 

Rode  out  at  break  of  mom, 
With  hound,  as  though  to  chase  the  deer, 

And  glittering  bugle  horn. 

He  rode  o'er  hill,  he  rode  o'er  dale, 

He  rode  o'er  barren  moor. 
And  sprung  o'er  crags  where  horse  and  hound 

Had  never  been  before. 

The  mom  was  fair,  the  sun  shone  forth, 

The  rivers  flashed  like  gold. 
And  all  was  gay  that  met  the  eye 

Of  the  joyful  baron  bold. 

Oh,  it  was  not  so  much  to  chase  the  deer 

Or  to  bmsh  the  dew  away. 
That  the  baron  had  left  his  downy  couch, 

And  mounted  his  courser  gray. 

The  baron  he  loved  a  maiden  bright, 

Yet  she  was  of  lowly  race, 
And  he  rode  to  meet  her  at  break  of  day. 

As  though  he  had  follow'd  the  chase. 

The  baron  he  spurr'd  his  goodly  steed. 
And  rode  with  might  and  main  ; 

And  when  he  had  ridden  a  mile  or  two, 
A  deer  sprang  o'er  the  plain. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  37 

Then  drew  the  baron  his  fatal  bow, 

Swift  flew  the  feathery  dart  \ 
The  arrow  it  miss'd  the  bounding  deer, 

But  it  pierced  his  true  love*s  heart  I 

The  baron  leap'd  from  his  foaming  horse, 

And  clasp*d  unto  his  breast 
The  dying  form  of  the  lovely  maid. 

And  her  cold,  cold  lips  he  press'd. 

"  And  must  thou  die,  mine  own  true  love  ? 

And  art  thou  slaiti  by  me  ? 
Thou  wert  my  life,  my  hope,  my  all, 

And  I  have  murdei^d  thee !" 

The  baron  retum'd  unto  his  haU 

A  changed  and  sorrowing  man ; 
And  never  from  that  hour  a  smile 

Passed  o'er  his  features  wan. 


THE  MANDRAKE* 

By  William  Harrison  Ainsworth. 

The  mandrake  grows  'neath  the  gallows  tree, 
And  rank  and  green  are  its  leaves  to  see ; 

*  The  supposed  malignant  influence  of  the  mandrake  is  frequently  al- 
luded to  by  our  elder  dramatists  ;  and  with  one  of  the  greatest  of  them, 
Webster,  (as  might  be  expected  from  a  muse  revelling  like  a  ghoul  in 
graves  and  sepulchres,)  the  plant  is  an  especial  favourite.  But  none  has 
plunged  so  deeply  into  the  subject  as  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  who  tears 
up  the  fiible  root  and  branch.      Concerning  the  danger  arising  from 


28  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Green  and  rank  as  the  grass  that  waves 
Over  the  unctuous  earth  of  graves, 
And  though  all  around  it  be  bleak  and  bare, 
Freely  the  mandrake  flourisheth  there. 

Maranatha — Anathema ! 
Dread  is  the  curse  of  Mandrag^ora  ! 
Euthanasy ! 


I 


At  the  foot  of  the  gibbet  the  mandrake  springs, 

Just  where  the  creaking  carcase  swings  ; 

Some  have  thought  it  engenderM 

From  the  fat  that  drops  from  the  bones  of  the  dead ; 

Some  have  thought  it  a  human  thing  ; 

But  this  is  a  vain  imagining. 

Maranatha — ^Anathema ! 
Dread  is  the  curse  of  Mandragora ! 
Euthanasy ! 

A  chamel  leaf  doth  the  mandrake  wear, 

A  chamel  fruit  doth  the  mandrake  bear ; 

Yet  none  like  the  mandrake  hath  such  great  power, 

Such  virtues  reside  not  in  herb  or  flower ; 

Aconite,  hemlock,  or  moonshade,  I  ween. 

None  hath  a  poison  so  subtle  and  keen. 

Maranatha — ^Anathema ! 
Dread  is  the  curse  of  Mandragora ! 

Euthanasy ! 

And  whether  the  mandrake  be  create 
Flesh  with  the  flower  incorporate, 

eradication  of  the  mandrake  he  thus  writes : — *'  The  last  assertion  is 
that  there  follows  a  hazard  of  life  to  them  that  pull  it  up^  that  some 
evil  fate  pursues  them,  and  that  they  live  not  very  long  thereafter."— 
Vulgar  Errors^  book  ii.,  chap.  vi. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  29 

I  know  not ;  yet  if  from  the  earth  *tis  rent, 
Shrieks  and  groans  from  the  root  are  sent ; 
Shrieks  and  groans,  and  a  sweat  like  gore, 
Oozes  and  drops  from  the  clammy  core. 

Maranatha — ^Anathema ! 
Dread  is  the  curse  of  Mandragora ! 

Euthanasy ! 

Whoso  gathereth  the  mandrake  shall  surely  die  I 
Blood  for  blood  is  his  destiny. 
Some  who  have  pluck'd  it  have  died  with  groans, 
Like  to  the  mandrake's  expiring  moans  ; 
Some  have  died  raving,  and  some  beside. 
With  penitent  prayers — ^but  all  have  died. 

Jesu  !  save  us,  by  night  and  by  dny ! 

From  the  terrible  death  of  Mandragora  ! 
Euthanasy  1 


THE  HUNTER'S  SONG. 

(a  ballad  supposed  to  have  been  written  about  the 
beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century.) 

By  the  late  Rev.  Richard  Parkinson,  D.D. 

With  staff  in  hand,  the  hunter  stood 

On  Radholme's  dewy  lawn  ; 
And  still  he  watch'd  in  anxious  mood, 

The  first  faint  streaks  of  dawn. 
Faintly  on  Pendle's  height  they  play'd, 

The  thrush  began  to  sing. 
The  doe  forsook  the  hazel  shade. 

The  heron  left  his  spring. 


30  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

He  tum'd  him  east — the  Ribble  there 

In  waves  of  silver  rolFd, 
While  every  cloud  that  sail'd  in  air 

Just  wore  a  tinge  of  gold. 
There  Waddow's  meads,  so  bright  and  green, 

Had  caught  the  early  ray, 
And  there,  through  shadow  dimly  seen. 

Rose  Qid'row*s  Castle  gray. 

He  tum*d  him  west,  and  hill  o*er  hill, 

Fair  Bowland  Knotts  were  seen, 
Emerging  from  the  mists  that  fill 

The  winding  vales  between. 
The  thorns  that  crown'd  each  verdant  crest. 

Looked  greener  to  the  eye. 
While  vistas,  opening  to  the  west, 

Displa/d  a  crimson  sky. 


But  most  he  tum'd  where,  'neath  his  feet. 

The  Hodder  murmur*d  by. 
And  yon  low  cot,  so  trim  and  neat. 

Still  fix'd  the  hunter's  eye. 
He  gazed,  as  lovers  wont  to  gaze. 

Then  gaily  thus  he  sang, — 
From  Browsholme  Heights  to  Batter  Heys 

The  mountain  echoes  rang. 

''  Fair  is  my  love,  as  mountain  snow, 
All  other  snows  excelling. 
And  gentle  as  the  timid  roe 
That  bounds  around  her  dwelling ; 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  31 

With  other  maids  I  oft  have  roved, 

And  maids  of  high  degree, 
But  none  like  her  have  look*d  and  loved — 

My  Anna  still  for  me ! 

*'  When  at  her  door  she  sits  to  sing 

Some  simple  strain  of  mine, 
The  lark  will  poise  him  on  the  wing 

To  catch  the  notes  divine ; 
And  when  she  speeds  her  love  to  meet 

Across  the  broomy  lee ; 
The  dew  that  sparkles  round  her  feet 

Is  not  so  bright  as  she. 

"Around  the  Fairy  Oak*  I  Vc  seen 

The  gentle  fairies  dancing, 
And,  mounted  light,  in  robes  of  green, 

O'er  Radholme  gaily  prancing ; 
On  moonlit  eve  I  Ve  seen  them  play 

Around  their  crystal  well^f 
But  lovelier  far  than  elf  or  fay 

Is  Anna  of  the  dell ! 

''And  still,  though  poor  and  lowly  bom. 

To  me  she  *s  kind  and  true ; 
She  flies  the  Bowman's  t  tassell'd  horn, 

She  shuns  the  bold  Buccleugh.§ 
Old  Rose  II  may  rule  by  word  and  sigh, 

By  magic  art  and  spell ; 
But  what  are  all  her  charms  to  thine. 

Sweet  Anna  of  the  dell  ?  " 

*  Now  corruptly  called  Fairoak.  f  The  White  Well 

X  Parker,  of  Browsholme.  |  Chief  Forester. 

H  A  noted  witch  of  the  time. 


33  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


A  BALLAD. 
By  John  Bolton  Rogerson. 

"  Cast  the  gay  robes  from  off  thy  form, 

And  cease  thine  hair  to  braid  ; 
Thy  love  to  thee  will  come  no  more, 

He  wooes  another  maid ; 
And  broken  are  the  many  vows 

That  he  hath  pledged  to  thee — 
He  wooes  another  maid,  and  this 

His  bridal  mom  will  be ! " 


"  False  unto  me  !    Oh,  say  not  so ; 

For  if  thy  tale  be  true. 
And  he  I  love  be  lost  to  me, 

I  shall  not  live  to  rue ; 
If  he  do  take  another  mate 

Before  the  holy  shrine  ; 
Another  ne'er  shall  have  my  heart, — 

Death  will  be  mate  of  mine !  *' 

She  cast  the  gay  robes  from  her  form. 

And  donn*d  a  snow-white  gown : 
She  loosen'd  from  her  locks  the  braid, 

And  let  them  droop  adown  ; 
She  flung  around  her  lovely  head 

The  thin  shroud  of  her  veil. 
To  hide  her  fast-descending  tears. 

And  cheek  as  moon-ray  pale. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  33 

With  feeble,  yet  with  hurried  steps, 

Unto  the  church  she  hied, 
And  there  she  saw  the  false  of  heart 

Receive  another  bride ! 
The  bridal  pageant  swept  along 

Till  all  the  train  had  fled— 
Why  sta/d  the  lone,  deserted  one? 

She  slumber'd  with  the  dead  I 


KING  FROST. 

By  Charles  Swain. 

King  Frost  gallop'd  hard  from  his  Palace  of  Snow, 
To  the  hills  whence  the  floods  dash'd  in  thunders  be- 
low! 
But  he  breathed  on  the  waters  that  swoon'd  at  his  wiU, 
And  their  clamour  was  o'er,  for  the  torrents  stood  still ! 
"•  Ho!  ho!"  thought  the  king,  as  he  gallop'd  along, 
'*  I  have  stopp'd  those  mad  torrents  a  while  in  their 
song." 

With  pennons  high  streaming,  in  gladness  and  pride, 

A  fair  vessel  moved  o'er  the  billowy  tide ; 

But,  whilst  bold  hearts  were  deeming  their  perils  all 

past. 
King  Frost  struck  the  billows,  and  fettei^d  them  fast ! 
"Ho!  ho!"   cried  the  monarch,  "their  homes  may 

long  wait, 
Ere  aught,  my  fine  vessel,  be  beard  of  your  fate ! " 

c 


34 


MODERN  SONGS  AND 


Through  the  forest  rode  he,  and  the  skeleton  trees 
GroanM,  withered  and  wild,  !gainst  the  desolate  breeze ; 
And  shook  their  hoar  locks,  as  the  Frost  King  flew  by, 
Whilst  the  hail  rattled  round,  like  a  volley  from  high  ! 
"  Ho !  ho !  **  shouted  he,  "  my  old  Sylvans,  ye  're  bare  ; 
But  my  minister  Snow  shall  find  robes  for  your  wear ! " 

By  the  convent  sped  he — by  the  lone,  ruin*d  fane, 
Where  the  castle  frown'd  wild  o*er  its  rocky  domain  ; 
And  the  warder  grew  pallid,  and  shook  as  in  fear, 
As  the  monarch  swept  by,  with  his  icicle  spear ! 
Whilst  his  herald,  the  Blast,  breathed  defiance  below. 
And  hurrah'd  for  King  Frost  and  his  Palace  of  Snow ! 


CLAYTON  HALL 

By  Elijah  Ridings. 

Clayton  Hall  is  an  old  moated  edifice,  in  the  town- 
ship of  Droylsden,  once  the  residence  of  the  baronial 
Byrons,  and  afterwards  a  favourite  home  of  Humphrey 
Chetham.  It  is  a  quaint,  half-timbered  house,  with 
bell-turret  and  bell,  and  in  the  olden  time  was  duly 
provided,  like  most  old  halls  of  Lancashire,  with  its 
ghost,  which  was  so  regular  in  its  visitations  that  it 
gave  rise  to  the  proverbial  saying, "  Here  aw  come  agen, 
loike  Qayton  Ho  Boggart." 

The  bell  doth  call,  in  Cayton  Hall, 

The  labourer  from  his  bed ; 
The  day  hath  dawn'd,  blithe  Hodge  hath  yawn'd, 

And  from  his  cot  hath  sped  ; 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

With  pick  and  spade  on  shoulder  laid, 
With  rustic  smockfrock  gray, 

With  hardy  face  and  homely  grace. 
To  work  he  hies  away. 

Hath  sentinel  of  old  Cromwell 

£*er  watch'd  thine  ancient  hall  ? 
Thine  olden  bower  hath  seen  the  hour 

Of  royal  Charles's  fall ; 
O'er  thy  threshhold  hath  warrior  bold 

E'er  pass'd  with  manly  tread  7 
Have  drums  e'er  beat  around  thy  seat, 

Or  martial  banners  spread  ? 

Let  fancy  float  around  thy  moat, 

Which  since  his  day  hath  been ; 
Thy  looks  are  gray,  to  time  a  prey, 

A  melancholy  scene  ; 
Thy  ruin'd  tower,  thy  lonely  bower, 

To  thoughtful  minds  recall 
The  civil  wars,  rebellion's  jars, 

O  venerable  Hall ! 


35 


Those  days  are  gone,  but  their  dread  tone 

Reviveth  at  my  call. 
And  doth  mingle  in  the  dingle 

That  blooms  around  the  Hall, 
With  the  loud  songs  of  feather'd  throngs, 

Whose  varied  wonders  fall 
In  all  their  powers  o'er  my  lone  hours, 

O  ancient  Clayton  Hall ! 


36  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

With  grateful  grace  may  I  retrace 

The  merchant  prince,*  whose  name 
And  pious,  charitable  face. 

Are  dedicate  to  fame ; 
While  there  is  either  book  or  stone 

To  tell  that  he  hath  been, 
His  venerable  name  alone 

Shall  consecrate  this  scene. 


THE  WANDERER. 
By  Charles  Swain. 

Three  dreary  years  in  peril  tost, 

Three  years  upon  a  polar  sea, 
Ice-wreck'd,  and  half  his  comrades  lost, 

Once  more  his  native  land  treads  he. 

iVhile  westward  from  the  sandy  height, 
He  views  where,  far,  his  cottage  lies, 

A  fathei^s  transport  fills  his  sight, 
A  husband's  joy  overflows  his  eyes. 

He  speeds  by  each  remember'd  way. 
Each  turning  brings  him  still  more  near ;  ^ 

He  sees  his  first-born  child  at  play, 
And  calls,  but  cannot  make  him  hear. 

*  Humphrey  Chethaoot  Esq.,  founder  of  the  Hospital,  School,  and 
Library  in  Manchester  which  bear  his  name.  He  resided  at  Clayton 
Hall,  about  three  miles  east  of  Manchester,  and  closed  his  useful  life 
there  in  1653. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  37 

Fast  as  he  speeds,  his  child  appears 

Still  distant  as  it  was  before ; 
At  length,  with  bursting,  grateful  tears. 

He  sees  his  young  wife  at  the  door. 

She  takes  the  sweet  child  by  the  hand, 

She  kisses  him  with  loving  joy ; 
The  gazer  deems  in  all  the  land 

There 's  no  such  other  wife  or  boy. 

She  lifts  him  fondly  to  her  cheek. 
Then  leaves  the  narrow  wicket  gate  ; 

The  Wanderer  thinks  he  will  not  speak. 
But  gaze  and  wait — ^if  love  can  wait. 

But  from  that  gate,  to  open  view. 
Come  never  more  those  feet  so  light ; 

There  grew  no  covert,  that  he  knew, 
Whose  leaves  might  hide  them  from  his  sight. 

A  sudden  terror  fills  his  veins. 
And  chills  the  rapture  in  his  eyes ; 

With  eager  spring  the  gate  he  gains. 
And  calls,  but  not  a  voice  replies. 

The  door,  it  does  not  stand  ajar, 
The  casement,  too,  is  closed  and  dark ; 

Across  the  path  is  thrown  a  bar. 
And  all  wears  Desolation's  mark. 

He  shrieks  in  fear  each  name  so  dear — 
The  garden  plot  is  waste  and  wild  ; 

O  God !  why  doth  his  wife  not  hear  ? 
O  Love  !  why  cometh  not  his  child  ? 


38  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

He  strains  to  catch  the  slightest  trace 
Of  form  or  raiment ;  nought  is  seen, 

As  with  a  wild  and  spectral  face, 
The  gray  boughs  groan  and  intervene. 

The  leaves  bend  trembling  to  their  root, 
The  frail  grass  mutters  to  the  flower ; 

With  ghost-like  wing  the  long  rays  shoot, 
While  tolls  the  bell  the  vesper  hour. 

He  turns,  bewilder'd  at  the  sound — 
Again  his  wife,  his  child,  appear  ; 

They  move  across  the  churchyard  ground. 
And  beckon  the  pale  Wanderer  near. 

A  few  more  steps  and  he  may  hold 
The  twain  within  his  trembling  arms  ; 

Why  seems  his  sinking  heart  so  cold  ? 
What  chokes  him  with  those  dread  alarms  ? 

Pale,  in  the  dreary  moonlight,  gleams 
Each  mound  and  monumental  stone  ; 

He  stands  distraught,  as  one  that  dreams — 
Was  he  again  alone — alone  ? 

Alone — they've  pass'd,  yet  nothing  stirr*d  I 
He  thought  that  through  the  spectral  air 

There  rose  one  low,  one  little  word, 
Faint  echo  of  some  infant  prayer. 

He  thought  that  name  which  erst  had  moved 

His  pulses  with  a  parent's  joy, 
Came  softly,  as  in  hours  beloved. 

When  on  his  glad  knee  sat  his  boy. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  39 

Yet  all  had  fled ;  and  on  the  stone, 
Beneath  his  feet,  two  lines  were  read, 

Sad  lines,  that  to  the  eyes  once  shown, 
Do  break  the  heart  that's  better  dead. 

He  press'd  his  hot  lips  to  each  name, 
He  kiss'd  each  letter  o'er  and  o'er ; 

They  scorch'd  his  sight,  as  if  with  flame. 
They  sear'd  his  worn  heart  to  the  core. 

**  For  this,"  he  cried,  "  for  this  was  won 
My  way  through  tempests — this  to  bear ; 

Still,  still,  O  God  !  Thy  will  be  done  ! 
Yet  one — not  one ! — not  one  to  spare  I" 


Morn  stepped  from  out  the  mists  of  heaven, 
And  coldly  lit  each  hallow'd  spot ; 

Another  mom  to  him  was  given. 
Another  world  where  death  was  not  I 


THE  BILLMEN  OF  BOWLAND. 

FROM  "  NED  OF  THE  FELL"— A  LANCASHIRE  ROMANCE. 

Against  tenfold  his  numbers  on  Agincourt's  plain, 
The  gallant  King  Henry  the  flght  must  maintain  ; 
No  knight  like  young  Harry  had  England  e'er  known, 
A  pillar  of  Are  to  his  army  he  shone  ; 
His  troops  throng'd  around  him,  they  darken*d  the 

field. 
And  the  Billmen  of  Bowland  swore  never  to  yield. 


40  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

His  red-haii^d  Northumbrian  vassals  were  there, 
And  Durham  and  Cumberland  brandish*d  the  spear  ; 
The  Londoners,  too,  in  their  trimmest  array. 
And  the  yeomen  of  Kent,  who  delight  in  a  fray ; 
But  from  father  to  son  old  tradition  hath  told 
That  the  Billmen  of  Bowland  were  best  of  the  bold. 

There  Yorkshire  and  Durham  did  courage  evince, 
And  the  men  of  old  Monmouth  defended  their  prince ; 
The  archers  of  Nottingham  bent  the  long  bow, 
And  their  arrows  were  dyed  in  the  blood  of  the  foe ; 
But  with  axes  uplifted,  that  gleam'd  in  the  light, 
The  Billmen  of  Bowland  were  first  in  the  fight 

From  the  banks  of  Sabrina  they  rush'd  to  the  plain. 
And  Devon's  proud  heroes  were  found  midst  the 

slain ; 
And  the  children  of  Cornwall,  as  rude  as  their  soil, 
Exultingly  shared  in  the  glory  and  spoil ; 
But  the  Billmen  of  Bowland,  old  Lancashire's  pride, 
Stood  firm  as  the  hills,  and  the  foemen  defied. 

Resistance  was  vain ;  neither  falchion  nor  mail. 
Nor  helmet,  nor  shield-cover'd  arm  could  avail ; 
When  our  foresters  struck,  death  followed  each  wound, 
The  steed  and  his  rider  alike  bit  the  ground. 
There  was  glory  for  England  on  Agincourt's  day, 
But  the  Billmen  of  Bowland  the  palm  bore  away. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  41 

BLACK  BESS. 

By  William  Harrison  Ainsworth.* 

Let  the  lover  his  mistress's  beauty  rehearse, 
And  laud  her  attractions  in  languishing  verse  ; 
Be  it  mine  in  rude  strains,  but  with  truth  to  express 
The  love  that  I  bear  to  my  bonny  Black  Bess. 

From  the  West  was  her  dam,  from  the  East  was  her 

sire. 
From  the  one  came  her  swiftness,  the  other  her  fire  ; 
No  peer  of  the  realm  better  blood  can  possess, 
Than  flows  in  the  veins  of  my  bonny  Black  Bess. 

Look !  look !  how  that  eyeball'glows  bright  as  a  brand ! 
That  neck  proudly  arches,  those  nostrils  expand ! 
Mark  that  wide-flowing  mane !  of  which  each  silky 

tress 
Might  adorn  prouder  beauties  —  though  none  like 

Black  Bess. 

Mark  that  skin  sleek  as  velvet,  and  dusky  as  night. 
With  its  jet  undisHgured  by  one  lock  of  white  ; 
That  throat  branch'd  with  veins,  prompt  to  charge  or 

caress  ; 
Now  is  she  not  beautiful  ?  bonny  Black  Bess  ! 

Over  highway  and  byway,   in    rough   and   smooth 

weather. 
Some  thousands  of  miles  have  we  joumeyM  together  ; 

*  Set  to  music  by  Mr  F.  Romer. 


42  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Our  couch  the  same  straw,  and  our  meal  the  same 

mess, 
No  couple  more  constant  than  I  and  Black  Bess  ! 


By  moonlight,  in  darkness,  by  night,  or  by  day. 
Her  headlong  career  there  is  nothing  to  stay  ; 
She  cares  not  for  distance,  she  knows  not  distress  : 
Can  you  show  me  a  courser  to  match  with  Black  Bess  ? 

Once  it  happened  in  Cheshire,  near  Dunham,  I  popp'd 
On  a  horseman  alone,  whom  I  suddenly  stopped  ; 
That  I  lighten*d  his  pockets  you  *11  readily  guess — 
Quick  work  makes  Dick  Turpin  when  mounted  on 
Bess. 

Now  it  seems  the  man  knew  me  ;  '*  Dick  Turpin,"  said 

he 
"  You  shall  swing  for  this  job,  as  you  live,  d*ye  see." 
I  laugh'd  at  his  threats  and  his  vows  of  redress, 
I  was  sure  of  an  alibi  then  with  Black  Bess. 

The  road  was  a  hollow,  a  sunken  ravine,* 
Overshadowed  completely  by  wood  like  a  screen  ; 


*  The  exact  spot  where  Turpin  committed  this  robbery,  which  has 
often  been  pointed  out  to  me,  (writes  Mr  Harrison  Ainsworth,)  lies  in 
what  is  now  a  woody  hollow,  though  once  the  old  road  from  Altrincham 
to  Knutsford,  skirting  Dunham  Park,  and  descending  the  hill  that  brings 
you  to  the  bridge  crossing  the  rirer  Bollin.  With  some  difficulty  I 
penetrated  this  ravine.  It  is  just  the  place  for  an  adventure  of  the 
kind.  A  small  brook  wells  through  it,  and  the  steep  banks  are  over- 
hung with  timber,  and  were,  when  I  last  visited  the  place,  in  April 
1834,  a  perfect  nest  of  primroses  and  wild-flowers.  Hough  (pronounced 
Hoo)  Green  lies  about  three  miles  across  the  country — ^the  way  Turpin 
rode.  The  old  Bowling-green  used  to  be  one  of  the  pleasantest  inns  in 
Cheshire. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  43 

I  clamber'd  the  bank,  and  I  needs  must  confess, 
That  one  touch  of  the  spur  grazed  the  side  of  Black 
Bess. 

Brake,  brook,  meadow,  and  ploughed  field,  Bess  fleetly 

bestrode. 
As  the  crow  wings  her  flight,  we  selected  our  road  ; 
We  arrived  at  Hough  Green  in  five  minutes,  or  less — 
My  neck  it  was  saved  by  the  speed  of  Black  Bess. 

Stepping  carelessly  forward,  I  lounge  on  the  green, 
Taking  excellent  care  that  by  all  I  am  seen ; 
Some  remarks  on  Timers  flight  to  the  squires  I  ad- 
dress ; 
But  I  say  not  a  word  of  the  flight  of  Black  Bess. 

I  mention  the  hour — it  was  just  about  four — 
Play  a  rubber  at  bowls — think  the  danger  is  o'er ; 
When  athwart  my  next  game,  like  a  checkmate  at 

chess, 
Comes  the  horseman  in  search  of  the  rider  of  Bess. 

What  matter  details  ?    Off  with  triumph  I  came ; 
He  swears  to  the  hour,  and  the  squires  swear  the 

same ; 
I  had  robb'd  him  2Xfour  ! — while  at  four  they  profess, 
I  was  quietly  bowling — all  thanks  to  Black  Bess  ! 

Then  one  halloo,  boys,  one  loud  cheering  halloo ! 
To  the  swiftest  of  coursers,  the  gallant,  the  true  \ 
Yqx  the  sportsman  unborn  shall  the  memory  bless 
Of  the  horse  of  the  highwaymanr- bonny  Black  Bess ! 


44  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


GYPSY  BALLAD. 

By  Charles  Swain. 

What  care  we  for  earth's  renown  ! 

We  to  greenwood  pleasures  bom  : 
Tinsel  makes  an  easier  crown 

Than  the  proudest  kings  have  worn. 
Though  our  royal  sword  of  state 

Be  a  feeble  willow  wand  ; 
Courtiers  have  been  glad  to  wait 
For  the  pretty  Gypsy's  hand ! 
Underneath  the  old  oak  tree, 

Soon  as  sets  the  summer  day, 
Gypsy  lads  and  lasses  we, 
Dance  and  sing  the  night  away. 

Many  bind  their  hours  with  care. 

Labour  through  the  anxious  day. 
Just  to  gain  enough  to  bear 

Corpse  and  coffin  to  the  clay  ! 
Though  but  little  we  may  claim, 

Still  that  little  we  enjoy  ; 
Wealth  is  often  but  a  name ; 

Title  but  a  gilded  toy ! 
Underneath  the  old  oak  tree,  &c. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  45 


OLD  GRINDROD'S  GHOST. 

At  the  end  of  Cross  Lane,  formerly  called  Pendleton 
Moor,  a  woolcomber  in  Salford,  named  John  Grindrod 
(or  Grindret)  was  gibbeted  in  March  1759,  (Baines 
dates  the  deed  in  1753,)  for  poisoning  his  wife  and  two 
children  with  brimstone  and  treacle  in  the  preceding 
September.  Connected  with  this  man  there  is  a 
ghostly  legend,  telling  of  a  boastful  traveller,  who  lost 
a  foolish  wager  on  a  tempestuous  night ;  and  of  an 
eccentric  skeleton  that  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  mid- 
night walks,  for  the  purpose  of  dispelling  the  wetness 
and  weariness  occasioned  by  long  suspension.  ''Of 
this  legend,  which  I  have  often  heard  narrated  in  our 
shop,"  says  Mr  Procter,  (in  "Our  Turf,  Stage,  and 
Ring,")  ''and  which  has  been  rendered  in  familiar  ballad 
measure  by  Mr  William  Harrison  Ainsworth,  we  may, 
of  course,  believe  just  so  much  as  pleases  us."  [It  is 
copied  from  Ainsworth's  tale  of  "  The  Flitch  of  Bacon  ; 
or  the  Custom  of  Dunmow"]: — 

Old  Grindrod  was  hang'd  on  a  gibbet  high, 
On  a  spot  where  the  dark  deed  was  done ; 

'Twas  a  desolate  place,  on  the  edge  of  a  moor, 
A  place  for  the  timid  to  shun, 

Chains  round  his  middle,  and  chains  round  his  neck. 
And  chains  round  his  ankles  were  hung  ; 

And  there  in  all  weathers,  in  sunshine  and  rain. 
Old  Grindrod  the  murderer  swung.  . 


46  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Old  Grindrod  had  long  been  the  banquet  of  crows, 

Who  flock'd  on  his  carcase  to  batten  ; 
And  the  unctuous  morsels  that  fell  from  their  feast, 

Served  the  rank  weeds  beneath  him  to  fatten. 

All  that 's  now  left  of  him  is  a  skeleton  grim, 

The  stoutest  to  strike  with  dismay  ; 
So  ghastly  the  sight,  that  no  urchin,  at  night, 

Who  can  help  it,  will  pass  by  that  way. 

All  such  as  had  dared,  had  sadly  been  scared, 

And  soon  'twas  the  general  talk, 
That  the  wretch  in  his  chains,  each  night  took  the 
pains, 

To  come  down  from  the  gibbet — atui  walk  ! 

The  story  was  told  to  a  traveller  bold, 

At  an  inn  near  the  moor,  by  the  host ; 
He  appeals  to  each  guest,  and  its  truth  they  attest. 

But  the  traveller  laughs  at  the  ghost. 

**  Now  to  show  you,"  quoth  he,  "how  afraid  I  must  be, 

A  rump  and  a  dozen  I  *fl  lay, 
That  before  it  strikes  one,  I  will  go  forth  alone, 

Old  Grindrod  a  visit  to  pay. 

"  To  the  gibbet  I  *ll  go,  and  this  I  will  do. 

As  sure  as  I  stand  in  my  shoes  ; 
Some  address  1  *ll  devise,  and  if  Grinny  replies. 

My  wager  of  course  I  shall  lose." 

"  Accepted  the  bet ;  but  the  night  it  is  wet," 
Quoth  the  host.     "  Never  mind,"  says  the  guest ; 

"  From  darkness  and  rain  the  adventure  wiU  gain 
To  my  mind  an  additional  zest." 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  47 

Now  midnight  had  toU'd,  and  the  traveller  bold 

Set  out  from  the  inn  all  alone  ; 
'Twas  a  night  black  as  ink,  and  our  friend  'gan  to  think 

That  uncommonly  cold  it  had  gprown. 

But  of  nothing  afraid,  and  by  nothing  delayed, 
Plunging  onward  through  bog  and  through  wood, 

Wind  and  rain  in  his  face,  he  ne'er  slackened  his  pace, 
Till  under  the  gibbet  he  stood. 

Though  dark  as  could  be,  yet  he  thought  he  could  see 

The  skeleton  hanging  on  high  ; 
The  gibbet  it  creaked,  and  the  rusty  chains  squeaked, 

And  a  screech-owl  flew  solemnly  by. 

The  heavy  rain  pattered,  the  hollow  bones  clattered. 
The  traveller's  teeth  chattered — with  cold — not  with 
fright ; 

The  wind  it  blew  lustily,  piercingly,  gustily  ; 
Certainly  not  an  agreeable  night ! 

«  Ho  !  Grindrod,  old  feUow  !  "  thus  loudly  did  bellow 
The  traveller  mellow, — "  How  are  you,  my  blade  ?" 

**  I  'm  cold  and  I  'm  dreary  ;  I  *m  wet  and  I  'm  weary  ; 
But  soon  I  '11  be  near  ye  I "  the  skeleton  said. 

The  grisly  bones  rattled,  and  with  the  chains  battled  ; 

The  gibbet  appallingly  shook ; 
On  the  ground  something  stirt^d,  but  no  more  the  man 
heard — 

To  his  heels  on  the  instant  he  took. 


48  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Over  moorland  he  dash'd,  and  through  Quagmire  h* 
plash'd  ; 

His  pace  never  daring  to  slack ; 
Till  the  hostel  he  near'd,  for  greatly  he  fear'd, 

Old  Grindrod  would  leap  on  his  back. 

His  wager  he  lost,  and  a  trifle  it  cost ; 

But  that  which  anno/d  him  the  most, 
Was  to  find  out  too  late,  that  certain  as  fate, 

The  landlord  had  acted  the  ghost 


We  learn  on  the  authority  of  the  writer,  that  the  in- 
cidents above  described  constituted  one  of  the  very 
best  stories  of  the  late  Mr  Gilbert  Winter,  of  Stocks, 
Cheetham,  an  old  and  valued  friend  of  Mr  Harrison 
Ainsworth,  whose  benevolent  character  he  has  im- 
mortalised under  the  name  of  "  Cuthbert  Spring,"  in 
his  tale  of  ^  Mervyn  Qitheroe."  The  ballad  has  been 
translated  into  French  under  the  title  of  "  Le  Spectre 
du  Vieux  Grindrod,"  a  specimen  of  which  we  subjoin : — 

"  Grindrod,  le  vieux  Grindrod,  fut  pendu  court  et  net, 
II  fut,  dis-je,  pendu  sur  le  lieu  de  son  crime. 
C^tait  un  lieu  desert,  qu'une  lande  bomait. 
Oil  le  frisson  vous  serre,  oil  I'effroi  vous  opprime. 

Lk,  sous  le  haut  gibet,  k  bout  de  tours  savanes, 
Tous  les  temps  que  Dieu  fait  le  larron  les  essuie  ; 
Le  meurtrier  Grindrod  oscille  k  tous  les  vents, 
D^vor^  du  soleil,  ou  cribld  par  la  pluie/' 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  49 

Then,  here  is  the  wager : — 
"  Sachez  combien  j'ai  peur,  je  vous  gage  un  bifteck 
Que  vers  minuit  j'orai,  sans  escorte  et  sans  suite, 
Le  voir.    Je  veux,  pardieu  !  lui  parler  bec-k-bec, 
Grindrod,  le  vieux  Grindrod,  recevra  ma  visite.*" 


THE  YOUNG  CID. 

(FROM  "ANCIENT  BALLADS  FROM  THE  SPANISH.") 

By  Robert  Rockliff,  of  Liverpool. 

The  Cid,  Rodrigo  Diaz  de  Bivar,  sumamed  £1 
Campeador,  whose  exploits  are  so  prominent  in  Span- 
ish chronicle  and  romance,  is  supposed  to  have  been 
bom  in  1206.  While  he  was  still  a  mere  stripling,  his 
aged  and  infirm  father,  Diego  Laynez,  who  had  been 
struck  in  the  royal  presence  by  Don  Lozano  Gomez, 
the  Count  of  Gormas,  determined  to  commit  the  vin- 
dication of  his  honour  to  one  of  his  three  sons,  and, 
after  subjecting  them  to  a  trial,  which  is  detailed  in 
the  ballad,  selected  the  youngest,  Rodrigo,  as  the 
worthiest  Giving  him  his  sword  and  his  blessing,  he 
sent  him  forth  on  the  perilous  enterprise  of  executing 
vengeance  on  his  haughty  and  powerful  foe. 

Diego  Laynez  sate  at  home, 

A  solitary  man, 
And  grimly  brooded  o'er  the  blow. 

Inflicted  by  Lozan. 
That  blow !  alas,  he  lack'd  the  strength 

To  wipe  its  stains  away ; 

For  he  was  old,  and  years  will  bring 

The  stoutest  to  decay. 

D 


50  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

His  eyes  were  fix'd  upon  the  floor 

In  melancholy  mood ; 
He  could  not  sleep  by  night,  he  took 

No  pleasure  in  his  food  ; 
He  questioned  none,  he  answered  none, 

But  tum'd  away  his  face, 
As  if  his  very  breath  would  taint 

His  friends  with  his  disgrace. 


For  three  long  days  and  nights  he  sate 

Sad,  silent,  and  alone, 
As  if  he  were  some  image  carved 

In  monumental  stone ; 
But  on  the  fourth  a  sudden  change 

Across  his  spirit  came. 
That  gave  new  lustre  to  his  eye, 

New  vigour  to  his  frame. 

Like  one  arisen  from  the  dead. 

He  stood  within  the  hall, 
And  summoned  to  his  side  his  sons, 

Three  comely  youths,  and  tall ; 
And  one  by  one^  as  if  his  hands 

Were  dench'd  in  gloves  of  mail, 
He  wrung  their  fingers,  till  he  forced 

The  blood-drop  from  each  nail 

No  chiromantic  scheme  had  he ; 

For  witchcraft's  hellish  skill 
Was  then  unknown  in  happy  Spain — 

I  would  it  were  so  still ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  51 

But  with  such  craft,  as  well  became 

A  Christian  knight,  he  press'd 
The  striplings'  hands,  that  he  might  put 

Their  courage  to  the  test. 


The  eldest  and  the  second  son, 

They  wept  for  very  pain, 
And  pitifully  pray'd  their  sire 

To  loose  his  iron  strain  ; 
And  when  at  length  he  dropped  their  hands. 

And  let  the  pair  depart, 
They  slunk  away  like  beaten  hounds. 

Still  whining  from  the  smart. 

And  turning  to  Rodrigo  then, 

The  youngest  of  the  three, 
The  old  man's  spirits  sank  apace, 

And  little  hope  had  he ; 
But  still  resolved  to  try  the  test. 

Though  it  had  fail'd  him  twice, 
He  seized  the  youngster's  hand  in  his. 

And  griped  it  like  a  vice. 

"  Hold  off!  unhand  me !  or,  by  Heaven  !** 

Rodrigo  cried,  with  ire, 
<<  I  shall  be  tempted  to  forget 

My  duty  to  my  sire ; 
For  if  I  were  assaulted  thus 

By  any  wight  but  thee, 
I  'd  tear  the  caitiff  limb  from  limb, 

And  quickly  set  roe  free." 


52  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

"  Nay,  strike  me,  curse  me,  an  thou  wilt/ 

Diego  cried,  with  joy, 
"  My  blessing  on  each  curse  of  thine ! 

My  loved,  my  gallant  boy  ! 
My  youngest  and  my  favourite  son, 

And  worthiest  of  the  three. 
The  honour  of  thy  father's  name 

Shall  be  restored  in  thee." 

Then  with  his  blessing  and  his  sword, 

He  bade  the  stripling  go, 
And  for  the  wrong  which  had  been  done, 

Avenge  him  on  his  foe. 
The  Cid  that  day  his  long  career 

Of  victory  began, 
And  bravely  flesh'd  his  maiden  sword 

Upon  the  Count  Lozan. 


THE  KEEPER'S  SON. 

By  R.  R.  Bealey. 

No  braver  lad  e'er  walk'd  the  wood, 

No  fairer  lad  could  be. 
Than  Johnny  Brown,  the  Keeper's  son, 

Who  lived  at  Walker  Lea. 
Shouldering  gun  he  forth  would  go, 

Nor  tire  the  longest  day. 
With  faithful  «  Don"  close  up  "to  heel," 

His  work  was  always  play. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  53 

They'd  wander  through  the  wooded  glen, 

Or  climb  the  mountain  high, 
They'd  cross  the  stubble  fields,  and  walk 

As  softly  as  a  sigh  ; 
And  if  a  bird  should  chance  to  rise, 

Or  rabbit  dare  to  run, 
*Twould  surely  fall  beneath  the  shot 

Of  Johnny's  fatal  gun. 


One  mom  with  faithful  "  Don"  he  went, 

CTwas  in  October  chill,) 
To  have  a  little  early  sport 

Beneath  the  western  hill; 
When,  firing  at  a  brace  of  birds, 

And  thinking  all  was  well, 
The  gun  it  burst,  and  on  the  ground 

The  bleeding  sportsman  felL 

All  senseless  on  the  ground  he  lay. 

But  "  Don"  was  by  his  side. 
And  when  he  saw  his  master  bleed. 

The  faithful  dog,  he  cried  ; 
He  lick*d  the  wounds  with  tender  care, 

Then  by  his  side  he  lay, 
To  keep  his  master's  body  warm 

On  that  October  day. 

'Twas  very  sad,  for  on  that  night, 

At  dusk,  John  did  agree 
To  meet  the  miller's  daughter  Jane 

Beneath  the  chestnut  tree. 


54  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

She  went  and  waited,  but,  alas ! 

She  waited  all  in  vain ; 
And  tears  were  falling  down  her  cheeks. 

As  home  she  walk'd  again. 

The  wound  was  fatal,  and  poor  John, 

He  never  bxeath^d  more  ; 
And  Jane,  she  could  not  love  again, 

But  widow's  weeds  she  wore. 
The  dog  and  she  together  live, 

And  day  by  day  they  go 
To  see  the  spot  where  Johnny  Brown, 

The  Keeper's  son,  lies  low  ! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  JAMES  AND  JANE.* 
By  Henry  Kirk. 

Sad  was  Scotland's  king ! 

He  saw  no  hope  in  the  morrow  ; 
Not  a  tone  from  his  harp  could  he  bring 

That  spoke  not  language  of  sorrow. 

He  gazed  from  his  latticed  room ; 

Nought  in  the  scene  before  him 
Had  power  to  lighten  the  gloom 

His  dreary  fate  threw  o'er  him. 

*  James  I.  of  Scotland— the  youthful  poet  of  "  The  King's  Quhair" 
— ^was  long  a  prisoner  in  Windsor  Castle.  He  was  deeply  enamoured  of 
the  Lady  Jane  Beaufort,  a  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Somerset,  who  after- 
wards became  his  queen.    This  king  was  assas>inated  at  Perth  in  1437. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  55 

The  moon  sinking  westerly, 
The  stars  from  the  zenith  beaming, 

Silver'd  each  turret  and  tree, 
But  brightened  not  his  dreaming. 

Cut  off  in  his  youth  for  life, 

Bright  spirit  of  chivalry !     Never 
In  the  tourney's  mimic  strife 

To  contend  for  a  lady's  favour. 

The  thought  of  the  state^  bereft  him ; 

He  feai'd  for  his  people's  woe ; 
He  wept  the  chance  that  had  left  him 

The  thrall  of  a  jealous  foe.* 

Full  of  high  ambition. 

In  prison  to  live  and  die ! 
Despair  foreshadow'd  perdition 

From  his  deep  lustreless  eye. 

As  calm,  after  tempest  howling. 

To  mariners  out  at  sea, 
As  sunshine,  after  the  scowling 

Of  clouds  on  a  sununer  lea, — 

Came  a  change  o'er  the  minstrel  king  ; 

No  more  did  he  pine  and  languish. 
Or  from  his  wild  harp  wring 

Accents  of  doleful  anguish. 

Now  full  of  a  tender  pleasure, 

His  happy  harp  and  tongue ; 
For  love  had  blest  his  measure 

With  the  richest  charm  of  song. 

*  Henry  IV.  of  England. 


56  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Often  his  sweet  lay  pouring 
Through  the  twilight's  stilly  haze, 

Men  thought  to  be  angels  adoring 
Their  God  in  anthems  of  praise. 

And  ever  his  pleasant  fancies 

Dwelt  on  his  promised  queen, 
With  blue  eyes  and  passionate  glances, 

And  hair  of  a  golden  sheen. 

In  visions  of  night  and  day, 

A  glorious  future  gathers, 
Where  he  wields  with  princely  sway 

The  sceptred  might  of  his  fathers. 

And  now  Love's  gentle  hand 

Hath  freed  the  fetters  that  bound  him ; 

He  is  king  in  his  own  wild  land. 
With  its  mountains  and  heather  around  him. 

With  love  ever  true  and  tender, 

Never  was  monarch  so  blest ; 
It  was  sweet  from  state*s  thorny  splendour 

To  repose  on  his  fond  queen's  breast 

When  he  fell  from  the  cruel  wounds 

Of  Graham,  traitor  disloyal ! 
In  the  convent's  holy  bounds, 

By  Perth's  proud  city  royal, — 

Thrice  did  the  dagger  pierce  her  ; 

Faster  the  fond  queen  clung 
To  shield  her  lover,  fiercer 

Than  lioness  shields  her  young. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  57 

Ever  while  love  and  song 

The  sons  of  Scotland  cherish, 
James  shall  be  first  among 

The  names  that  may  not  perish  I 

Ever,  while  Windsor  s  towers 

A  pilgrim's  steps  detain, 
He  shall  seek  the  moated  bowers 

Of  the  stately  and  gentle  Jane  I, 


DERWENTWATER'S  FATE : 

A  BALLAD. 

IN  the  Gentlematis  Magazine  for  June  1825,  (page 
489,)  is  a  letter  from  a  correspondent,  signing  G.  H., 
accompanied  by  what  he  calls  ^  An  old  song  on  the 
death  of  Radcliffe,  Earl  of  Derwentwater,  who  was  be- 
headed as  a  traitor  on  Tower  Hill,  February  24,  17 16. 
It  was  one  of  the  most  popular  in  its  day  in  the  north 
of  England,  for  a  long  period  after  the  event  which  it 
records  had  taken  place.  I  took  it  down  (says  this 
correspondent)  from  the  dictation  of  an  old  person, 
who  had  learned  it  from  her  father.  In  its  oral  descent 
from  generation  to  generation,  it  had  got  a  little  cor- 
rupted. But  a  poetical  friend  of  mine  has  assisted  me 
in  restoring  it  to  something  like  poetical  propriety. 
My  dictator  could  not  go  further  than  the  seventeenth 
verse,  and  supposed  it  ended  there ;  but  it  seemed  de- 
fective. The  last  four  verses  are  now  added  to  give  a 
finish.    There  is  a  pathetic  simplicity  in  the  song  at 


58  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

once  affecting  and  interesting,  and  which  renders  it,  I 
think,  deserving  of  preservation." 

King  George  he  did  a  letter  write, 

And  sealed  it  up  with  gold. 
And  sent  it  to  Lord  Derwentwater 

To  read  it,  if  he  could. 

He  sent  his  letter  by  no  post, 

He  sent  it  by  no  page ; 
But  sent  it  by  a  gallant  knight. 

As  e'er  did  combat  wage. 

The  first  line  that  my  lord  look'd  on,  . 

Struck  him  with  strong  surprise ; 
The  second,  more  alarming  still, 

Made  tears  fall  from  his  eyes. 

He  callM  up  his  stable-groom. 
Saying,  "  Saddle  me  well  my  steed ; 

For  I  must  up  to  London  go, — 
Of  me  there  seems  great  need." 

His  lady,  hearing  what  he  said. 

As  she  in  childbed  lay, 
Cried,  "  My  dear  lord,  pray  make  your  will. 

Before  you  go  away." 

"  I  '11  leave  to  thee,  my  eldest  son, 

My  houses  and  my  land ; 
I  'U  leave  to  thee,  my  younger  son. 

Ten  thousand  pounds  in  ^and. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  59 

^  I  'U  leave  to  thee,  my  lady  gay, 

My  lawful  married  wife, 
A  third  part  oi  my  whole  estate, 

To  keep  thee  a  lady's  life." 

He  knelt  him  down  by  her  bedside. 

And  kiss'd  her  lips  so  sweet ; 
The  words  that  pass'd,  alas !  presaged 

They  never  more  should  meet  I 

Again  he  call'd  his  stable-groom, 

Saying,  ^  Bring  me  out  my  steed, 
For  I  must  up  to  London  go, 

With  instant  haste  and  speed** 

He  took  the  reins  into  his  hand, 
Which  shook  with  fear  and  dread ; 

The  rings  from  off  his  fingers  dropp'd ; 
His  nose  gush'd  out  and  bled. 

He  had  but  ridden  miles  two  or  three. 

When,  stumbling,  fell  his  steed ; 
^'  111  omens  these,"  Derwentwater  said, 

"  That  I  for  James  must  bleed." 

As  he  rode  up  Westminster  Street, 

In  sight  of  the  White  Hall, 
The  lords  and  ladies  of  London  town 

A  traitor  they  did  him  call. 

"A  traitor !"  Lord  Derwentwater  said, 

"  A  traitor  !     How  can  I  be. 
Unless  for  keeping  five  hundred  men. 

Fighting  for  King  Jemmy  ?" 


6o  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Then  started  forth  a  grave  old  man, 
With  a  broad-mouth'd  axe  in  hand, 

"  Thy  head,  t£y  head,  Lord  Derwentwater, 
Thy  head's  at  my  command." 

.    <<  My  head,  my  head,  thou  grave  old  man, 
My  head  I  will  give  thee  ; 
Here's  a  coat  of  velvet  on  my  back 
Will  surely  pay  thy  fee ; 

"  But  give  me  leave,"  Derwentwater  said, 
"  To  speak  words  two  or  three ; 

Ye  lords  and  ladies  of  London  town, 
Be  kind  to  my  lady. 

**  Here's  a  purse  of  fifty  sterling  pounds, 

Pray  give  it  to  the  poor ; 
Here 's  one  of  forty-five  beside, 

You  may  dole  from  door  to  door." 

He  laid  his  head  upon  the  block ; 

The  axe  was  sharp  and  strong ; 
The  strpke  that  cut  his  sufferings  short, 

His  memory  cherish'd  long. 

Thus  fell  proud  Derwent's  ancient  lord. 

Dread  victim  to  the  laws ; 
His  lands  fell  forfeit  to  the  crown. 

Lost  in  the  Stuarts'  cause. 

His  weeping  widow's  drooping  heart 
With  sorrow  burst  in  twain  ; 

His  orphan  children,  outcast,  spum'd, 
Deep  felt  th'  attainted  stain. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 


6i 


The  Derwenf  s  far-famed  lake  alone 

Its  noble  name  retains ; 
And  of  the  title,  thence  extinct, 

Sole  monument  remains. 


IL 


note  &ong0  aitH  fdtra{0e0  of  t^e  jpafr* 


r 

/ 


It  would  be  an  easy  thing  to  fill  a  volume  with 
songs  of  this  class ;  for  the  subject  has  ever  been  a 
prime  favourite  with  readers  of  all  ranks  and  almost  of 
all  ages.  ^*  Love  rules  the  court,  the  camp,  the  grove  ;'* 
and  love-ditties  have  ever  been,  and  will  ever  be, 
trolled,  trilled,  and  warbled,  in  palace  and  cottage,  in 
drawing-room  and  street,  at  sea  and  on  shore,  in  the 
busy  cit/s  hum  and  in  the  g^reen  nooks  of  the  quiet 
hamlet,  so  long  as  humanity  endures.  A  selection  of 
Lancashire  songs  of  this  class  has  been  made,  due  re- 
gard being  had  to  varieties  of  sentiment,  feeling,  style, 
and  diction. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  63 


LOVE'S  EVIL  CHOICE. 

Dr  Whittaker,  in  his  WhalUyy  speaking  of  the  Ha- 
beigham  Hall  and  Estate,  says : — '*  This  estate  sunk 
all  at  once  under  the  follies  of  its  last  owner ;  for  from 
the  time  that  he  entered  into  possession  scarcely  a  year 
elapsed  without  the  sale  of  a  farm,  till  at  last  the  man- 
sion-house and  demesne  were  swallowed  up  by  the 
foreclosure  of  a  mortgage  in  1689,  and  this  improvident 
man  was  driven  from  the  house  of  his  ancestors  to  a 
cottage,  in  the  39th  year  of  his  age.  ....  The  princi- 
pal and  accumulated  interest  which  devoured  this  de- 
mesne was  little  more  than  ;f  900 ;  the  land  was  then 
valued  at  ;^30  per  annum  ;  the  coal-mine  about  the 
same  ;  yet  in  a  single  century  or  more,  I  have  heard 
of  £1000  being  offered  for  this  very  estate  ;  and  the 
coal-mine  alone  now  bears  a  rent  of  ^300.  ....  Mrs 
Fleetwood  Habergham,  [of  Habergham,  near  Padi- 
ham,]  undone  by  the  extravagance,  and  disgraced  by 
the  vices  of  her  husband,  soothed  her  sorrows  by  some 
stanzas,  yet  in  remembrance  among  the  old  people  of 
the  neighbourhood,  in  which  the  allusions  to  the 
triumphs  of  her  early  days  and  the  successive  offers 
she  had  rejected,  under  the  emblem  of  flowers,  are 
simple  and  not  inelegant"  Mrs  Habergham  died  in 
703,  and  was  buried  at  Padiham.  Dr  Whittaker 
prints  only  part  of  this  song,  which  has  also  been  pub- 
lished in  broadsides;  sung  in  the  musical  piece  of 
"  Tfu  Loan  of  a  Lover  ;^^  and  copied  into  Bell's  **  An- 
cUnt  Ballads^  Songs^  &*c,y  of  the  Peasantry  of  Eng- 
landT  The  following  is  the  version  in  the  broad- 
sides : — 


64  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

I  sow'd  the  seeds  of  love,  it  was  all  in  the  spring, 

In  April,  May,  and  June  likewise,  when  small  birds 

they  do  sing ; 
My  garden 's  well  planted  with. flowers  everywhere, 
Yet  I  had  not  liberty  to  choose  for  myself  the  flower  I 

loved  so  dear. 

My  gardener  he  stood  by,  I  ask'd  him  to  choose  for  me : 
He  chose  me  the  violet,  the  lily,  and  pink,  but  these  I 

refused  all  three : 
The  violet  I  forsook,  because  it  fades  so  soon  ; 
The  lily  and  pink  I  did  o'erlook,  and  I  vow'd  I  'd  stay 

till  June. 

In  June  there 's  a  red  rose-bud,  and  that 's  the  flower 

for  me ! 
Hut  oft  have  I  pluck'd  at  the  red  rose-bud,  till  I  gain'd 

the  wiUow-tree ; 
The  willow-tree  will  twist,  and  the  willow-tree  will  twine. 
Oh  !  I  wish  I  was  in  the  dear  youth's  arms  that  once 

had  this  heart  of  mine. 

My  gardener  he  stood  by,  he  told  me  to  take  great  care, 
For  in  the  middle  of  a  red  rose-bud  there  grows  a 

sharp  thorn  there ; 
I  told  him  I  'd  take  no  care  till  I  did  fed  the  smart, 
And  often  I  pluck'd  at  the  red  rose-bud  till  I  pierced 

it  to  the  heart. 

1 11  make  me  a  posy  of  hyssop^— no  other  I  can  touch, 
That  all  the  world  may  plainly  see  I  love  one  flower 
too  much ; 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  65 

My  garden  is  run  wild  ! — where  shall  I  plant  anew  ? 
For  my  bed,  that  once  was  cover'd  with  thyme,  is  all 
overrun  with  rue. 


Dr  Whittaker  gives  a  traditional  version  of  part  of 
this  song,  which,  as  far  as  it  goes,  is  superior  to  the 
broadside  copy : — 

The  g^dener  standing  by,  profTer'd  to  choose  for  me 
The  pink,  the  primrose,  and  the  rose ;  but  I  refused 

the  three ; 
The  primrose  I  forsook,  because  it  came  too  soon ; 
The  violet  I  overlook'di  and  voVd  to  wait  till  June. 

In  June  the  red  rose  sprung,  but  was  no  flower  for  me ; 

I  pluck*d  it  up,  lo  !  by  the  stalk,  and  planted  the  wil- 
low-tree. 

The  willow  I  now  must  wear,  with  sorrows  twfned 
among, 

That  all  the  world  may  know  I  falsehood  loved  too  long. 


THE  SPRIG  OF  THYME. 

(FROM  A  BROADSIDE  IN  THE  GREAVES  COLLECTION.) 

This  is  a  song  of  the  same  character  as  "  Love's 
Evil  Choice."  We  copy  it  from  a  broadside  in  the 
Collection  of  Ballads  made  by  the  late  John  Greaves, 
Esq.  of  Irlam  Hall.  It  will  be  seen  that  the  last  stanza 
but  one  is  very  similar  to  the  first  stanza  of  the  frag- 
ment printed  by  Dr  Whittaker. 

E 


66  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

You  virgins  far  and  near, 
That  are  just  in  your  prime, 

I  'd  have  you  keep  your  gardens  clear, 
Let  no  one  steal  your  thyme. 

Once  I  had  a  sprig  of  thyme, 
And  it  flourish'd  night  and  day, 

Until  there  came  a  false  young  man, 
And  he  stole  my  thyme  away. 

But  now  my  thyme 's  all  gone, 

No  more  I  can  it  see ; 
The  man  who  stole  my  thyme  away, 

He  did  prove  false  to  me. 

Since  now  my  thyme 's  all  gone. 

And  I  can  plant  no  new, 
In  the  very  place  where  grew  my  thyme, 

It's  overrun  with  rue. 

Rue,  rue,  runs  over  all ; 

But  so  it  shall  not  seem, 
For  I  '11  plant  again  in  the  same  place, 

And  call  it  the  willow  green. 

Willow,  willow,  I  must  wear. 
Willow,  willow,  is  my  doom, 

Since  my  false  love 's  forsaken  me, 
And  left  me  here  to  moan. 

A  gardener  standing  by. 
Three  flowers  he  offer'd  me, 

The  lily,  pink,  and  red  rose-bud, 
But  I  refused  all  three. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  67 

The  pink  it  is  a  flower  that  *s  sweet, 

So  is  the  rose  in  June ; 
The  lily  is  the  virgin  flower, 

Alas  !  oft  cropp*d  too  soon. 


COLIN   AND   PHEBE. 

A  PASTORAL. 

By  John  Byrom,  M.A.,  F.RS. 

This  pastoral  song  was  written  while  its  author  was 
a  student  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  It  was  first 
printed  in  17 14  as  No.  603  of  the  Spectator.  The 
lady  in  whose  praise  it  was  written  was  Joanna,  the 
youngest  daughter  of  the  celebrated  Dr  Bentley, 
Master  of  Trinity  College.  She  was  married  to  Dr 
Dennison  Cumberland,  Bishop  of  Clonfert,  Ireland, 
and  was  mother  of  Richard  Cumberland  the  dramatist. 
John  Byrom  was  bom  at  Manchester  in  1691,  and  died 
September  28,  1763. 

My  time,  O  ye  Muses,  was  happily  spent, 
When  Phebe  went  with  me  wherever  I  went ; 
Ten  thousand  sweet  pleasures  I  felt  in  my  breast ; 
Sure  never  fond  shepherd  Uke  Colin  was  blest ! 
But  now  she  has  gone  and  has  left  me  behind. 
What  a  marvellous  change  on  a  sudden  I  find  t 
When  things  seem*d  as  fine  as  could  possibly  be, 
I  thought  'twas  the  spring ;  but  alas  !  it  was  she. 


68  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

With  such  a  companion  to  tend  a  few  sheep, 

To  rise  up  and  play,  or  to  lie  down  and  sleep, 

So  good-humour'd  made  me,  so  cheerful  and  gay, 

My  heart  was  as  light  as  a  feather  all  day. 

But  now  I  so  cross  and  so  peevish  am  grown, 

So  strangely  uneasy  as  never  was  known. 

My  fair  one  is  gone,  and  my  joys  are  all  drown*d  ; 

And  my  heart,  I  am  sure,  weighs  more  than  a  pound. 

The  fountain  that  wont  to  run  sweetly  along, 
And  dance  to  soft  murmurs  the  pebbles  among. 
Thou  know*st,  little  Cupid,  if  Phebe  was  there, 
'Twas  pleasure  to  look  at,  'twas  music  to  hear. 
But  now  she  is  absent,  I  walk  by  its  side, 
And  still  as  it  murmurs  do  nothing  but  chide  ; 
"'  Must  you  be  so  cheerful,  while  I  go  in  pain  "> 
Peace  there  with  your  bubbling,  and  hear  me  com- 
plain." 

When  round  me  my  lambkins  would  oftentimes  play, 

And  Phebe  and  I  were  as  joyful  as  they, 

How  pleasant  their  sporting,  how  happy  the  time 

When  spring,  love,  and  beauty  were  all  in  their  prime ! 

But  now  in  their  frolics,  when  by  me  they  pass, 

I  fling  at  their  fleeces  a  handful  of  grass ; 

''  Be  still ! "  then  I  cry,  '*  for  it  makes  me  quite  mad 

To  see  you  so  merry  while  I  am  so  sad." 

My  dog  I  was  ever  well  pleasM  to  see 
Come  wagging  his  tail  to  my  fair  one  and  me  ; 
Phebe  likewise  was  pleased,  and  to  my  dog  said, 
**  Come  hither,  poor  fellow  !'*  and  patted  his  head. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  69 

But  now  when  he 's  fawning,  I,  with  a  sour  look, 
Cxy  '*  Sirrah !"  and  give  him  a  blow  with  my  crook. 
And  I  *11  give  him  another ;  for  why  should  not  Tray 
Be  as  dull  as  his  master  when  Phebe  's  away. 


When  walking  with  Phebe  what  sights  have  I  seen  ! 
How  fair  were  the  flowers,  how  fresh  was  the  green ! 
What  a  lovely  appearance  the  trees  and  the  shade, 
The  corn-fields,  the  hedges,  and  everything  made  ! 
But  now  she  has  left  me,  they  all  are  in  tears. 
Not  one  of  them  half  so  delightful  appears ; 
^was  nought  but  the  magic,  I  find,  of  her  eyes 
That  made  all  those  beautiful  prospects  arise. 


Sweet  music  attended  us  all  the  wood  through. 
The  lark,  linnet,  throstle,  and  nightingale  too ; 
Winds  over  us  whispered,  flocks  by  us  did  bleat, 
And  "  chirp  "  went  tJhe  grasshopper  under  our  feet. 
Now,  since  she  is  absent,  though  still  they  sing  on. 
The  woods  are  but  lonely,  the  melody's  gone  ; 
Her  voice  in  the  concert,  as  now  I  have  found. 
Gave  everything  else  its  agreeable  sound. 

Rose,  what  is  become  of  thy  delicate  hue  ? 

And  where  is  the  violet's  beautiful  blue  ? 

Does  aught  of  its  sweetness  the  blossom  beguile  ? 

That  meadow,  those  daisies,  why  do  they  not  smile  ? 

Ah !  rivals,  I  see  what  it  was,  that  you  drest 

And  made  yourselves  fine  for — a  place  in  her  breast ; 

You  put  on  your  colours  to  please  her  fine  eye, 

To  be  pluck'd  by  her  hand,  on  her  bosom  to  die. 


70  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

How  shortly  time  creeps !    Till  my  Phebe  return, 
Amid  the  soft  zephyr's  cool  breezes  I  bum ! 
Methinks  if  I  knew  whereabout  he  would  tread, 
I  could  breathe  on  his  wings,  it  would  melt  down  the 

lead. 
Fly  swifter,  ye  minutes,  bring  hither  my  dear, 
And  for  it  rest  longer  when  she  shall  be  here. 
Ah !  Colin,  old  Time  is  too  full  of  delay, 
Nor  will  budge  one  foot  faster  for  all  thou  canst  say. 

Will  no  pityingf  power,  that  hears  me  complain, 
Or  cure  my  disquiet,  or  soften  my  pain  ? 
To  be  cured  thou  must,  Colin,  thy  passion  remove  ; 
Yet  what  swain  is  so  silly  to  live  without  love  ? 
No,  deity,  bid  the  dear  nymph  to  return ; 
For  ne'er  was  poor  shepherd  so  sadly  forlorn. 
Ah !  what  shall  I  do  ?    I  shall  die  with  despair ! 
Take  heed  all  ye  swains  how  ye  part  with  your  fair ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  71 

SONGS. 

By  William  Rowlinson  of  Manchester. 

This  rhymester  was  for  some  time  a  clerk  in  the 
employ  of  Messrs  Cardwell  &  Co.,  in  their  cotton 
warehouse,  Newmarket  Buildings,  Manchester,  which 
employment  he  left  about  the  end  of  1828,  and  became 
a  travelling  canvasser  for  Pigot  &  Co.*s  Manchester 
Directories.  He  was  drowned  while  bathing  in  the 
river  Thames,  near  Great  Marlow,  Bucks,  on  the  22d 
June  1829.  He  wrote  "  The  Autobiography  of  William 
Charles  Lovell,"  (himself,)  and  many  poetical  pieces  in 
the  local  periodicals  of  the  time,  of  Manchester,  Liver- 
pool, Whitby,  &c.  We  select  four  of  his  songs  from 
what  he  called  the  "  Lyrics  of  the  Heart." 


THE  MOON  IS  BRIGHT. 
Air — ** Row  gently  here^  my  Gondolier,** 

The  moon  is  bright,  the  soft  starlight 

Has  gemm'd  the  silver  stream  ; 
The  silent  flight  of  stars  to-night, 

How  beautiful  they  seem  ; — 
And  all  around  is  flung  a  power 

To  charm  the  silent  heart ; 
The  moon,  stars,  stream,  dew,  leaf,  and  flower. 

Proclaim  how  dear  thou  art. 


72  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

The  stream  glides  on,  the  moonlight's  gone, 

The  stars  have  died  away ; 
The  leaves  are  strewn,  flowers,  one  by  one, 

Fade,  wither,  and  decay. 
But  yet  my  love  for  thee  is  such. 

Time  alters  not  my  heart ; 
And  every  change  wrought  by  his  touch 

But  tells  how  dear  thou  art 


MARGARET. 

Artist's  chisel  could  not  trace 
Such  a  form,  with  so  much  grace  \ 
Never  in  Italian  skies 
Dwells  such  light  as  in  her  eyes. 
Sweeter  music  ne*er  was  sung 
Than  hangs  ever  on  her  tongue ; 
Roses  have  not  such  a  glow 
As  that  upon  her  brilliant  brow. 
All  that's  bright  and  fair  are  met 
In  lovely,  charming  Margaret. 

O'er  her  forehead,  brightly  fair, 
Loosely  floats  her  auburn  hair, 
CurFd  in  ringlets  with  a  flow. 
Round  a  neck  as  white  as  snow  ; 
Wild  her  eye  as  the  gazelle's, 
Where  lurk  love's  ten  thousand  spells ; 
Fleet  her  step  as  woodland  fawn, 
Skipping  o'er  the  dewy  lawn  ; 
In  her  every  grace  is  met, 
None  may  rival  Margaret. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  73 

I  will  love  her  whilst  her  mind 
Is  pure  and  holy,  good,  refined, 
Whilst  such  lovely  glances  fly 
From  the  heaven  of  her  eye ; 
Or  pure  feeling's  ardent  glow 
Shines  upon  her  open  brow ; 
I  should  not  be  won  unless 
Her  virtues  match*d  her  loveliness. 
On  my  heart  a  seal  is  set, 
And  on  it  graven — Margaret. 


REMEMBER  ME. 

Remember  me !  remember  me,  when  in  the  sapphire 

heaven 
The  stars  have  glanced,  like  ladies*  eyes,  upon  the 

dews  of  even ; 
And  glistening  on  each  silver  flower  the  dew  has  hung 

a  gem. 
Which  dazzles  like  the  diamonds  in  a  kingly  diadem. 


Remember  me!  remember  me,  when  in  the  western 

sky 
Sunset  has  woven^  of  bright  clouds,  a  crimson  canopy, 
And  all  her  thousand  golden  hues  sleep  on  the  ocean's 

breast, 
As  slow  and  calm  he  sinks  to  sleep,  like  a  monarch  to 

his  rest. 


74  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Remember  me !  remember  me,  when  with  the  summer 

flowers 
Thy  fairy  fingers  form  a  wreath  in  beauty's  brightest 

bowers ; 
And  lingering  round  thy  ruby  lips  is  pleasure's  brightest 

ray, 
Oh !  think  how  I  would  kiss  those  lips,  if  I  were  not 

away. 


Remember  me !  remember  me,  when  in  thy  prayers  to 
Heaven, 

Thy  form  just  like  a  sculptured  saint — thou  pra/st  to 
be  forgiven  ; 

Oh,  mingle  then  my  name  with  thine,  as  I  shall  do  for 
thee ; 

At  all  these  times — ^in  all  these  things — lady,  remem- 
ber me! 


THE  INVITATION. 

Oh,  come  when  the  stars  of  heaven 

Are  bright  in  their  glorious  home  ; 
When  the  lingering  stars  of  even 

Through  gardens  of  emerald  roam ; 
When  the  music  that 's  flung  from  fountains 

Has  a  soft  and  magic  tone, 
And  the  moonlight  sleeps  on  the  mountains, 

Like  dreams  of  flowers  that  are  gone. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  75 

Oh,  come  when  the  night-dews  glisten, 

And  the  star-beams  glide  on  the  sea, 
And  look  from  their  thrones  to  listen 

The  wave  rolling  joyous  and  free  ; 
When  on  her  rich  couch  beauty  slumbers. 

Within  her  loveliest  bower, 
And  music's  wild  thrilling  numbers 

Float  over  each  silvery  flower. 

Oh,  come  with  thy  beauty  glowing, 

Thy  bright  dazzling  eyes  of  blue, 
Thy  radiant  locks  wildly  flowing, 

Round  a  neck  of  the  purest  hue ; 
With  the  noiseless  foot  of  a  fairy. 

Thine  eyes  sparkling  wild  with  glee, 
And  thy  form  so  light  and  airy, 

I  pray  thee,  love,  come  to  me. 


KITTY  AN'  ROBIN. 

SONG    IN    THE    EAST    LANCASHIRE    DIALECT. 

By  the  Author  of  "  Scarsdale." 

"  Whear  hast  teh  been  roaming,  Kitty  ?" 

"  Oi'n  nobbut  been  to  th'  well" 
"  Whear  didst  get  yon  posy,  Kitty  ?" 

"  Oi'n  met  wi*  Robin  Bell ; 
He  wur  sittin'  top  o*  th*  stele, 

Reet  i'  th'  setting  sun  ; 
The  dazzlin*  glare  it  made  me  reel, 

Oi  dropt  my  pail,  an'  run." 


76  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

"  An*  what  did  Robin,  Kitty  ?'' 

"He  chased  me  through  the  corn." 
"  Whear  didst  teh  flee  to,  Kitty  ?" 

^  Oi  fell  into  a  thorn. 
Then  Robin  helped  me  fro'  the  grund, 

He  wur  some  koind  fur  sure  ; 
An'  nowt  'ud  fit  him  till  he  fund 

This  posy  for  my  hure." 

"  What  is  gone  wi'  t*  weyter,  Kitty  ?" 

«  Oh,  Robin  fiU'd  my  paiL" 
"  An'  did  he  bring  it  whoam  then,  Kitty  ?" 

"  Oh  ay,  how  could  he  fail  ? 
He  said  he  'd  fot  it  every  neet, 

If  yo  'd  bur  let  him  come  ; 
His  wark  is  over  whoile  it's  leet, 

An'  he 's  noan  far  fro*  whoam." 

"  How  lang  hast  known  o'  Robin,  Kitty  ?" 

"  He 's  alius  on  yon  stele." 
"  Whoi  didst  na  tell  thi  mother,  Kitty  ?" 

"  Oi  thowt  yo  'd  known  it  wecL 
He  says  he 's  addled  fifty  pund, 

An'  bowt  a  kist  an'  clock ; 
He 's  ta'en  a  farm  wi'  gradely  grund. 

His  feyther'U  foind  the  stock." 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  77 

THE  LOVER'S  CALI. 

(FROM  <*  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.") 

By  J.  C  Prince. 

Oh  !  when  will  the  sweet  spring  come, 

With  its  sunshine,  odours,  and  flowers, 
And  bring  my  beloved  one  home. 

To  brighten  the  vernal  hours  ? 
Like  a  worthless  weed  or  a  stone 

On  the  verge  of  the  surging  sea, 
I  am  silent,  and  sad,  and  lone. 

Bereft  of  thy  smiles  and  thee. 

To  the  haunts  where  we  used  to  rove, 

My  loitering  footsteps  go. 
Where  I  heard  thy  confession  of  love 

So  tremulous,  sweet,  and  low ; 
But  the  rivulet  seems  to  moan 

That  thou  art  not  also  there. 
And  the  trees  send  a  plaintive  tone, 

Like  a  sigh  on  the  evening  air. 

I  can  find  no  charm  in  the  day. 

No  calm  in  the  sombre  night ; 
Thou  hast  ta'en  my  repose  away, 

And  clouded  the  cheerful  light : 
To  the  heart  that  can  love  thee  best 

Return,  if  still  loyal  to  me ; 
Come  back,  that  my  soul  may  rest, — 

I  am  weary  waiting  for  thee. 


78  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

MEG  OR  JENNY? 

song  in  the  east  lancashire  dialect. 

By  the  Author  of  "  Scarsdale." 

Woe  betoide  the  evil  eye 

As  smote  eawr  honest  Jim, 
He  does  nowt  bur  poine  an*  soigh ; 

So  what 's  amiss  wi'  him  ? 
Alone  thro*  cloof  and  moor  he  'U  roam, 

As  tho'  he  were  na*  reet ; 
And  oft  he  'U  ma*e  the  heath  his  whoam 
Thro'  all  the  starless  neet. 
Is  it  Meg,  or  is  it  Jenny  ? 
Shall  we  brun  owd  Meg  ? 
Or,  oh  !  wilt  wed  meh,  Jenny  ? 

Meg 's  hook-nosed,  toothless,  skinny. 

She 's  crook-back'd,  hobbling,  shrill ; 
What  gowden  hair  has  Jenny, 
Sweet  rose  o'  Pendle  Hill ! 
Her  step  is  loike  a  roe*s,  that  floies 

Up  Sabden's  sharpest  pitch. 
But  beware  her  fatal  eyes. 
The  forest's  pretty  witch. 

Who 's  the  witch,  or  Meg  or  Jenny  ? 
Shall  we  brun  owd  Meg  ? 
Or,  oh  !  wilt  wed  meh,  Jenny? 

No  forest  hag  with  arts  of  hell, 

Had  power  like  Jenny's  eye. 
To  hold  the  heart  as  in  a  spell. 

Of  love  an'  mystery. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  79 

Her  dower  is  beauty,  truth,  an'  grace, 

In  gifts  of  nature  rich, 
There  is  no  sorcery  loike  the  face 
Of  Pendle's  latest  witch. 

Who 's  the  witch,  or  Meg  or  Jenny  ? 
Shall  we  brun  owd  Meg  ? 
Or,  oh  !  wilt  wed  meh,  Jenny  ? 

Meet  wi'  bowder  face  her  charm ; 
Tell  her  yo'  con  match  her  art ; 
Smoiles  an*  beauty  work  no  harm  ; 

Nowt  win  boind  bur  heart  wi'  heart. 
The  spell  'at  howds  a  soul  whoile  death. 

Firm  in  danger's  straitest  hitch, 
Is  troth  for  troth  wi'  honour's  breath, 
Of  Pendle's  sweetest  witch ! 

Thae  'rt  the  witch,  moi  dearest  Jenny, 
Never  brun  owd  Meg, 
For.theau  wilt  wed  meh,  Jenny. 


OH,  WELL  I  LOVE  MY  GENTLE  MAID. 

By  J.  B.  ROGERSON. 

Oh,  well  I  love  my  gentle  maid. 

For  she  is  young  and  fair ; 
Her  eye  is  as  the  summer  sky. 

Like  moon-clouds  is  her  hair ; 
Her  voice  is  tuneful  as  a  bird's, 

Her  step  is  light  and  free. 
And  better  far  than  all  besides, 

She  dearly  loveth  me. 


8o  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

I  chose  my  love  from  out  the  crowd 

Of  beauty  and  of  youth  ; 
I  chose  her  for  her  loveliness, 

I  chose  her  for  her  truth ; 
I  never  cease  to  bless  that  hour, 

When  first  I  chanced  to  see 
The  graceful  and  the  beauteous  one 

Who  dearly  loveth  me. 


'Tis  not  amid  a  festive  group 

My  love  doth  seem  most  fair  ; 
She  best  becomes  the  cheerful  hearth, 

And  well  I  love  her  there ; 
For,  oh,  'twas  in  her  quiet  home — 

A  maid's  sweet  sanctuary — 
That  first  I  won  her  sinless  heart, 

And  knew  her  love  for  me. 


It  may  be  wrong — I  cannot  brook 

That  each  rude  eye  should  greet 
The  brightness  of  her  fawn«-like  glance, 

Her  form  and  features  sweet ; 
Oh,  no  I  I  would  that  her  dear  charms 

Should  all  mine  own  charms  be, 
I  would  not  lose  one  glance  of  hers 

Who  dearly  loveth  me. 

I  do  not  think  a  wish  of  hers 

To  others  e'er  can  stray — 
I  know  I  am  her  dream  by  night, 

Her  thought  throughout  the  day ; 


.     BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  8i 

But  as  the  miser  hides  his  gold, 

His  soul's  divinity, 
So  would  I  hide  from  eyes  of  man 

The  maid  who  loveth  me. 

'Tis  sweet  to  know  a  treasure  mine, 

Which  none  besides  can  share  ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  think  that  beauty's  lips 

Are  moved  for  me  in  prayer ; 
'Tis  sweet  when  she  doth  soothe  my  woe, 

Or  light  my  hours  of  glee — 
Oh,  well  I  love  the  gentle  maid. 

Who  dearly  loveth  me. 


MY  WYNDER.* 

Tune — The  rose-tree  in  full  bearing, 

(FROM    "HOMELY   RHYMES,'*    ETC.) 

By  Samuel  Bamford. 

Wjhere  Gerrard's  stream,  with  pearly  gleam, 

Runs  down  in  gay  meander, 
A  weaver  boy,  bereft  of  joy. 

Upon  a  time  did  wander. 
"Ah  !  well-a-day!"  the  youth  did  say, 

^  I  wish  I  did  not  mind  her ; 
I  'm  sure  had  she  regarded  me, 

I  ne'er  had  lost  my  wynder. 

*  Each  weaver  in  a  silk  or  a  cotton  mill  needs  the  aid  of  a  winder,  ustt- 
ally  a  girl  or  young  woman. 

F 


82  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

'*  Her  ready  hand  was  white  as  milk, 

Her  fingers  finely  moulded, 
And  when  she  touched  a  thread  of  silk, 

Like  magic  it  was  folded 
She  tum*d  her  wheel,  she  sang  her  song, 

And  sometimes  I  have  joined*  her : 
Oh,  that  one  strain  would  wake  again 

From  thee,  my  lovely  wynder ! 

''  And  when  the  worsted  hank  she  wound^ 

Her  skill  was  further  proved  ; 
No  thread  uneven  there  was  found, 

Her  bobbins  never  roved. 
With  sweet  content,  to  work  she  went. 

And  never  look'd  behind  her, 
With  fretful  eye,  for  ills  to  spy ; 

But  now  I  *ve  lost  my  wynder. 

''  And  never  would  she  let  me  wait 

When  downing  f  on  a  Friday ; 
Her  wheel  went  at  a  merry  rate. 

Her  person  always  tidy. 
But  she  is  gone,  and  I  'm  alone ; 

I  know  not  where  to  find  her ; 
I  Ve  sought  the  hill,  the  wood  and  rill ; 

No  tidings  of  my  wynder. 

« I  've  sought  her  at  the  dawn  of  day, 

I  Ve  sought  her  at  the  noonin' ; 
I  Ve  sought  her  when  the  evening  gray 

Had  brought  the  hollow  moon  in« 

*  In  Lancashire  pronounced  y/iiA/.'  consequently  a  true  rhyme  to 
t  Finishing  the  weaving  of  a  "cut,'*  web,  or  piece. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  83 

I  Ve  call*d  her  on  the  darkest  night, 

With  wizard  spells  to  bind  her  ; 
And  when  the  stars  arose  in  light, 

I  Ve  wandei'd  forth  to  find  her. 

^  Her  hair  was  like  the  raven's  plume, 

And  hung  in  tresses  bonny ; 
Her  cheeks  so  fair  did  roses  bear, 

That  blush'd  as  sweet  as  ony. 
With  slender  waist,  and  carriage  chaste. 

Her  looks  were  daily  kinder, 
I  mourn  and  rave,  and  cannot  weave/ 

Since  I  have  lost  my  wynder. 


CANZONETTE. 

By  J.  B.  ROGERSON. 

There  is  a  place  where  the  forest  boughs 

Bend  down  to  a  quiet  stream, 
And  so  lovely  it  looks  in  its  bright  repose, 

That  it  seems  as  'twere  wrapt  in  a  dream  ; 
The  water-lily  uplifts  its  head 

In  that  sweet  and  pleasant  home, 
Like  a  living  pearl  in  a  silver  bed, 

Or  a  bell  of  the  wave's  white  foam  ; 
There  comes  not  a  sound  on  the  passing  air. 

Save  the  young  birds'  cheerful  call — 
Beloved  one  I  wilt  thou  meet  me  there, 

When  the  shadows  of  even  fall  ? 

*  Pronounced  wayve. 


84  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

There  is  a  bower  on  that  peaceful  spot, 

Which  some  fond  hand  hath  wrought, 
Where  the  feet  of  the  worldling  enter  not, 

Sacred  to  love  and  thought ; 
Full  many  fair  flowers  beside  it  sigh, 

And  the  myrtle  around  it  creeps, 
The  breeze  becomes  sweet  as  it  floateth  by, 

And  the  bee  in  its  roses  sleeps ; 
The  stars  alone  will  our  secrets  share, 

Unseen  and  unheard  by  all — 
Beloved  one  I  wilt  thou  meet  me  there 

When  the  shadows  of  even  fall  ? 


PEGGY  DILL. 
By  Henry  Kirk,  of  Goosnargh. 

The  world  has  not  a  shyer  nook, 

For  bashful  Love  to  stray. 
Than  the  hollow  by  the  winding  brook, 

When  whin-shrubs  blossom  gay  * 
There  lingering  oft  with  Peggy  Dill, 

We  found  sweet  music  in 
The  jogging  of  the  distant  mill, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  linn. 

'Twas  there,  in  that  delightful  hour 

The  twilight  gathers  o'er, 
When  the  heart  is  open  to  the  power 

Of  Love's  insidious  lore. 


BA  LLADS  OF  LANCA  SHIRE,  85 

I  bound  my  faith  with  Peggy  Dill, 

Lone  list'ning  to  the  din 
Of  the  jogging  of  the  distant  mill, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  linn. 

1  never  hear  a  brawling  brook, 

Or  old  mills  "  pick-a-peck," 
Or  see,  within  some  dell,  a  nook, 

Which  yellow  whin-shrubs  deck. 
But  to  tell  sweet  tales  of  Peggy  Dill 

Old  memories  begin, 
With  the  jogging  of  the  distant  mill, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  linn. 


SHE'S  NOT  SO  FAIR. 
By  Charles  Swain. 

She's  not  so  fair  as  many  there, 

But  she's  as  loved  as  any, 
And  few  you'll  find  with  such  a  mind, 

Or  such  a  heart,  as  Nannie : 
A  maiden  grace,  a  modest  face, 

A  smile  to  win  us  ever ; 
And  she  has  sense,  without  pretence — 

She's  good  as  she  is  clever ! 

She 's  not  so  fine  as  some  may  shine, 
With  feathers,  pearls,  and  laces  ; 

But  oh,  she 's  got,  what  they  have  not, 
With  all  their  borrowed  graces, — 


86  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Eyes  blue  and  bright  with  heaven's  iight^ 
That  kindle  with  devotion ; 

A  cheek  of  rose,  a  heart  that  glows 
With  every  sweet  emotion ! 
She 's  not  so  fair,  &c. 


BERTHA. 
By  Henry  Kirk,  of  Goosnargh. 

Low,  by  Ribble*s  scaury  side, 

Swept  the  soft,  autumnal  breeze ; 
Faint  its  whispering  murmurs  died. 

High  in  Tonbrook's  crowded  trees. 
Sad,  at  intervals,  the  grove 

Shook  beneath  a  fitful  blast ; 
Like  a  heart  that  vainly  strove 

Back  to  crush  some  sorrow  past ! 

Bertha  came  not  to  the  seat 

Of  our  fonder,  earlier  faith ; 
False  the  heart  that  was  to  beat 

Constant,  truthful,  e*en  to  death ! 
Bertha,  little  did  I  deem 

Thou  couldst  thus  inconstant  be, 
Warm  as  still  thy  vows  would  seem, 

Plighted  in  that  grove  to  me ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  87 

MY  JOHNNY. 
By  R.  R.  Bealey. 

My  Johnny  is  the  bonniest  lad 

'Ut  lives  i'  Rachda'  town — 
His  een  are  blue,  his  cheeks  are  red, 

His  curly  yure  is  brown. 
He  walks  just  like  a  gentleman — 

And  that  *s  just  what  he'll  be ; 
Aw  like  to  walk  about  wi'  him, 

An*  let  o  th'  neighbours  see. 

An'  then  he 's  gettin'  lamt  i'  books, 

An'  reads  o  th'  pappers  too ; 
And  when  he  comes  a  courtin'  me 

He  tells  me  all  'ut*s  new. 
He  sends  a  letter  now  and  then, 

An'  writes  outside  it — "  Miss ;  * 
An'  as  it  comes  instead  of  John, 

It  alius  gets  a  kiss. 


He  warks  i'  the  factory,  an'  if  those 

'Ut  wear  his  wark  but  knew 
What  sort  o'  chap  the  weyver  wur, 

They  'd  love  it  same 's  aw  do. 
They  'd  nobbut  wear 't  in  better  days, 

Then  lay  it  nicely  by ; 
John  mixes  love  wi*  everything. 

An'  ma'es  bread  taste  like  pie. 


88  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

On  Sunday  when  aw  goo  to  church, 

An'  get  set  nicely  down, 
Aw  never  know  what  th'  parson  says, 

My  heart's  i'  Rachda'  town. 
But  Johnny  comes  i'  th'  afternoon, 

An'  never  speaks  in  vain  ; 
Aw  swallow  every  word  he  says, 

Like  thirsty  flowers  drink  rain. 


Aw  like  to  yer  at  th'  cookoo  sing, 

r  weepin'  April's  days ; 
Aw  like  to  look  at  the  layrock  rise, 

An'  scatter  down  his  praise. 
Aw  like  to  stand  i*  th'  quiet  lone. 

While  dayleet  passes  by ; 
But  more  by  the  hauve  nor  these,  aw  like 

To  yer  my  Johnny  sigh. 

Oh  happy  me,  oh  lucky  me. 

To  haveja  chap  like  John ; 
He  says  aw'm  th'  nicest  lass  i'  th'  world, 

Aw 'm  sure  he's  th'  finest  mon. 
He  hasn't  got  a  single  fau't, 

An's  fur  too  good  for  me  ; 
But  since  my  Johnny  loves  me  so. 

My  very  best  aw  11  be. 

He  says  he's  puttin*  money  by. 

To  get  a  heawse  for  me ; 
An'  when  he's  gotten  brass  enough. 

He  says  we  wed  mun  be. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  89 

Aw  dunnot  like  to  think  o'  that, 

An'  yet  it's  gradely  true : 
To  be  John's  sweetheart  0  my  life 

Aw  think  'ud  hardly  do. 


TO  MARY. 
By  the  Editor. 

As  the  thirsty  desert-wanderer  seeks  the  oasis  green 
and  fair ; 

As  for  pardon  seeks  the  penitent,  with  tears  and  fer- 
vent prayer ; 

As  youth  seeks  fame,  and  age  seeks  rest,  and  the  life- 
sick  look  above ; 

As  all  in  hope  seek  happiness, — so  have  I  sought  thy 
love. 

With  blushes  mantling  on  thy  cheek,  with  modesty 

and  grace, 
With  tears  and  smiles  alternating  upon  thy  lovely 

face; 
With  rourmurings  soft  and  sweeter  far  than  music  of 

the  grove, 
With  faith  and  trust  and  purity, — ^thou  gavest  me  thy 

love. 

As  misers  guard  their  golden  god — as  maidens  prize 

their  fame — 
As  honest  men  would  keep  through  life  a  pure  and 

spotless  name— 


90  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

As  hope  is  held  to  wretched  hearts — ^as  pity  shields  the 
dove — 

So  I  guard,  I  prize,  I  hold,  I  keep,  thy  pure  and  price- 
less love. 

Than  radiant  light  more  lustrous,  than  life  itself  more 

dear ; 
Richer  than  all  the  riches  of  this  transitory  sphere  ; 
Outliving  change  and  death,  in  eternity  above — 
This  has  been — Mary !  this  is  now, — this  e'er  shall  be, 

our  love. 


COME,  LOVE,  AND  SING. 

By  J.  B.  ROGERSON. 

Come,  love,  and  sing,  in  thy  tones  sweet  and  low, 
The  song  which  I  heard  from  thy  lips  long  ago, 
When  thine  eyes  were  as  bright,  and  thy  cheeks  were 

as  fair 
As  the  hues  which  the  skies  and  the  summer  flowers 

wear, 
And  vainly  I  strove  with  my  kisses  to  chase 
The  pure  stream  of  blushes  that  rush'd  o'er  thy  face. 

Come,  sing  me  that. song,  love,  'twill  bring  back  the  day. 
When  my  heart  was  lit  up  by  Affection's  first  ray  ; 
When  thy  name  to  mine  ears  was  a  sound  of  delight. 
And  I  gazed  on  thine  image  in  dreams  of  the  night, 
And  arose,  when  the  sky  wore  the  morning's  bright 

beam, 
But  to  muse  on  the  eyes  that  had  shone  in  my  dream. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  91 

Then  sing  me  that  song,  love ;  for  oh,  with  each  tone 
There  will  come  back  the  thoughts  of  the  hours  that 

are  gone — 
Of  the  love  that  had  birth  amid  blushes  and  fears, 
Yet  hath  lived  through  the  tempest  of  trouble  and 

tears; 
Oh !  that  time  will  come  back  of  deep  rapture  and 

pride, 
When  I  woo'd  thee  and  won  thee,  my  beautiful  bride ! 


ENGLAND'S  MAIDENS. 
By  Henry  Kirk,  of  Goosnargh. 

I  *VE  seen  the  lovely  spring-time  pass. 
Where  Rhine's  blue  waters  flow ; 

I  Ve  seen  the  flowers  of  summer  glass 
Their  beauties  in  the  Po ; 

I  've  seen  the  fruits  of  autumn  gleam 

On  Cintra's  pregnant  soil ; 
I  've  seen  the  stars  of  winter  beam 

On  Albion's  humid  isle. 

And  much  I  love  the  Rhenish  spring — 

Italia's  summer  flowers. 
And  simny  grapes,  which  clust'ring  string 

Oporto's  vine-hung  bowers  ; — 

But  more  I  love  the  beaming  stars, 

On  English  winter  nights. 
Our  bright  coals  flashing  in  the  bars — 

Red  lips  that  lips  invite. 


92  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Then  take  your  beauties  of  the  Rhine- 
Italia's,  Cintra*s,  shades ; 

The  holly-branch  shall  be  my  vine — 
My  flowers,  our  blooming  maids ! 


DECEIVED ! 
By  Mrs  G.  LiNNiEus  Banks. 

On  the  shore  of  a  tranquil  lake 

A  maiden  reclined  and  dream'd 
Of  the  hearts  she  would  win  and  break 

While  that  summer  sunlight  beam'd ; 
She  mused  o*er  her  victories  past, 

Of  her  captives  yet  to  be ; 
And  the  spells  she  would  round  them  cast 

To  bring  them  down  to  her  knee. 

On  the  shore  of  a  troubled  lake 

A  maiden  wandered  alone, 
'Mong  the  hearts  she  had  vow'd  to  break 

She  had  not  counted  her  own ; 
But  a  brighter  eye  than  her  own, 

A  tongue  as  false  and  as  fair. 
Won  her  soul  with  a  look  and  a  tone, 

Then  left  her  to  love  and  despair. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  93 


SERENADE. 

By  William  Mort. 

I  WILL  come  to  thee,  love,  when  the  bright  stars  are 

shining, 
And  the  weary  old  moon  in  her  course  is  declining, — 
With  a  fond  mother's  thought  slowly  stealing  away. 
That  her  children  may  join  unrestrained  in  their  play ! 

I  will  come. 

I  will  come  to  thee,  love,  when  night's  mantle  is  spread 
O'er  the  earth,  like  a  shroud  that  envelops  the  dead — 
Making  haUow*d  a  scene  which  might  else  from  thy 

breast 
Scare  the  innocent  thoughts  that  had  there  taken  rest ! 

I  will  come. 

I  will  come  to  thee,  love,  when  the  birds  are  all  sleep- 
ing, 

And  silence  barefooted  o*er  nature  is  creeping; 

When  the  trees  are  quite  still,  and  the  winds  hold 
their  breath, 

Lest  a  leaflet  disturb  the  hush'd  quiet  beneath ! 

I  will  come. 

I  will  come  to  thee,  love,  and  the  morrow  shall  find  us 
In  a  world  of  our  own,  where  no  shackles  may  bind  us ; 
I  will  come,  love,  ere  yet  the  stars  shrink  from  the  skies, 
And  my  guerdon  shall  be  the  sweet  thanks  of  thine  eyes ! 

I  will  come — I  will  come ! 


94  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


CANZONETTE. 
By  John  Crttchley  Prince. 

I  KNOW  a  star,  whose  gentle  beams 

Shine  with  a  pure  and  constant  ray, 
Inspire  me  with  delicious  dreams, 

And  cheer  me  on  my  lonely  way ; 
I  gaze  upon  its  tender  light, 

And  to  it  bow  the  adoring  knee ; 
But,  oh !  how  dreary  were  my  night 

Were  it  to  shine  no  more  for  me ! 

I  know  a  flower  of  beauteous  form, 

Whose  sweetness  is  beyond  compare ; 
I  fain  would  shield  it  from  the  storm, 

And  keep  it  ever  young  and  fair : 
It  glads  my  eyes,  it  soothes  my  heart, 

It  is  a  daily  charm  to  see ; 
But,  oh !  how  bitter  were  my  smart 

Were  it  to  bloom  no  more  for  me  I 

Thou  art  the  star,  thou  art  the  flower. 

My  precious,  peerless  maiden,  mine ! 
And  from  our  first  fond  meeting-hour 

My  love,  my  life,  were  wholly  thine  : 
But  wert  thou  call'd  beyond  the  spheres. 

How  joyless  would  the  wide  world  be ! 
How  sad  my  sighs,  how  true  my  tears, 

Wert  thou  to  live  no  more  for  me  ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  95 


MALLY. 
By  R.  R,  Bealey. 

When  fust  aw  seed  thee,  Mally,  lass, 

Theaw  knows  *twur  near  th*  owd  ho', 
I'  Weshbruck-lone,  tort  Witches-neest, 

Wheere  th*  doof  runs  deawn  below : 
'Tv^r  summer  toime,  an'  th'  honey  bees 

Could  sing,  but  dar'  no'  play. 
An'  th'  breezes  mixt  a  theawsand  smells 

C  fleaw'rs  an'  leaves  wi*  hay, 

Th'  com  had  reicht  its  youthfu'  days, 

An'  stood  booath  strung  an'  hee, 
Whoile  th'  cattle  grazed,  i*  meadows  green, 

Wi'  new  shorn  sheep  just  nee ; 
An'  th'  swallows  leetly  skim'd  o'er  th'  ponds, 

Then  dertcd  quick  away. 
While  th'  layruck,  fairly  eawt  o'  sect, 

Wur  singin'  o  th'  lung  day  ; 


An'  th'  ferns  an'  wild  fleawrs  deawn  i'  th'  cloof, 

An'  th'  velvet  mosses  too, 
Loike  nayburs  on  a  holiday, 

Seem'd  donn'd  i'  dresses  new ; 
An'  th'  pratty  little  tinklin'  bruck — 

A  babby  uv  a  stream — 
Play'd  music  uz  it  toddled  on, 

As  sweet  as  love's  fust  dream. 


96  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

My  hert  wur  reetly  tuned  for  love  ; 

An*  when  aw  lookt  on  thee, 
Aw  felt  as  if  aw'd  just  fun'  eawt 

Wot  heaven  itsel'  mun  be. 
Aw*re  stonnin'  just  at  th'  eend  o*  th'  cloof — 

'Twur  Sunday  afternoon, 
An*  th*  Prestwich  bells  wur  singin'  eawt 

Their  prattiest  Sunday  tune. 

Aw  felt  as  if  aw  th'  summer  toime  ^ 

Wur  bloomin'  i'  my  breast, 
Wi*  th*  fleawrs,  an*  trees,  an*  brids,  an'  brucks. 

An'  sunsheighne,  an'  o  th'  rest 
Thy  face  wur  th*  sun,  an'  aw  wur  th'  greawnd ; 

Aye,  Mally,  it  wur  so  ; 
An*  o  th'  good  seeds  sown  i'  my  breast 

Wur  made  \)y  thee  to  grow. 

Aw  seed  thy  leet  an'  curly  yure. 

Aw  seed  thy  soft,  blue  een. 
Aw  seed  thy  rosy,  dimpled  cheeks, 

Wi*  kissin*  lips  between ; 
An'  theaw  wur  donn'd  up  i'  thy  best— 

Theaw  lookt  so  foine  an'  shy — 
Theaw'd  get  new  shoon,  aw  seed  thy  foot 

Peep  eawt  so  peert  an'  sly. 


Aw  durstn't  speighk,  aw  could  bo'  look, 
Bo'  when  theaw'd  pass'd  me  by 

Aw  foUow'd  on,  as  near 's  aw  dar'. 
An'  heighved  up  monny  a  soigh ; 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  97 

Bu'  when  theaw  geet  to  th'  cend  o'  th*  lone 

Aw  tum'd  for  th'  «  Top  o'  Stond  ;" 
Aw  brasted  off  as  if  aw'rc  feort — 

By  th'  mass,  aw  did  clear  th'  lond. 


Eh !  but  aw  wur  some  takken  in, 

It  wur  a  bonny  go  ; 
Aw  fun  thee  speighkin'  snug  enoof, 

An'  lowfin  wi*  lung  Joe. 
O  th'  steom  shot  off  i'  hawve  a  crack, 

Aw're  loike  a  brid  i'  rain  ; 
Aw  thowt  theaw  wur  his  sweethert,  lass, 

So  aw  slunk  whoam  ogen. 

'Twur  th'  feawest  walk  aw  ever  had. 

Though  sitch  a  pratty  day ; 
A.W  seed  nowt  noice,  not  aw  indeed, 

But  purr'd  aw  th'  stones  i*  th'  way. 
/Vw  hung  my  yed  an'  welly  cried. 

An'  wur  so  gradely  mad, 
An'  bote  my  lips,  an'  knit  my  brees, 

An'  then  tum'd  soppin'  sad. 

Aw'd  getten  cleawds  insoide  o'  me, 

My  day  wur  tum'd  to  neet ; 
Aw're  cromm'd  so  full  o'  derkness  then. 

There  wur  no  reawm  for  leet 
O  th'  seawnds  aw  yerd  wur  mufBed  'uns, 

Just  loike  a  berryin'  bell ; 
Aw'd  sitch  a  nowt  and  dummy  feel. 

So  numb  aw  conno  tell. 

G 


n 


98  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

My  mother  ax't  me  wot  wur  t'  da— 

Hoo  thowt  aw  mut  be  ill — 
An'  made  some  gruel,  spoiced  an'  noice. 

An'  browt  a  doctor's  pill. 
But  that  'ud  do  no  good,  nor  it. 

It  noane  cures  th'  hert  o'  woe ; 
Bo'  aw  thowt  if  aw  could  ha'  my  will 

Aw'd  give  a  pill  to  Joe. 


Aw  fret  o  day,  an'  rowlt  o  neet, 

Abeawt  a  wick  or  two, 
An'  then  my  mother  fun'  me  eawt, 

An'  said  aw  wur  a  foo'. 
Hoo  towd  me  t'  goo  an'  speighk  to  th'  lass, 

An'  get  it  some  road  o'er ; 
Mak  th'  job  a  kiss,  or  else  a  miss  ; 

But  dunno  lay  on  th'  floor. 


Hoo  met  as  weel  ha'  spoke  to  th'  pump — 

Aw  know'd  naught  wot  hoo  said  ; 
Bo'  then  my  fayther  coom,  by  th' mass ! 

An'  deawted  me  o'er  th'  yed 
Owd  lass,  that  gaen  me  sitch  a  stert, 

Aw  jumpt  reet  off  my  cheor ; 
Th'  owd  pluck  coom  back ;  aw  show'd  for  feight ; 

As  if  aw'd  had  t'  mitch  beer. 


Then  mother  lowft,  an'  fayther  lowft, 
An'  said,  "  Goo  lad,  eawr  Dick ; 

He 's  getten  th'  foo's  cap  on  at  last ; 
Poor  lad,  he 's  tum't  love  sick." 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  99 

Aw  felt  as  soft  as  buttermilk, 

Bo*  wot  wur  th'  wust  uv  o, 
Aw're  welly  lowfin'  eawt  mysel', 

They  o  wur  lowfin*  so. 


Next  day  my  fayther  made  me  wurtch« 

An*,  laws,  it  helpt  me  on, 
Aw're  better,  but  aw  wumo  weel, 

For  th'  hert  wurtch  hadno  gone. 
O  th'  summer  past,  an'  autunm  toime, 

An'  some  o'  th'  winter  too ; 
When  thee  an'  me  we  met  at  last 

r  th'  little  chapel  schoo*. 

Theaw  knows  'twur  th'  Kesmus  pertyin', 

An'  after  th'  tay  wur  done, 
An'  th'  speighkin',  an'  resoitin'  too, 

Waw  th'  doancin'  wur  begun. 
Aw'st  ne'er  forget  that  neet,  owd  lass, 

For  when  aw  doanced  wi'  thee, 
Thy  hont  i'  moine,  an'  moine  i'  thoine, 

'Twur  gradely  o'er  wi'  me. 


Theaw  recollects  aw  towd  my  tale, 

Aw  did  so  soft,  loike,  feel ; 
'Twur  done  i'  little  bits  an'  scraps ; 

But  eh,  theaw  pieced  'um  weeL 
Theaw  didno  say  theaw'd  ha'  me  then  ; 

Bo'  sayin'  naught  wum't  no ; 
Theaw  blusht  aboon  a  bit,  theaw  did, 

And  hung  thy  yed  so  low. 


100  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

We  perted,  an'  aw  sterted  whoam, 

But  aw'd  no  sleep  that  neet, 
Aw*re  loike  a  dug  lost  in  a  fair, 

No  soide  nor  place  wur  reet 
AwVe  up  at  two  o'clock  i'  th'  mom 

An'  off  to  th'  Heeur-lone, 
An*  stood — a  silly  foo's  aw  wur — 

Beneath  thy  window  stone. 

Bo*  never  moind^  aVU  say  no  mooar, 

'Twur  0  made  reet  at  last ; 
An'  sin  that  toime  full  monny  a  day 

'Uv  happiness  we'n  past. 
It's  noice  to  turn  us  reawnd  a  bit, 

An'  look  at  days  gone  by : 
Let's  hutch  together,  Mally,  woife, 

Loike  cleawds  i'  th'  sunset  sky. 


Owd  love  is  loike  to  th'  roipen'd  fruit ; 

Yung  love  loike  th'  bloomin'  is  ; 
We'n  tasted,  an'  we  loike  'um  booath, 

The/n  each  their  sort  o'  bliss. 
Owd  cooartin'  may  be  tame  enoof, 

But,  come,  let 's  hae  a  bit ; 
Let 's  put  my  arm  reet  reawnd  thy  waist, 

An'  closer  to  thee  sit. 


Neaw  lay  thy  yed  uppo'  my  breast. 
As  t'  did  i*  "  owd  lang  syne ; " 

One  hond  shall  stroke  thy  wrinkled  cheek. 
While  t'  other 's  held  i'  thoine  ; 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  loi 

An'  let  us  shut  eawr  een  an'  dream 

Uv  yunger  days  an*  spring. 
Nay,  dunno'  cry,  owd  lass,  or  else 

Th'  brids  in  us  winno  sing. 

God  bless  thee,  Mally  !  good  owd  woife  ! 

Love  doesno'  dee  wi'  yers ; 
But,  see,  aw  Ve  brokken  deawn  royseF  ; 

Let 's  mix  eawr  bits  o'  tears  : 
They  winno*  speighl  eawt,  will  they,  lass  ? 

They're  but  late  April  sheaw'rs  ; 
We  'st  foind  eawr  May-toime  up  aboon, 

These  tears  'uU  help  thoose  fleaw'rs. 


Aw  'm  satisfied  wi'  th'  loife  we*n  had, 

An'  thankfu'  for  it,  too, 
Although  we'n  walkt  o'er  roofish  roads 

An'  pood  up  mony  a  brow. 
We'n  gone  through  every  lond  i'  th'  world, 

Booath  weet  an'  cowd  an'  o ; 
Sometoimes  beein'  melted  deawn  wi'  heat, 

An'  sometoimes  smoo'rt  wi'  snow. 


But,  lookin'  back,  it 's  plain  enoof 

'Twur  nobbut  shade  an'  leet, 
To  make  up  th'  pictur  o'  one's  loife  - 

It  shows  ut  o  comes  reet. 
Bo'  lift  thy  yed,  neaw,  Mally,  woife, 

Toime's  slippin'  fast  away ; 
Let 's  up,  an'  do  that  bit  o'  werk 

There 's  left  for  th*  close  o'  day. 


I02  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

LUCY  NEALE.* 
By  the  Editor. 

Avoca's  Vale,  thy  charms  no  more 

My  lonely  heart  can  feel, 
For  thy  green  grass  is  waving  o'er 

My  own  loved  Lucy  Neale. 
'Twas  in  thy  groves  that  first  I  dared 

My  hopes  to  her  reveal, 
And  there  upon  my  vows  she  smiled, — 

My  own  sweet  Lucy  Neale. 
Oh,  my  Lucy  Neale ;  my  poor  Lucy  Neale. 

Oh  could  I  but  those  days  recall. 
How  happy  I  should  feeL 

But  soon  the  rose  fled  from  her  cheek, 

Nor  could  she  long  conceal 
That  death's  cold  touch  had  chiU*d  the  heart 

Of  my  young  Lucy  Neale. 
Oh  !  how  much  bliss  can  one  fell  stroke 

From  plighted  lovers  steal ! 
She  bless'd  me  ;  in  my  arms  she  died ; 

My  love !  my  Lucy  Neale. 
Oh,  my  Lucy  Neale  ;  my  poor  Lucy  Neale ; 

Oh  would  that  I  had  died  with  thee, 
My  sainted  Lucy  Neale ! 

My  love  they  from  my  bosom  bore, 
But  the  wound  they  cannot  heal, 

And  my  heart,  my  heart  is  breaking. 
For  my  own  loved  Lucy  Neale. 

*  This  ballad  was  written  to  supply  more  fitting  words  to  the  plain- 
tive negro  melody  of  the  same  name. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  103 

I  feel  my  dying  hour  is  nigh, — 

The  grave  my  love  shall  seal ; 
Then  lay  me  in  the  grassy  tomb, 

Where  rests  my  Lucy  Neale. 
Oh,  my  Lucy  Neale ;  my  poor  Lucy  Neale ; 

£*en  death  shall  not  divide  us  then, 
My  own,  my  Lucy  Neale. 


LOVE'S  HISTORY. 

By  Charles  Swain. 

By  sylvan  waves  that  westward  flow, 
A  hare-bell  bent  its  beauty  low, 
With  slender  waist,  and  modest  brow. 

Amidst  the  shades  descending — 
A  star  look'd  from  the  paler  sky, 
The  hare-bell  gazed,  and,  with  a  sigh, 
Foz^got  that  love  may  look  too  high. 

And  sorrow  without  ending. 

By  casement  hid,  the  flowers  among, 
A  maiden  lean'd  and  listened  long ; 
It  was  the  hour  of  love  and  song, 

And  early  night-birds  calling : 
A  bark  across  the  river  drew, — 
The  rose  was  glowing  through  and  through 
The  maiden's  cheek,  of  lily  hue, 

Amidst  the  twilight  falling. 


104  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

She  saw  no  star,  she  saw  no  flower, 
Her  heart  expanded  to  the  hour ; 
She  reck'd  not  of  her  lowly  dower,- 

Amidst  the  shades  descending : 
With  love  thus  fix*d  upon  a  height 
That  seem'd  so  beauteous  to  the  sight, 
How  could  she  think  of  wrong  and  blight, 

And  sorrow  without  ending  ? 

The  hare-bell  droop*d  beneath  the  dew, 
And  closed  its  eye  of  tender  blue  ; 
No  sun  could  e'er  its  life  renew, 

Nor  star,  in  music  calling : 
The  autumn  leaves  were  early  shed, 
But  earlier  on  her  cottage  bed 
The  maiden's  loving  heart  lay  dead, 

Amidst  the  twilight  falling  1 


WE  MET. 
^.  By  Henry  Kirk. 

We  met,  as  only  two  can  meet. 
Whose  eyes  flash  mutual  flre  ; 

Greeted,  as  only  two  can  greet. 
When  words  in  sighs  expire. 

We  stray'd,  as  only  two  can  stray, 
Whose  confidence  is  sure ; 

We  play'd,  as  only  two  can  play, 
Whose  innocence  is  pure. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  105 

We  praised,  as  only  two  can  praise, 

That  fear  no  flatteries ; 
Embraced,  as  only  two  embrace, 

Ere  evil  passions  rise. 

We  felt,  as  only  two  can  feel, 

Whom  equal  wishes  guide ; 
Reveal'd,  what  only  two  reveal. 

Who  mutual  trust  confide. 

We  loved,  as  only  two  can  love, 

That  know  no  fear  or  guile ; 
We  Ve  proved,  as  only  two  can  prove. 

That  doubt  each  fear  and  smile. 

We  own,  with  those,  the  vacant  heart, 

That  find  their  love  in  vain  ; 
We  part,  as  only  two  can  part, 

That  ne'er  may  meet  again  I 


THE  MAID  OF  DISS.* 
By  George  Richardson. 

Fair  maid  of  Diss  !  with  dark  brown  hair^ 

That  o'er  a  stainless  bosom  streams. 
And  pensive  eyes  which  touch  the  soul, 

And  win  the  heart  with  gentle  gleams  ; 
Oh,  peerless  maid,  though  lovers  false 

May  wound  thy  breast  with  guileful  kiss. 
Let  moral  worth  and  virtue  rare 

Adorn  thee  still,  sweet  maid  of  Diss  ! 

*  Diss,  a  lown  In  Norfolk. 


io6  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Fair  maid  of  Diss !  from  whose  deai*  face 

The  mind's  emotion  calmly  beams, 
And  modest  guise,  with  comely  pride, 

The  nobler  graces  well  beseems  ; 
May  radiant  peace  and  lasting  joy 

Bestrew  as  flowers  thy  path  of  bliss, 
And  pure  requited  love  be  thine — 

For  ever  thine,  fair  maid  of  Diss ! 

Farewell,  sweet  maid  !  'tis  fate^s  decree 

That  thou  must  quit  our  much-loved  shore ; 
Fond  memory  will  picture  still 

Thine  image,  though  we  meet  no  more ; 
And  hope  and  love  will  fondly  wake 

To  wish  thee  happy  years  of  bliss — 
Still  happier  if  connubial  joys 

Should  bless  thee,  graceful  maid  of  Diss  I 


I  'LL  TELL  MY  MOTHER. 

By  J.  B.  ROGERSON. 

Timid  little  Marian, 

With  her  blooming  beauty. 
In  an  instant  lured  me 

From  the  path  of  duty ; 
Nothing  else  I  thought  of. 

Nothing,  and  no  other ; 
Though  she  cried,  if  I  but  touched  her,- 

"  Don't !— I  '11  tell  my  mother  ! " 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         iq7 

When  she  heard  me  coming, 

Straight  she  sought  some  hiding, 
And  broke  out  in  laughter, 

Checking  thus  my  chiding ; 
If  I  did  but  press  her  hand 

More  warmly  than  a  brother. 
She  said,  and  snatchM  her  fingers, 

«  Don't  I—I  'U  teU  my  mother  T' 

When  the  love  I  bore  her 

Could  not  be  dissembled, 
And  our  lips  encountered, 

How  she  biush'd  and  trembled  1 
That  one  kiss  she  forgave  me, 

But,  when  I  stole  another. 
She  cried  out,  yet  not  loudly, 

«  Oh !— I  'U  teU  my  mother  T* 

Mine,  I  said,  she  must  be, 

Without  more  denying ; 
For  all  night  I  slept  not. 

And  all  day  was  sighing ; 
She  must  answer  me  with  ^^  Yes  1" 

That  one  word,  and  no  other ; 
She  only  sigh*d  and  whisper'd, 

**  Pray  don't  tell  my  mother !" 


io8  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


TH'  SWEETHEART  GATE. 
By  Edwin  Waugh. 

Air—"  The  Manchater  Angela 

Oh,  there 's  mony  a  gate  eawt  ov  eawr  teawn-end,- 

But  nobbut  one  for  me  ; 
It  winds  by  a  rindlin'  wayter  side, 

An*  o'er  a  posied  lea : 
It  wanders  into  a  shady  dell ; 

An*  when  aw've  done  for  th*  day, 
Oh,  aw^  never  can  sattle  this  heart  o'  mine, 

Bcawt  walkin*  deawn  that  way. 

It's  noather  garden,  nor  posied  lea, 

Nor  wayter  rindlin'  clear ; 
But  deaWn  i*  th'  vale  there 's  a  rosy  nook. 

An'  my  true  love  lives  theer. 
It's  olez  summer  wheer  th'  heart's  content, 

Tho'  wintry  winds  may  blow  ; 
An'  theer  *s  never  a  gate  'at*s  so  kind  to  th'  fuut, 

As  th'  gate  one  likes  to  go. 

When  aw  set  off  o'  sweetheartin',  aw've 

A  theawsan*  things  to  say ; 
But  th'  very  first  glent  o'  yon  chimbley-top, 

It  drives  'em  o  away ; 
An'  when  aw  meet  wi'  my  bonny  lass, 

It  sets  my  heart  a-jee ; —  • 

Oh,  there 's  summut  i'  th'  leet  o*  yon  two  blue  cen 

That  plays  the  dule  wi'  me ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  109 

When  th'  layrock*s  finish'd  his  wark  aboon, 

An'  laid  his  music  by, 
He  flutters  deawn  to  his  mate,  an'  stops 

Till  dayleet  stirs  i'  th*  sky. 
Though  Matty  sends  me  away  at  dark, 

Aw  know  that  hoo's  reet  full  well ; — 
An'  it 's  heaw  aw  love  a  true-hearted  lass, 

No  mortal  tung  can  tell. 

Aw  wish  that  Candlemas  day  were  past. 

When  wakin*  time  comes  on ; 
An'  aw  wish  that  Kesmas  time  were  here, 

An'  Matty  an'  me  were  one. 
Aw  wish  this  wanderin'  wark  were  o'er— 

This  maunderin'  to  an'  fro ; 
That  aw  could  go  whoam  to  my  own  true  love, 

An'  stop  at  neet  an'  o. 


THE  LOVED  AND  LOST. 

By  Henry  Kirk. 

The  grass  waves  green  above  the  tomb, 

Where  dark  in  death  young  Ellen  lies ; 
No  more  shall  pleasure  scare  the  gloom 

From  Richard's  eyes  I 

Oh,  better  far  the  love,  where  Death 
Hath  set  the  seal  no  time  destroys, 
Than  that,  which  on  some  wanton's  breath 

Hath  placed  its  joys ! 


I  lo  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Still  lives  that  love,  unchanged  and  bright, 

Fresh  blooming  each  successive  year ; 
No  jealous  pangs — no  doubts  to  blight ; 

No  wrongs  to  fear ! 

Then  dear  thy  brow  ;  for  she,  my  friend, 

Thy  angel-wife,  thy  heart's  true  love. 
Shall  point,  in  life's  uncertain  end. 

Thy  path  above ! 

The  world  has  claims  'twere  wrong  to  shun 

For  one  so  young.    Some  other  heart 
As  full  of  mirth  may  yet  be  won. 

And  bUss  impart ! 

Life  is  not  such  a  bitter  thing 

As  fools  believe,  in  idiot  madness ; 
'Tis  our  own  thoughts  and  actions  bring 

Our  woe  or  gladness. 

Then  learn  to  live,  and  cultivate 

The  warmer  feelings  of  the  soul ; 
Fly  empty  follies,  ere  "  too  late  " 

Thy  reason  call ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         iii 


THE  FAREWELL. 
By  the  Rev.  Richard  Parkinson,  D.D. 

Here  have  I  loiter'd  many  an  hour, 
Beneath  that  oak,  beside  yon  stream, 

And  oft  within  this  fragrant  bower  ' 
I  've  sheltei'd  from  the  noontide  beam  ; 

And  listened  to  the  summer  song 

Of  insects,  as  they  swept  along. 

And  here  came  one,  with  notes  more  wild 
Than  summer's  train  have  ever  sung  ; 

And  when,  as  oft  would  hap,  she  smiled, 
Her  eye  was  sweeter  than  her  tongue : 

Then  shady  oak,  and  stream,  and  bower. 

Would  vanish  in  that  happy  hour. 

And  now  these  long-loved  joys  are  past — 
I  leave  this  tranquil  scene  for  ever ; 

And  I  have  stood  and  gazed  my  last 
On  the  brown  oak  and  glassy  river ; — 

Oh,  fly  with  me,  dear  maid,  for  thou 

Canst  teach  me  to  forget  them  now ! 

Yes,  teach  me  to  forget  the  place 
Where  oft  with  raptured  foot  I  stra/d, 

For  all  its  charms  and  all  its  grace 
Were  borrowed  from  thy  form,  sweet  maid  ! 

Where'er  thou  art,  the  stream  vnll  flow. 

The  bower  will  bloom,  the  summer  glow  ! 


1 1 2  MODERN  SONGS  A  ND 


LOVELY  SUSANNAH. 

(from  "the  thunderstorm—  a  rural  sketch.") 

By  Thomas  Nicholson .♦ 

Lovely  Susannah 's  away  to  the  wood  ; 

Lonely  and  musing,  and  moody  goes  she  : 
Yes,  she  goes  all  alone ;  but  she  is  good, 

And  loves  the  sweet  woodlark  that  sings  in  the  tree. 

Lovely  Susannah  has  gone  through  the  glade : 
Hath  not  a  coy  maiden  some  danger  to  fear 

So  deep  in  the  wood  ?    She  loves  best  the  shade, 
And  the  ringdove's  complaint  is  sweet  to  her  ear. 

Hark,  a  shrill  whistle  !     She  turns  not  away — 
No,  fearless  Susannah  still  onward  doth  move ; 

Yet,  that's  not  the  woodlark  tuning  his  lay, 
Nor  yet  the  soft  plaint  of  the  mild-cooing  dove. 

"Fwas  not  the  ringdove  that  kept  her  so  long ; 

Nor  was  it  the  woodlark's  wild  music  so  clear ; 
Oh,  no !  'twas  a  softer,  a  much  sweeter  song. 

More  pleasing  by  far  to  a  fond  maiden's  ear ! 

Oh,  say  not  she'  knew  that  young  Edwin  was  there : 
No  bird's  note  loved  he  like  the  woodlark's  sweet 
strain. 
And  the  ringdove's  soft  coo.      How   like  were  the 
pair ! 
'Twas  accident  brought  them  together,  'tis  plain ! 

*  The  author,  who  published  his  little  volume  at  65  Berkeley  Street, 
Strangeways,  Manchester,  says,  "  I  neither  make  a  boast  of  poverty 
nor  desire  riches.^ 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  113 

MAGGIE. 

By  Richard  R.  Bealey. 

Oh,  thou  bonny  rose-lipp'd  lassie, 
More  than  roses  thou  inust  be ; 
For  the  month  of  rosy  beauty 
Is  but  March  compared  with  thee— 
My  love  Maggie, 
Sweetheart  Maggie, 
All  the  flowers  thou  art  to  me. 

Yet  the  flowers  of  field  or  garden, 

Breathing  fragrance  on  the  breeze ; 
Or  the  birds  that  carol  sweetly, 
Making  concert  in  the  trees  ; 
My  love  Maggie, 
Sweetheart  Maggie, 
These  have  not  thy  power  to  please. 

My  poor  heart  was  cold  and  barren. 

Cold  as  winter,  and  as  drear. 
Until  thou,  by  smiling  on  me, 
Gavest  me  summer  all  the  year ; 
My  love  Maggie, 
Sweetheart  Maggie, 
Flowers  must  bloom  when  thou  art  near. 

Summer-time,  and  spring,  and  autumn. 

All  their  mantles  o*er  thee  fling ; 
Laureate  art  thou  to  the  seasons. 
Praising,  loving  everything ; 
My  love  Maggie, 
Sweetheart  Maggie, 
Queen  thou  art ;  oh,  make  me  King ! 

H 


L  - 


1 14  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


SULINA. 
By  Henry  Kirk. 

Ye  rade  cliffs  of  Abydos,  how  dear  to  my  soul ! 

How  sweet  thy  remembrance,  O  blue  stream  of 
HeU^l 
And  the  hills  crown'd  with  vineyards  and  cypresses  tall, 

Encircling  thy  low-seated  walls,  CharconellL 

Oh,  there  is  a  spot  where  the  orange-tree  blooms, — 
The  fountain  leaps  forth  'neath  the  broad  sycamore ; 

Where  a  thousand  sweet  flowers,  dispensing  perfumes, 
Enamel  the  carpet  of  green  on  the  shore. 

And  dear  is  that  spot  with  the  old  marble  column, 
Which  broken  and  prostrate  lies  low  on  the  grass, 

And  preacheth  a  sennon,  impressive  and  solemn, 
To  the  daughters  and  sons  of  young  Greece  as  they 
pass  I 

For  it  tells  of  the  fate  of  their  own  sunny  land — 
So  faded  in  glory — so  sunk  in  its  power — 

Its  children  made  slaves,  who  were  bom  for  command ; 
With  nought  left  but  beauty  and  craft  for  their  dower. 

And  there,  O  thou  fairest  of  Attica's  daughters ! 

I  first  met  the  flame  of  thy  soft-beaming  eyes ; 
When  the  last  crimson  ray  of  the  sun  kiss*d  the  waters. 

And  Dian  was  lighting  her  own  native  skies  ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  115 

But  now  I  am  far  from  the  dear  coast  of  Asia, 
Where  milder  suns  beam  on  the  Isle  of  the  Free : 

Sweet  scenes  of  my  passion !  no  more  must  I  trace 
you, 
Or  watch  with  Sulina  thy  glittering  sea ! 

Perhaps  still  she  there  wanders,  when  daylight  is  over, 
And  all  the  bright  stars  the  blue  heavens  invest, — 

And  turns  from  the  lips  of  some  eloquent  lover. 
To  breathe  a  low  sigh  for  the  son  of  the  West  1 


BETTER  THAN  BEAUTY. 
By  Charles  Swain. 

My  love  is  not  a  beauty 

To  other  eyes  than  mine ; 
Her  curls  are  not  the  fairest, 

Her  eyes  are  not  divine : 
Nor  yet  like  rose-buds  parted. 

Her  lips  of  love  may  be  ; 
But  though  she 's  not  a  beauty, 

She 's  dear  as  one  to  me. 

Her  neck  is  far  from  swan-like, 

Her  bosom  unlike  snow  ; 
Nor  walks  she  like  a  deity 

This  breathing  woiid  below : 
Yet  there  *s  a  light  of  happiness 

Within,  which  all  may  see ; 
And  though  she's  not  a  beauty. 

She 's  dear  as  one  to  me. 


1 1 6  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

I  would  not  give  the  kindness, 

The  grace  that  dwells  in  her^ 
For  all  that  Cupid's  blindness 

In  others  might  prefer ! 
1  would  not  change  her  sweetness 

For  pearls  of  any  sea  ; 
For  better  far  than  beauty 

Is  one  kind  heart  to  me. 


NOTHING  MORE. 
ByJohn  Bolton  Rogerson. 

In  a  valley  fair  I  wandered, 

O'er  its  meadow  pathways  green, 
Where  a  singing  brook  was  flowing, 

Like  the  spirit  of  the  scene ; 
And  I  saw  a  lovely  maiden, 

With  a  basket^rinmiing  o'er 
With  sweet  buds,  and  so  I  ask'd  her 

For  a  flower,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  I  chatted  on  beside  her, 

And  I  praised  her  hair  and  eyes, 
And,  like  roses  from  her  basket* 

On  her  cheeks  saw  blushes  rise ; 
With  her  timid  looks  down  glancing, 

She  said,  "  Would  I  pass  before  I  '* 
But  I  said  that  all  I  wanted 

Was  a  smile,  and  nothing  more. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  117 

So  she  slyly  smiled  upon  me, 

And  I  still  kept  wandering  on ; 
What  with  blushing,  smiling,  chatting, 

Soon  a  brief  half-hour  was  gone. 
Then  she  told  me  I  must  leave  her. 

For  she  saw  their  cottage  door ; 
But  I  would  not  till  I  rifled 

Just  a  kiss,  and  nothing  more. 

And  I  often  met  that  maiden 

At  the  twilight*s  loving  hour, 
With  the  summer's  offspring  laden. 

But  herself  the  dearest  flower. 
When  she  ask'd  me  what  I  wish'd  for, 

Grown  far  bolder  than  before. 
With  impassioned  words  I  answer'd, 

'Twas  her  heart,  and  nothing  more. 

Thus  for  weeks  and  months  I  woo'd  her. 

And  the  joys  that  then  had  birth. 
Made  an  atmosphere  of  gladness 

Seem  encircling  all  the  earth. 
One  bright  morning  at  the  altar 

A  whitOfbridal  dress  she  wore ; 
Then  my  wife  I  proudly  made  her, 

And  I  ask  for  nothing  more ! 


1 1 8  MODERN  SONGS  A  ND 


NUPTIAL  LINES. 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  THE  MARRIAGE  OP  THE 
HON.  LADY  ELIZABETH  GREY  DE  WILTON  WITH  THE 
HON.  CAPTAIN  DUDLEY  CHARLES  DB  ROS,  AT 
PRESTWICH. 

By  George  Richardson, 

Author  of  *' Patriotisms^'  <Srv.,  «SrV. 
CHORUS. 

Hark,  the  merry  bells  are  ringing! 
FestiYe  joy  and  homage  bringing ; 
And  village-friends  keep  holiday — 
The  bridal-mom  of  Lady  Grey.* 

Many  a  banner  high  is  streaming, 
Glad  eyes  fervent  pleasure  beaming ; 
Lo !  the  happy  train  advances — 
Bridal-maids  with  smiling  glances. 

Hark,  &c 

*Tis  past — the  sacred  plighted  vow ! 
Dear  lady,  free  from  care  as  now — 
May  virtue,  truth,  and  honour  prove, 
Thy  early  dreams  of  wedded  love. 

Hark,  &c 

Tender  damsels  odours  bringing. 
On  thy  path  gay  flowers  are  flinging ; 
Gad  like  vestals  in  pure  whiteness. 
Dropping  sunny  bloom  and  brightness. 

Hark,  &c. 

*  An  admissible  poelical  licence,  the  authw  hopes. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  119 

May  the  beauteous  offering  be 
A  type  of  blessed  years  for  thee ! 
And  life  a  chalice  of  rich  treasure, 
Ever  iiU*d  with  love's  sweet  measure ! 

Hark,  the  merry  bells  are  ringing ! 
Booming  guns  are  pleasure  winging ; 
And  villagers  keep  holiday — 
For  gentle,  happy  Lady  Grey. 


THE  FAITHLESS. 

By  Henry  Kirk. 

I  SAID  that  from  my  faithful  heart 

Thy  form  should  part 
When  waves  should  cease  along  the  seas, 
And  leaves  to  deck  the  sununer  trees, 
And  stars  to  shine, — and  these  would  be 

Oh  never,  never ! 

And  thou  didst  lavish  for  all  this 

Fond  hopes  of  bliss, 
As  wanton  waves  would  kiss  the  shore. 
And  leafy  boughs  with  fruit  bud  o'er. 
And  bright  stars  shine,  and  thou  adore 

For  ever,  ever ! 

But,  like  thy  truthless  love,  all  these 

Must  one  day  cease. 
The  ocean's  waves  shall  idly  lie, 
The  earth's  last  summer  leaves  shall  die, 
The  stars  fade  out,  and  I  shall  sigh 

For  thee  ?— Oh  never ! 


1 20  MODERN  SONGS  A  ND 


CHIRRUP. 
By  Edwin  Waugh. 

Young  Chirrup  wur  a  mettled  cowt : 

His  heart  an*  limbs  wur  true ; 
At  foot-race,  or  at  wrostlin'-beawt, 

Or  aught  he  buckled  to ; 
At  wark  or  play,  reet  gallantly 

He  laid  into  his  game : 
An*  he  *re  very  fond  o'  singin'-brids — 

That's  heaw  he  geet  his  name. 

He  *re  straight  as  ony  pickin'-rod, 

An'  limber  as  a  snig : 
An'  the  heartiest  cock  o*  th*  village  clod, 

At  every  country  rig : 
His  shinin*  een  wur  clear  an'  blue  ; 

His  face  wur  frank  an'  bowd ; 
An'  th'  yure  abeawt  his  monly  broo 

Wur  crispt  i'  curls  o'  gowd. 

Young  Chirrup  donn'd  his  clinker't  shoon. 

An'  startin*  off  to  the  fair, 
He  swore  by  the  leet  o*  th'  harvest  moon, 

He  'd  have  a  marlock  there ; 
He  poo'd  a  sprig  fro*  th'  hawthorn-tree, 

That  blossom*d  by  the  way ; — 
"  Iv  ony  mon  says  wrang  to  me, 

Aw  '11  tan  his  hide  to-day ! " 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  121 

Full  sorely  mony  a  lass  would  sigh, 

That  chanced  to  wander  near. 
An'  peep  into  his  een,  to  spy 

Iv  luv'  wur  lurkin'  theer ; 
So  fair  an'  free  he  stept  o'  th'  green, 

An'  troUin'  eawt  a  song, 
Wi'  leetsome  heart,  an'  twinklin'  een, 

Went  chirrupin'  along. 

Young  Chirrup  woo'd  a  village  maid, — 

An'  hoo  wur  th'  flower  ov  o, — 
Wr  kisses  kind,  i'th'  woodlan'  shade, 

An'  whispers  soft  an*  low  ; 
1'  Matty's  ear  'twur  th'  sweetest  chime 

That  ever  mortal  sung ; 
An'  Matty's  heart  beat  pleasant  time 

To  th'  music  ov  his  tung. 

Oh,  th'  kindest  mates,  this  world  within, 

Mun  sometimes  meet  wi'  pain  ; 
But,  iv  this  pair  could  life  begin, 

They  'd  buckle  to  again ; 
For,  though  he  're  hearty,  blunt,  an'  tough, 

An'  Matty  sweet  and  mild, 
For  threescore  year,  through  smooth  an'  rough, 

Hoo  led  him  like  a  child. 


122  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

"  I  GAZED  O'ER  THE  BLUE  STILL  WATERS.'' 
By  James  Horton  Groves.* 

I  GAZED  o'er  the  blue,  still  waters  wide, 

As  the  mom  was  nodding  gray, 
Expecting  a  homeward  sail  to  glide. 

From  a  land  beyond  the  sea. 
But  the  sun  rose  high,  and  again  sunk  low, 

And  no  sail  appear'd  to  view ; 
Oh !  I  sigh'd,  as  the  wind  began  to  blow. 

For  my  absent  sailor  true. 

I  gazed  on  the  troubled  waters  wide. 

Till  the  sun  rose  to  his  height ; 
I  watch'd  the  ebb  and  the  flow  of  the  tide, 

E'en  till  the  approach  of  night 
But  no  sail  appear'd  my  soul  to  cheer. 

And  the  waves  more  fiercely  drove ; 
As  the  tempest  rose,  I  sigh'd  with  fear 

For  my  absent  sailor  love. 

I  still  gazed  over  the  rough,  wide  sea. 

And  aloud  began  to  weep  ; 
And  just  as  the  darkness  veil'd  the  day, 

I  closed  my  eyes  in  sleep  ; 
And  I  thought  that  an  angel  clasp'd  roe  round. 

And  kiss'd  me  as  I  moum'd  ; 
I  awoke — and  myself  in  the  arms  I  found 

Of  my  sailor  true,  retum'd ! 

*  A  Manchester  rhymester,  who  published,  some  years  ago,  by  sub- 
scription, a  thin  volume  of  Poems,  &c.,  including  a  Drama  in  three  acts, 
called,  "M'Alpine:  or,  The  Warlock  Chieftain." 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  123 


MINONA. 
By  Henry  Kirk. 

Again  the  soft  season  of  spring 
Renews  the  sweet  mantle  of  earth, 

The  thrush  and  the  wild  linnet  sing— 
The  gay  promise  of  autumn  is  forth. 

And  thou  wilt  be  roaming  the  wood, 
Where  blossoms  are  decking  the  spray ; 

On  the  bank  which  the  blue  violets  stud, 
As  sweet  and  as  peaceful  as  they. 

But  the  fiend  of  the  storm  may  arise 
And  blast  all  the  beauties  of  spring ; 

The  flowers  now  feasting  thine  eyes 
May  shrink  'neath  the  blight  of  his  wing. 

Yet  there  is  a  spring  in  my  breast, 

A  spot  ever  sunny  and  fair. 
Like  the  gardens  prepared  for  the  blest, 

And  a  bright  flower  ever  blooms  there. 


The  tempests,  the  whirlwinds  of  fat 
The  simooms  of  passion  and  pain — 

The  blight  of  suspicion  and  hate — 
Sweep  o'er  it,  assail  it, — in  vain. 

For  with  it  the  spring  is  unceasing ; 

It  feeds  on  the  dews  of  the  heart ; 
Its  brightness  is  ever  increasing ; 

It  cannot — it  shall  not,  depart ! 


124  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

For  Hope  is  the  sun  ever  beaming  ; 

Remembrance  the  soil  ever  new  ; 
And  Love  is  the  watcher  undreaming; 

The  undying  blossom  is — You ! 


BUT   I   AM    SAD. 
By  R.  K  Bealey. 

The  summer-time  is  full  of  flowers, 

Tlie  gardens  all  are  gay, 
They  breathe  the  sunshine,  drink  the  showers, 

And  laugh  the  hours  away. 
The  trees  are  dad  in  robes  of  green, 

And  birds  among  them  sing  ; 
But  I  am  sad,  and  can't  be  glad — 

My  joy  has  ta'en  the  wing. 

The  brooks  and  rivers  run  along. 

With  music  to  the  sea ; 
The  willows  kiss  them  for  their  song, 

Tl^  breezes  join  the  glee. 
The  joyous  clouds  together  play, 

Or  chase  each  other  on  ; 
But  I  am  sad,  and  can't  be  glad — 

My- happy  days  are  gone. 

I  used  to  love  the  summer-time, 

I  used  to  love  the  spring ; 
But  since  my  love  has  proved  untrue, 

No  joy  to  me  they  bring. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  125 

It  seems  as  if  the  winter  time, 

Had  crept  o'er  all  the  year ; 
It 's  very  cold  within  my  heart — 

It's  very  dark  and  drear. 

Oh,  heart  of  mine  with  blighted  love, 

What  power  thy  life  can  save  ? 
I  *th  like  a  yew  tree,  dark  and  sad. 

Beside  an  open  grave. 
My  love  I  call  both  loud  and  long. 

And  in  my  tears  I  cry, 
But,  No !  he  '11  never  love  me  more, 

And  love-less  I  must  die. 


TO   MISS   M.   B. 
By  Henry  Kirk. 

The  sacred  muse  has  told, 
How  the  Queen  of  Sheba  brought 

Jewels,  spices,  gold. 
To  Solomon,  king  of  thought         ^ 

My  sweet  in  herself  surpasses 
The  whole  of  the  precious  store ; 

The  rarest  and  richest  of  lasses, 
Compounded  of  scents,  gems,  and  ore. 

From  a  polish'd  marble  brow 
Fall  locks  oligold  the  brightest ; 

And  her  ruby  lips  below 
Are  teeth  oi pearls  the  whitest. 


126  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

As  gleams  of  Orient  skies 
Through  cypress  branches  seen, 

Is  the  blue  of  her  sapphire  eyes 
Under  their  ebon  screen. 

From  ocean's  rosiest  shells 
Her  cheek's  rich  tint  is  drawn ; 

And  the  music  of  distant  bells 
Rings  in  her  voice's  tone. 

Her  breast  is  t\it  pearl-homers  lining, 
From  Oman's  sunny  sea ; 

Her  arms  the  ivory  shining. 
Where  gay  lampa  lighted  be. 

On  her  lips,  the  dew  I  seize 
Is  honey  from  virgin  flowers  ; 

Her  breath  is  the  scented  breeze 
From  Mytha's  orange  bowers. 

Though  in  thought,  in  toast,  in  song, 

I  place  her  still  before  all ; 
She  preserves  her  heart  so  long, 
^I  Uiink  it  must  be  coral. 

Oh,  were  it  the  anthracite 
The  swarthy  miner  raises, 

A  spark  of  my  love  should  light, 
And  kindle  it  into  blazes  1 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  127 


POETS'   FICTIONS. 

By  the  Editor. 

I  PITY  the  poets  that  deck  the  loved  fair, 
In  cold,  lifeless  charms,  drawn  from  earth,  ^ea,  and  air ; 
"  Ruby  lips,"  "golden  ringlets,"  and  "  diamond  eyes," 
Such  creations  like  Frankenstein-monsters  arise. 

Who  would  sigh  for  his  love  if  her  forehead  were  stone  f* 
Were  her  eyes  real  "  brilliants'^  would  he  not  groan  ? 
Romantic  is  he,  who  can  deem  it  a  bliss, 
That  from  mineral  lips  he  may  snatch  a  cold  kiss ! 

Then  just  think  of  the  grief  of  a  beautiful  girl. 

To  have  soft  "  silken  hair "  that  would  ne'er  keep  in 

curl; 
Or  "bright  golden  ringlets'* — namely,  corkscrews  in 

wire  : 
She'd  up-^tfi/tt/them,  and  cast  them  to  melt  in  the  fire. 

What  fair  lady,  carrying  the  neck  of  a  swan,t 
Could  ever  be  dear  to  a  rational  man  ?         ^ 
And  I  'm  very  sure,  that  my  heart  I  'd  ne'er  pawn 
To  a  damsel  that  trots  "with  the  step  of  a  fawn." 

Oh,  save  me  from  her  whose  eyes'  glittering  light 
Shines  bright  in  the  dark,  as  do  cats'  in  the  night ; 
And  from  her,  too  (the  sprite  ?  she 's  no  mortal,  alas !) 
Who  can  trip  o'er  the  fields  without  bending  the  grass. 

•  Her  "alabaster  brow."  t  Her  •*  swan-like  neck." 


128  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

No  "  goddess/'  or  "  angel,"  or  "  nymph  "  could  I  love ; 

No  compound  of  charms  from  the  diamond-mine  ; 
To  woman  my  faith  and  affection  I  *11  prove, — 

To  thee,  dearest  Mary, — for  ever  I  'm  thine. 


•  «« 


"OH,  MIRK  AND  STORMY." 

(from  "the  wild  flowers  of  poetry.")* 

By  James  Horton  Groves. 

"  Oh,  mirk  and  stormy  is  the  nicht ; 

So  ope  the  door  and  let  me- ben ; 
Unto  my  sark  I  *m  dripping  weet, 

An'  a'  my  body  *s  stiffenen'. 
For  sake  o'  thee,  my  bonnie  lass, 

I  cam'  through  storm  o'  hail  an'  snaw. 
An'  ay  agen  for  thee  I  'd  pass 

A  storm,  to  hae  a  kiss  or  twa." 

"  I  'm  sorry  that  ye  hither  cam', 

I  daur  na  let  ye  ben,  my  joe  ; 
Our  auld  folks  are  awa'  frae  hame ; 

To  do  so  wad  be  sin,  ye  know. 
An'  though  ye  cam'  through  snaw  an'  hail. 

To  let  ye  ben  wad  be  my  wrang ; 
Nor  tempt  me,  gif  ye  wish  me  hale  ; 

So  back  again,  my  laddie,  gang." 

The  work,"  says  the  writer,  "of  a  poor,  self-taught,  young  num.' 


BAIXADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  129 

*'  I  wish  ye  hale,  ye  know  it  too  ; 

But  deep  the  snaw  is  driftin'  fast ; 
I  may  be  buried  in  a  slough, 

Or  perish  in  the  bitin'  blast, — 
Then  wad  ye  wish  ye  *d  let  me  stay ; 

Then  wad  ye  wish  ye  'd  oped  the  door ; 
When,  stretch'd  a  corse,  ye  see  me  lay, 

Na  mair  to  luve,  or  kiss  ye  main" 


"  Talk  na  sae  woefu', — me  ye  fright ; 

I  wadna  now  ye  went  till  day ; 
Could  ye  na  mak*  a  shift  the  nicht 

To  lie  i*  th'  bam  amang  the  hay  ? 
For  hark !  the  owlet's  screeching  din, 

It  bodes  o'  strife,  an'  wad  ye  warn ; 
The  warlock,  too,  now  haunts  the  glen, 

So  tarry,  pray  ye,  in  the  bam." 

**  I  care  na  for  the  owlet's  din  ; 

I  care  na  for  the  warlock's  strife  ; 
Gif  ye '11  na  gladly  let  me  ben, 

I  care  na  either  for  my  life. 
Nor  storm,  nor  snaw,  whate'er's  my  lot. 

Shall  tempt  me  in  your  barn  to  stay ; 
An'  gif  ye  keep  me  out  o*  th'  cot, 

The  gate  I  cam'  I  '11  back  away." 


"  Nay,  gae  na  back ;  'tis  na  my  will  I 
Come  ben,  an'  shelter  frae  the  storm ; 

The  ragin'  blast  is  cauld  an'  chill ; 
Our  bleezin'  ingle 's  cheerin*  warm. 

I 


I30  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

I  meant  na  what  I  said,  my  dear ; 

So  doff  your  clothes,  I  '11  dry  them  weel ; 
Then  sit  ye  down  in  th'  elbow'd  chair, 

An'  drive  the  cauld  wi'  th'  gudeman's  ale  " 

"  Thy  ruddy  lips  oh  let  me  taste, 

Like  simmer  roses  weet  wi'  dew ; 
An'  o'  the  sweetness  let  me  feast, 

Issuin'  frae  thy  bonnie  mou'. 
An'  then  the  gudeman's  ale  I  '11  try, 

Na  hauf  sae  sparklin'  as  thine  ee ; 
Nor  in  the  bam  on  hay  I  '11  lie. 

But  sit,  my  luve,  beside  o'  thee ! " 


"IN  A  SNUG  LITTLE  NOOK." 

By  Thomas  Brierley.* 

In  a  snug  little  nook,  by  a  rippling  brook, 

'Tis  there -that  my  true  love  dwells ; 
'Tis  shaded  with  trees,  and  fann'd  by  the  breeze. 

And  laden  with  witching  spells. 
There,  there  I  recline  'neath  the  sweet  woodbine. 

And  marlockf  her  raven  hair, 
I  clasp  her  fingers  where  beauty  lingers, 
And  we  bask  in  the  rosy  air. 
Then  here's  to  the  cot,  the  neat  little  cot, 

Where  my  true  love  resides  ; 
May  it  contain  love's  rosy  chain. 
And  a  fountain  of  pleasure-tides  ! 

*  The  writer  is  a  silk-weaver  at  Alkrington,  near  Midd!eton ;  and 
author  of  "Th'  Silk-Wcavcr's  Fiist  neariii*-homc,"  and  other  xales,  Ac. 
t  Pby  with. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  131 

I  ponder  and  stare  in  the  starry  fair, 

That 's  held  in  the  heavens  at  night, 
And  wonder  what  arm,  with  its  mighty  charm. 

Could  have  made  such  stellar  light. 
And  betimes  I  dream  of  a  sunny  sheen. 

Too  glittering  for  earthly  birth, 
And  there  I  woo,  'mid  the  balmy  dew, 
This  beautiful  nymph  of  earth. 
Then  here's  to  the  cot,  the  neat  little  cot. 

Where  my  true  love  resides  ; 
May  it  contain  love's  rosy  chain, 
And  a  fountain  of  pleasure-tides ! 


THE  ARDENT  LOVER. 

By  the  late  Edward  Rushton,  of  Liverpool* 

Ah,  Mary !  by  that  feeling  mind, 
Improved  by  thought,  by  taste  refined, 
And  by  those  blue  bewitching  eyes. 
And  by  those  soul-seducing  sighs, 

*  The  late  Mr  Edward  Rushton  was  bom  at  Liverpool  in  November 
1756,  and  educated  in  the  Free  School  there.  While  a  sea  apprentice, 
at  the  age  of  sixteen,  on  board  a  ship  in  a  storm,  when  captain  and 
crew  left  the  vessel  to  drive  at  hazard,  young  Rushton  seized  the  helm, 
called  the  men  to  their  duty,  and,  under  his  direction,  the  vessel  was 
saved ;  for  which  he  received  the  thanks  of  captain  and  crew,  was  made 
second  mate,  and  had  a  grateful  endorsement  on  his  indentures  by  the 
owners  While  mate  on  board  a  slaver,  all  the  slaves  were  seized  with 
ophthalmia,  and  none  bat  Rushton  had  the  humanity  to  care  for  them : 
the  result  to  himself  was  total  blindness  for  thirty-three  years.  He  par- 
tially  recovered  his  sight  in  1807,  by  the  skill  of  Mr  Gibson,  oculist, 
Manchester.      He  distinguished  himself  by  the  promotion  of  every 


132  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

And  by  that  cheek's  delicious  bloom, 
And  by  those  lips  that  breathe  peifume, 
Here  do  I  bow  at  Beauty's  shrine, 
And  pledge  this  glowing  heart  of  mine. 

The  tame,  the  impotent  of  soul, 

A  haughty  mandate  may  control. 

May  make  him  slight  a  Helen*s  charms, 

And  take  a  dowdy  to  his  arms ; 

But  when  did  dark  maternal  schemes, 

Or  the  stern  father's  towering  dreams, 

Or  when  did  power  or  affluence,  move 

The  heart  sublimed  by  real  love? 

The  cold,  slow  thing  that  tamely  woos, 
Just  as  his  worldly  friends  may  choose, 
Is  but  a  snail  on  beauty's  rose, 
That  crawls  and  soils  where'er  he  goes. 
Not  so  the  youth  whose  mantling  veins 
Are  fili'd  with  love's  ecstatic  pains ; 
He  heeds  nor  gold,  nor  craft,  nor  pride, 
But  strains,  all  nerve,  his  blushing  bride. 

Come,  then,  oh !  come,  and  let  me  find 
A  pleader  in  thy  feeling  mind, 
And  let  the  beams  from  those  blue  eyes 
Disperse  the  clouds  that  round  me  rise  ; 

philanthropic  object  and  institution  in  Liverpool,  and  his  writings  were 
largely  instrumental  in  the  establishment  of  the  Liverpool  Blind  Asylum. 
He  died  in  November  1814,  aged  fifty-three ;  leaving  a  son,  Edward, 
barristcr-at-law.  and  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  stipendiary  magistrate 
for  the  borough  of  Liverpool.  Mr  Rushton's  poems  have  been  twice 
published, — in  1806, — and  posthumously  in  1814,  with  a  sketch  of  hit 
life  by  the  late  Rev.  Dr  Shepherd,  of  Gateacre. 


1 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         133 

And  let  those  lips  that  breathe  perfume, 
With  speed  pronounce  my  blissful  doom, 
With  speed  before  the  sacred  shrine 
Pledge  thy  dear  self  for  ever  mine. 


THE  LANCASHIRE  WITCH. 
By  the  late  John  Scholes. 

An  owd  maid  aw  shall  be,  for  aw  'm  eighteen  to-morn, 

An'  aw  m'yen  to  keep  sengle  an*  free ; 
But  the  dule  's  i'  the  lads,  for  a  plague  they  were  bom, 

An'  thi'  never  con  let  one  a-be,  a-be, 

They  never  con  let  one  a-be. 

Folk  seyn  aw  'm  to'  pratty  to  dee  an  owd  maid, 

An'  'at  luv*  sits  an'  laughs  i'  my  ee ; 
By-leddy !  aw  'm  capt'  'at  folk  wantin'  to  wed ; 

Thi'  mey  o  tarry  sengle  for  me,  for  me, 

Thi'  mey  o  tarry  sengle  for  me. 

There's  Robin  a'  Mill, — ^he's  so  fond  of  his  brass, — 
Thinks  to  bargain  like  shoddy  for  me ; 

He  may  see  a  foo's  face  if  he  looks  in  his  glass. 
An'  aw'd  thank  him  to  let  me  a-be,  a-be, 
Aw'd  thank  him  to  let  me  a-be. 

Coom  a  chap  t'other  day  o  i'  hallidi'  trim, 
An'  he  swoor  he  'd  goo  dreawn  him  for  me ; 

"  Hie  thi  whoam  furst  an'  doff  thi,"  aw  sed,  "bonny  Jim ! 
Or  thae  '11  spuyl  a  good  shute,  does-ta  see,  does- ta  see, 
Thaell  spuyl  a  good  shute,  does-ta  see." 


134  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Cousin  Dick  says  aw  Ve  heawses,  an*  land,  an'  some 
gowd, 
An*  he's  plann'd  it  so  weel,  dun  yo'  see ! 
When  we  're  wed  he  *11  ha'  th'  heawses  new-fettled  an' 
sowd, 
But  aw  think  he  may  let  urn  a-be,  a-be, 
Sly  Dicky  may  let  um  a-be. 

Ned's  just  volunteered  into  th'  "roifle  recruits," 

An'  a  dashin'  young  sodiur  is  he ; 
If  his  gun's  like  his  een,  it'll  kill  wheer  it  shoots, 

But  aw '11  mind  as  they  dunnot  shoot  me,  shoot  me, 
.   Aw  11  mind  as  they  dunnot  shoot  me. 

He  sidles  i'  th'  lone,  an'  he  frimbles  at  th'  yate, 

An'  he  comes  as  he  coom  no'  for  me ; 
He  spers  for  eawr  John,  bo'  says  nought  abeawt  Kate, 

An'  just  gi'es  a  glent  wi'  his  ee,  his  ee, 

An'  just  gi'es  a  glent  wi'  his  ee. 

He's  tali  an'  he's  straight,  an'  his  curls  are  like  gowd. 
An'  there 's  sunmiat  so  sweet  in  his  ee, 

'At  aw  think  i'  my  heart,  if  he  'd  nobbut  be  bowd. 
He  needna'  quite  let  me  a-be,  a-be, 
He  needna'  quite  let  me  a-be. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  135 


THE  DULE'S  V  THIS  BONNET  O'  MINE. 

By  Edwin  Waugh. 

The  dule's  i*  this  bonnet  o'  mine ; 

My  ribbins  11  never  be  reet ; 
Here,  Mally,  aw'm  like  to  be  fine, 

For  Jamie '11  be  comin'  to-neet ; 
He  met  me  i'  th'  lone  t*other  day, — 

Aw 're  gooin'  for  wayter  to  th'  well, — 
An'  he  begg'd  that  aw'd  wed  him  i'  May ; — 

Bi'thi'  mass,  iv  he'll  let  me,  aw  will 

When  he  took  my  two  bonds  into  his. 

Good  Lord,  heaw  they  trembled  between ; 
An'  aw  durstn't  look  up  in  his  face, 

Becose  on  him  seein'  my  een  ; 
My  cheek  went  as  red  as  a  rose  ; — 

There 's  never  a  mortal  can  tell 
Heaw  happy  aw  felt ;  for,  thae  knows, 

One  couldn't  ha'  axed  him  theirsel'. 

But  th'  tale  wur  at  th'  end  o'  my  tung, — 

To  let  it  eawt  wouldn't  be  reet,— » 
For  aw  thought  to  seem  forrud  wur  wrung ; 

So  aw  towd  him  aw  'd  tell  him  to-neet ; 
But,  MaUy,  thae  knows  very  weel, — 

Though  it  isn't  a  thing  one  should  own, — 
If  aw  'd  th'  pikein'  o'  th'  world  to  mysel'. 

Aw  'd  oather  ha'  Jamie  or  noan. 


136  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Neaw,  Mally,  aw  *ve  towd  thae  my  mind ; 

What  would  to  do  iv  'twur  thee  ? 
'^  Aw'd  tal^  him  just  while  he*re  inclined, 

An'  a  farrantly  bargain  he  ^d  be ; 
For  Jamie's  as  greadty  ^  lad 

As  ever  stept  eawt  into  th'  sun ; — 
Go,  jump  at  thy  chance,  an'  get  wed, 

An'  ma'e  th'  best  o'  th'  job  when  it  *s  done !  ** 

Eh,  dear,  but  it 's  time  to  be  gwon, — 

Aw  shouldn't  like  Jamie  to  wait  ^— 
Aw  connut  for  shame  be  too  soon. 

An'  aw  wouldn't  for  th'  world  be  too  late ; 
Aw'm  o  ov  a  tremble  to  th'  heel, — 

Dost  think  'at  my  bonnet 'U  do  ? — 
"  Be  off,  lass, — ^thae  looks  very  weel ; — 

He  wants  noan  o'  th'  bonnet,  thae  foo  1 " 


TH'  HEART-BROKKEN. 
By  John  Higson,  of  Droylsden* 

Mi  bonds  un  mi  faze  ur'  quoite  ceawd, 
Aw'm  weet-shurt  and  weet  to  my  skin, 

Wor  pluff  stilts  they  slid  fro'  mi  grip. 
Bur  it's  neawt  toart  what's  ailin'  within. 

Aw  care  no'  fo'  weet  nur  fo'  rain, 
Nur  th'  woind  os  it  coms  o'er  yon  broo ; 

Bur  aw'm  thinkin'  o'  Meary,  sweet  lass, 
Till  mi  heart  iz  fair  brokken  i'  two. 

^  Author  of  the  "Gorton  Historical  Recorder,'*  "  Historical  and  De* 
icriptive  Notices  of  Droylsden,"  &c. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE  137 

Laast  neet  fur  to  meet  her  u*th'  steel, 
Aw  crop  deawn  mi  way  e  o'  crack, 

Os  soon  OS  aw'd  suppert  mi  ceaws, 
Un*  filt  mi  tit's  mannger  un'  rack. 

Aw  shackert  un'  waytud  till  ten, 
Bu'  Meary  ne'er  awst  furt'  com  eawt ; 

Ut  last  aw  gan  t'  whissle  ut  durr, 
When  ther  Sam  he  coom  preawin'  abeawt. 

Aw  axt  him  iv  Moll  wur  i'  th'  heawse ; 

"  Yigh,  yigh,  bur  hoo's  noan  wantin'  thee, 
Fur  a  chap  'ut 's  wuth  plenty  o'  braass, 

Hus  bin  bur  just  neaw  her  furt'  see. 

Iv  o'  Sunday  to't  chourch  theaw  wilt  gang, 
Ther  axins  tha'll  yer  um  coed  o'er ; 

So  tha'st  no  cageon  ston'  hanklin'  theere. 
Fur  Meary  'ull  sithi  no  moor." 

Os  he  slanun'd  i'  mi  faze  cottage  durr, 
He  laaft  e  his  sleighve,  did  ther  Sam, — 

Aw  con  stond  to  be  byetten  reet  weel, 
Bur  aw  conno'  the'r  jaw  un'  the'r  gam'. 

Aw've  pur  up  wi'  mich  i'  this  wold, 
Aw've  fou't  weel  it'  battle  o'  loife, 

Bur  aw  ne'er  wur  so  done  up  ofore, 
Os  e  loadn'  mi  chance  ov  o  woife. 

Mi  heart,  mon,  's  fair  riven  i'  two, 
Aw'st  ne'er  ha'  no  pleshur  aw  'm  shure ; 

So  aw  'U  run  mi  cunthri  un'  place, 
Un'  never  com  nar  'um  no  moor. 


138  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


THE    LOVE-DRAUGHT. 

(FROM  THE  GREEK.) 

By  Robert  Rockuff. 

As,  for  my  favourite  fair,  I  twined 
A  wreath  one  summer  day, 

Among  the  roses  I  perceived 
That  Love  in  ambush  lay ! 

I  seized  the  youngster  by  his  wings. 
And  drown'd  him  in  my  cup, 

And,  as  he  sank  amid  the  wine, 
I  gaily  drank  it  up. 

But  ever  since  that  day,  alas ! 

I  feel  no  more  the  same ; 
For  Love  is  «till  alive  in  me, 

And  fluttering  through  my  frame. 


THE  DOMINIE'S  COURTSHIP. 
By  Robert  Rockuff. 

He  woo'd  her  in  the  wisest  way 
That  woman  may  be  woo'd 

By  any  pedagogue,  who  is 
In  a  conjunctive  mood ; 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  139 

For  in  a  studied  speech,  replete 

With  academic  learning, 
He  poured  into  her  ear  the  love 

With  which  his  heart  was  yearning. 


« 


Dear  Emma !  *'  he  exclaimed,  "if  I 

Could  win  thee  for  my  wife — 
A  helpmate  unto  me  through  all 

The  accidence  of  life, 
My  SUM  of  happiness  would  be 

Complete  with  this  addition  ; 
For  even  should  we  multiply^ 

We'd  live  without  division. 


"  Thy  beauty  is  superlative^ 

So  matchless  in  degree^ 
That  maids  of  every  form  and  class 

Must  2XL  give  place  to  thee. 
The  fintsX  figure  of  them  all. 

If  scrutinised  with  rigour, 
Woul*  prove  a  cypher  at  thy  side, 

And  make,  in  fact,  no  figure. 

"Thy  grace,  too,  is  the  general  theme^ 

For  in  thy  walk  is  seen 
A  style  of  carriage,  that  might  be 

A  copy  for  a  queen ; 
In  fact,  thy  charms  are  such  that,  like 

The  ruler  of  the  nation. 
Thy  presence  everywhere  is  haiFd 

With  notes  of  admiration  / 


MODERN  SONGS,  ETC. 

"  I  have  not  much  lo  offer  thee 

Beyond  m^  heart  and  hand, 
But  every  article  I  have 

Shall  be  at  thy  command. 
Oh !  pity,  then,  my  hapless  out. 

And  look  with  condescension, 
On  one  whose  passion  hath  endured 

For  years  without  decUnstonP 

How  could  an  artless  maid  resist 

A  Bachelor  of  Arts, 
Who  even  in  V\%  parts  ofspteck 

Show'd  such  uncommon  parts? 
Their  hands  were  join'd,  and  ever  since 

That  happy  conjugation. 
The  term  of  his  domestic  life 

Has  been  one  long  vacation/ 


III. 


^onsss  of  l^onte  ann  ita  SlStttioM. 

We  would  not  say  much  for  either  the  goodness  or 
the  greatness  of  any  people  whose  literature  lacks 
songs  of  this  class.  As  one  of  our  true  Lancashire 
poets*  has  sung — 

Let  us  honour  the  gods  of  the  household  alway, 

Love  ever  the  hearth  and  its  graces, 
The  spot  where  serenely  and  cheerfully  play 

The  smiles  of  familiar  faces ; 
Where  the  calm,  tender  tones  of  affection  are  heard ; 

Where  the  child*s  gladsome  carol  is  ringing  ; 
Where  the  heart's  best  emotions  are  quickened  and 
stirr'd 

By  the  founts  that  are  inwardly  springing. 


*  John  Critchley  Piince. 


142  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

And  home,  when  it  is  home,  sounds  sweet  in  our  ears ; 

For  it  speaks  of  our  heart-cherish'd  treasure ; 
'Tis  a  word  which  beguiles  us  of  tenderest  tears, 

Or  thrills  us  with  tranquillest  pleasure ; 
It  prompts  us  to  set  rude  enjoyments  at  nought ; 

It  chastens  our  speech  and  demeanour ; 
It  nerves  us  to  action,  awakes  us  to  thought, 

And  makes  our  whole  being  serener. 

Tried  by  this  test,  we  think  even  the  few  Songs  we 
are  able  to  afford  space  for  in  this  volume  will  show 
that  the  people  of  Lancashire  and  its  songsters  have  a 
deep  and  religious  regard  for  Home  and  its  Affections. 


IT  IS  BUT  A  COTTAGE. 

By  Charles  Swain. 

It  is  but  a  cottage,  but  where  is  the  heart 

That  would  love  not  its  home,  be  it  ever  so  small  ? 
There 's  a  charm  in  the  spot  which  no  words  may  im- 
part, 
Where  the  birds  and  the  roses  seem  sweetest  of  alL 

It  is  but  a  cottage,  but  still  for  a  friend    ' 
There  *s  a  chair  and  whatever  the  table  supplies. 

To  the  mind  that's  content  with  what  fortune  may 
send, 
Why,  a  cot  is  a  palace  that  monarchs  may  prize. 


•     BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE',  143 

I  envy  no  statesman  his  honours  and  fame  ; 

The  path  of  ambition  is  deck'd  to  ensnare ; 
The  title  most  dear  is  a  good  honest  name, 

And  ambition  may  envy  the  man  without  care. 

It  is  but  a  cottage,  a  slight  little  place, 
Scarce  worthy  the  glance  of  a  traveller's  eyes ; 

But,  oh  !  with  content,  and  a  friend's  smiling  face. 
Why,  a  cot  is  a  palace  that  monarchs  might  prize. 


THE  PLEASURES  O'  WHOAM. 

FROM  *'  PHASES  OF  DISTRESS — LANCASHIRE  RHYMES." 

By  Joseph  Ramsbottom. 

This  faggin'  on,  this  wastin'  sthrife, 

This  drudgin'  wark,  wi'  scanty  fare, 
This  cheattin'  dyeath  'at  we  co'n  life,* 

Wi'  ev'ry  comfort  dasht  wi'  care. 
To  ate  an'  sleep,  to  fret  an'  slave, 

I'  this  breet  warld  o'  sun  an'  fleawrs, — 
If  this  wur*  o  poor  men  could  have, 

They'd  weary  soon  o*  th'  bitter  heawrs. 
•  •••«• 

At  th'  eend  o'  th'  day,  mi  wark  o  done, 
An'  quite  content,  aw'm  sat  at  whoam, 

Mi  childher  brimmin*  o'er  wi'  fun, 
'Ull  singin'  reawnd  abeawt  me  come. 

*  This  cheating  death  that  we  call  life. 


144  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

An'  th*  young'st  'ull  romp  up  on  mi  knee, 
An*  th'  next  between  my  legs  'ull  get, 

An'  th'  owdest  in  his  cheer  'ull  be 
Hutcht  close  as  it  con  weel  be  set 

What  merry  laughs,  what  lispins  then, 

O'  wondhrous  things  they'n  chanced  to  see ; 
What  kissins  reawnd  an'  reawnd  agen  ! 

It 's  busy  wark  to  mind  o  three : 
What  flingin'  arms  abeawt  mi  neck, 

What  passin'  fingers  thro'  mi  yure. 
What  neighsy  fun  witheawt  a  check, 

What  rowlin'  o'er  an'  o'er  o'  th'  flure ! 

An'  th'  wife  looks  on  wi'  glist'nin'  ee. 

An  smile  'ut  dhrives  o  care  away ; 
Heaw  preawd  hoo  feels,  it 's  plain  to  see, 

r  watchin'  th'  childher  romp  an'  play. 
When  sleep  is  sattlin'  on  their  lids. 

An'  oitch  begins  to  nod  its  yed, 
O  reawnd  agen  aw  kiss  mi  brids. 

Afore  hoo  packs  'em  off  to  bed. 

An'  tho'  eawr  crust  be  hard  an'  bare ; 

Tho'  petches  on  eawr  dress  be  seen ; 
An'  th'  sky  hang  black  wi  cleawds  o'  care, 

Wi'  hardly  one  blue  rent  between  ; 
Tho'  th'  rich  o'  life's  good  things  han  moore, 

They'v  noan  as  mony  scenes  like  this ; 
Thus  heaven  i'  kindness  gi'es  to  th'  poor 

No  scanty  foretaste  of  its  bliss. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  145 

FAREWELL  TO  MY  COTTAGE. 

WRITTEN  ON  LEAVING  BLACKLEY  TO  LIVE  IN  LONDON. 

By  Samuel  Bamford. 

Farewell  to  my  cottage  that  stands  on  the  hill, 
To  valleys  and  fields  where  I  wandei'd  at  will, 
And  met  early  spring  with  her  buskin  of  dew, 
As  o'er  the  wild  heather  a  joyance  she  threw ; 
*Mid  fitful  sun-beamings,  with  bosom  snow-fair, 
And  showers  in  the  gleamings,  and  wind-beaten  hair, 
She  smiled  on  my  cottage,  and  buddings  of  green 
On  elder  and  hawthorn  and  woodbine  were  seen, — 
The  crocus  came  forth  with  its  lilac  and  gold, 
And  fair  maiden  snowdrop  stood  pale  in  the  cold, — 
The  primrose  peep'd  coyly  from  under  the  thorn. 
And  blithe  look'd  my  cottage  on  that  happy  mom. 
But  spring  pass'd  away,  and  the  pleasure  was  o'er, 
And  I  left  my  dear  cottage  to  claim  it  no  more. 
Farewell  to  my  cottage — afar  must  I  roam — 
No  longer  a  cottage,  no  longer  a  home. 

For  bread  must  be  eam'd,  though  my  cot  I  resign, 

Since  what  I  enjoy  shall  with  honour  be  mine  ; 

So  up  to  the  great  city  I  must  depart. 

With  boding  of  mind  and  a  pang  at  my  heart. 

Here  all  seemeth  strange,  as  if  foreign  the  land, 

A  place  and  a  people  I  don't  understand ; 

And  as  from  the  latter  I  turn  me  away, 

I  think  of  old  neighbours,  now  lost,  well-a-day  I 

I  think  of  my  cottage  full  many  a  time, 

A  nest  among  flowers  at  midsummer  prime ; 

K 


146  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

With  sweet  pink,  and  white  rock,  and  bonny  rose 

bower, 
And  honey-bine  garland  o'er  window  and  door ; 
As  prim  as  a  bride  ere  the  revels  begin, 
And  white  as  a  lily  without  and  within. 
Could  I  but  have  tarried,  contented  I  'd  been, 
Nor  envied  the  palace  of  "  Lady  the  Queen." 
And  oft  at  my  gate  happy  children  would  play, 
Or  sent  on  an  errand  well  pleas^  were  they, — 
A  pitcher  of  water  to  fetch  from  the  spring. 
Or  wind-broken  wood  from  my  garden  to  bring ; 
On  any  commission  they^d  hasten  with  glee, 
Delighted  when  serving  dear  Ima,*  or  me, — 
For  I  was  their  "  uncle,"  and  "  gronny  "  was  she. 
And  then  as  a  recompense,  sure  if  not  soon. 
They'd  get  a  sweet  posy  on  Sunday  forenoon, 
Or  handful  of  fruit  would  their  willing  hearts  cheer. 
I  miss  the  dear  children, — none  like  them  are  here, 
Though  offspring  as  lovely  as  mother  e'er  bore, 
At  eve  in  the  Park  I  can  count  by  the  score. 
But  these  are  not  ours,— of  a  stranger  they're  shy, 
So  I  can  but  bless  them  as  passing  them  by ; 
When  ceasing  their  play,  my  emotion  to  scan, 
I  dare  say  they  wonder ''  what  moves  the  old  man." 

Of  ours,  some  have  gone  in  their  white  coffin  shroud. 
And  some  have  been  lost  in  the  world  and  its  crowd ; 
One  only  remains,  the  last  bird  in  the  nest — 
Our  own  little  grandchild,i-  the  dearest  and  best 
But  vain  to  regret,  though  we  cannot  subdue 

*  A  diminutive  of  Jemima,  the  Christian  name  of  the  poet's  wife, 
f  The  child  of  a  neighbour,  who  called  the  author  and  his  wife 
•*  srondad  "  and  "  gronny." 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  147 

The  feelings  to  nature  and  sympathy  true ; 
Endurance^  with  patience,  must  bear  the  strong  part, — 
Sustain,  when  they  cannot  give  peace  to,  the  heart ; 
Till  life  with  its  yearnings  and  struggles  is  o'er, 
And  I  shall  remember  my  cottage  no  more. 


HOME. 
By  Charles  Swain. 

Home's  not  merely  four  square  walls. 

Though  with  pictures  hung  and  gilded ; 
Home  is  where  affection  calls, — 

Fill'd  with  shrines  the  heart  hath  builded ! 
Home ! — go  watch  the  faithftd  dove^ 

Ssdling  'neath  the  heaven  above  us ; 
Home  is  where  there 's  one  to  love  ; 

Home  is  where  there 's  one  to  love  us  1 

Home's  not  merely  roof  and  room,— 

It  needs  something  to  endear  it ; 
Home  is  where  the  heart  can  bloom, — 

Where  there's  some  kind  lip  to  cheer  it! 
What  is  home  with  none  to  meet, — 

None  to  welcome,  none  to  greet  us  ? 
Home  is  sweet — and  only  sweet — 

When  there 's  one  we  love  to  meet  us  1 


148  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


EARLY  HAUNTS  VISITED. 
By  R.  W.  Procter.* 

When  childhood,  fairy  boon  from  fate, 

Wreath'd  smiles  upon  my  brow, 
I  press'd  this  dear,  familiar  spot. 

Where  beauty  reign'd  as  now. 
Each  field  and  flower  ^ve  forth  its  bloom, 

Each  light  and  sunny  thing 
Rejoiced  with  me,  while  wandering  free, 

Bless'd  children  of  the  spring ! 

How  many  years  have  noiseless  sped 

Since  last  I  saw  this  glen, — 
How  oft  by  fierce  commotions  torn 

Yon  world  of  busy  men, — 
How  much  of  change  this  heart  has  known. 

Of  hopes,  of  smiles,  of  tears, — 
Yet  o'er  this  sweet  and  lone  retreat 

No  trace  of  time  appears. 

Thus,  when  the  sun's  all-glorious  beams 

Have  vanquish'd  winter^s  gloom. 
Blithe  nature  wakes  again  to  life. 

Triumphant  o'er  the  tomb ; 
'Tis  thus  the  simplest  leaves  and  flowers, 

With  weeds,  that  meanly  grow, 
Enjoy  perpetual  bloom  on  earth. 

Proud  man  shall  never  know. 

*  Author  of  "The  Barber's  Shop,"  "  Literary  Reminisoenoes,"  "Our 
Turf,  our  Stage,  and  our  Ring,**  Ac. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         149 

Why  wonder  that  the  great  and  good 

Should  kneel,  in  after-years, 
To  worship  e'en  the  sacred  turf 

That  infancy  endears ; 
For  o*er  the  soul  emotions  crowd 

Tumultuous  as  the  wave ; 
And  shades  of  dear  departed  joys 

"  Flit  shrouded  from  the  grave.*' 

I  go,  loved  scene,  to  distant  strife, 

In  air  impure  to  pine ; 
And  nevermore  these  pilgrim  feet 

May  wander  to  thy  shrine ; 
Yet  memory  oft  will  haunt  thy  glades, 

Preserve  them  pure  and  free. 
To  bless  the  little  sinless  hearts 

That  follow  after  me. 


THE  MUSIC  IN  OUR  HOME. 

(FROM  **  SONGS  OF  MY  LEISURE  HOURS.") 

By  Mrs  Wm.  Hobson .• 

'Tis  not  the  harp  that  fairy  fingers 
Sweep,  to  charm  us  with  its  tone, 

Although  its  thrilling  echo  lingers 
Long  and  sweetly  in  our  home. 

*  This  lady  is  now  Mrs  Fernind,  and  resides  at  Ashton-under-Lyne. 


ISO  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Ah !  no ;  'tis  music  that  brings  brightness 
To  the  mother's  heart  and  eye, 

Telling  her  that  life  has  flower, 
Lighting  up  the  shadows  by. 

'Tis  the  hum  of  pleasant  voices, 
Prattling  in  sweet  childhood's  tone, 

Making  glad  the  household  ingle 
With  a  music  all  their  own. 

'Tis  the  pattering  of  light  footsteps 
Up  and  down  the  homely  floor, 

With  untiring  perseverance 
Pacing  one  path  o'er  and  o'er. 

'TIS  the  merry  shout  and  laughter 

Ringing  out  in  joyous  glee, 
Making  all  around  re-echo 

With  the  wild,  glad  melody. 

'Tis  the  timid  first-taught  accents 
Of  the  bonny  household  pet, 

Lisping  words  to  the  fond  mother 
That  she  never  will  forget 

Oh !  that  home  is  drear  and  lonely, 
That  has  never  heard  the  tone 

Of  this  pleasant  fireside  music 
From  some  bright-eyed  little  one ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  151 

THE  OLD  PLACE. 

STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

By  Henry  Kirk,  of  Goosnargh. 

I  'm  sitting  again  on  the  old  mossy  stone, 

And  the  old  tree  is  shading  the  well, 
And  the  last  purple  beams  of  the  sunlight  are  thrown 
On  the  peak  and  the  heathery  fell ; 
And  the  mists,  white  as  snow, 
Wreath  the  valleys  below, 
And  the  night-birds  are  flinging  their  wild  rays  around, 

As  they  sang  ere  my  young  steps  departed 
From  these  calm,  rural  scenes,  where  old  memories 
abound, 
Full  of  hope,  free  from  fear,  and  light-hearted. 

Oh,  I  love  these  mementoes  of  days  that  are  past, 

Still  unchanged  by  the  years  as  they  roll ; 
So  unlike  the  gay  world,  where  my  wild  lot  is  cast. 

Where  each  day  marks  some  loss  of  the  soul, — 
Sees  a  cherish'd  friend  lost, 
Or  a  cherish*d  hope  cross'd. 
Oh !  had  I  but  stay'd  'mid  these  fair  scenes  around. 

From  the  home  of  my  youth  never  parted, 
I  might  never  have  wept  as  I  view*d  the  old  ground 

Half  forlorn,  spirit-broken,  sad-liearted ! 


152  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

THE  SONGS  OF  OUR  FATHERS. 
By  Mrs  Hemans.* 

'*  Sing  aloud 
Old  songs,  the  precious  music  of  the  henrt" 

WORDSWOKTH. 

Sing  them  upon  the  sunny  hills, 

When  xlays  are  long  and  bright, 
And  the  blue  gleam  of  shining  rills 

Is  loveliest  to  the  sight ! 
Sing  them  along  the  misty  moor, 

Where  ancient  hunters  roved  ; 
And  swell  them  through  the  torrent's  roar, 

The  songs  our  fathers  loved ! 

I'he  songs  their  souls  rejoiced  to  hear 

When  harps  were  in  the  hall, 
And  each  proud  note  made  lance  and  spear 

Thrill  on  the  banner'd  wall : 

.  *  Felicia  Dorothea  Browne  was  bora  in  Liverpool,  on  the  25th  Sep- 
tember Z793.  Her  mother,  whose  £unily  name  was  Wagner,  although 
a  German  by  appellation,  was  of  Italian  descent.  Her  fadier  was  a 
merchant  of  considerable  eminence ;  but  he  eventually  suffered  under 
those  reverses  incidental  to  a  commercial  life.  While  his  daughter 
was  still  very  young,  he  retired  with  his  family  into  Wales,  and  resided 
for  some  time  at  Gwrych,  near  Abergele.  While  here,  a  volume  of 
verses  by  the  young  poetess,  published  in  x8o8,  attracted  much  atten- 
tion, and  was  followed  within  four  years  by  two  others.  In  her  nine- 
teenth year,  she  was  married  to  Captain  Hemans,  of  the  4th  Regiment 
His  health  breaking,  it  became  necessary  for  him,  a  few  years  after  the 
marriage,  to  go  to  reside  in  Italy.  Mrs  Hemans,  whose  literary  pur- 
suits rendered-  it  undesirable  for  her  to  leave  England,  continued  to 
reside  with  her  mother  and  sister  at  a  quiet  and  pretty  spot  near  St 
As;iph,  in  North  Wales,  where  she  commenced  the  training  of  her 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         153 

The  songs  that  through  our  valleys  green, 

Sent  on  from  age  to  age, 
Like  his  own  river's  voice,  have  been 

The  peasant's  heritage. 

The  reaper  sings  them  when  the  vale 

Is  fill'd  with  plumy  sheaves  ; 
The  woodman,  by  the  starlight  pale, 

Cheer'd  homeward  through  the  leaves  ; 
And  unto  them  that  glancing  oars 

A  joyous  measure  keep. 
Where  the  dark  rocks  that  crest  our  shores 

Dash  back  the  foaming  deep. 

So  let  it  be ! — a  light  they  shed 

O'er  each  old  font  and  grove ; 
A  memory  of  the  gentle  dead, 

A  lingering  spell  of  love. 
Murmuring  the  names  of  mighty  men, 

They  bid  our  streams  roll  on, 
And  link  high  thoughts  to  every  glen 

Where  valiant  deeds  were  done. 

Teach  them  your  children  round  the  hearth, 

When  evening  fires  bum  clear. 
And  in  the  fields  of  harvest  mirth, 

And  on  the  hills  of  deer. 
So  shall  each  unforgotten  word, 

W^hen  far  those  loved  ones  roam. 
Call  back  the  hearts  which  once  it  stirr'd, 

To  childhood's  holy  home. 

five  sons.  For  their  better  edttcation,  she  subsequently  (April  i8a8} 
fixed  her  residence  at  Wavertree,  near  Liverpool,  and  still  later,  (1831,) 
changed  her  abode  to  Dublin.  She  died  on  Saturday,  the  x6th  May 
1835. 


154  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

The  green  woods  of  their  native  land 

Shall  whisper  in  the  strain  ; 
The  voices  of  their  household  band 

Shall  breathe  their  names  again ; 
The  heathery  heights  in  vision  rise 

Where,  like  the  stag,  they  roved — 
Sing  to  your  sons  those  mdodies, 

The  songs  your  fathers  loved. 


DOMESTIC  MELODY. 

(from  ''  HOURS  WITH  THE  MUSES.") 

By  J.  C.  Prince. 

Though  my  lot  hath  been  dark  for  these  many  long 

years. 
And  the  cold  world  hath  brought  me  its  trials  and 

fears  ; 
Though  the  sweet  star  of  hope  scarcely  looks  through 

the  gloom, 
And  the  best  of  my  joys  have  been  quench'd  in  the 

tomb; 
Yet  why  should  I  murmur  at  Heaven's  decree. 
While  the  wife  of  my  home  is  a  solace  for  me  ? 

Though  I  toil  through  the  day  for  precarious  food, 
With  my  body  worn  down,  and  my  spirit  subdued : 
Though  the  good  things  of  life  seldom  enter  my  door. 
And  my  safety  and  shelter  are  far  from  secure ; 
Still,  still  I  am  rich  as  a  poet  may  be, 
For  the  wife  of  my  heart  is  a  treasure  to  me. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  155 

Let  the  libertine  sneer,  and  the  cold  one  complain, 
And  turn  all  the  purest  of  pleasures  to  pain  ; 
There  is  nothing  on  earth  that  can  e'er  go  beyond 
A  heart  that  is  faithful,  and  feeling,  and  fond : 
There  is  but  one  joy  of  the  highest  degree, 
And  the  wife  of  my  soul  is  that  blessing  to  me. 


HOME  AND  FRIENDS. 
By  Charles  Swain. 

Oh,  there 's  a  power  to  make  each  hour 

As  sweet  as  heaven  designed  it ; 
Nor  need  we  roam  to  bring  it  home, 

Though  few  there  be  that  find  it ! 
We  seek  too  high  for  things  close  by, 

And  lose  what  nature  found  us  ; 
For  life  hath  here  no  charm  so  dear 

As  Home  and  Friends  around  us ! 

We  oft  destroy  the  present  joy 

For  future  hopes — ^and  praise  them ; 
Whilst  flowers  as  sweet  bloom  at  our  feet. 

If  we'd  but  stoop  and  raise  them ! 
For  things  a/ar  still  sweetest  are. 

When  youth's  bright  spell  hath  bound  us ; 
But  soon  we  're  taught  that  earth  has  nought 

Like  Home  and  Friends  around  us  ! 


IS6  AfODERN  SONGS  AND 

The  friends  that  speed  in  time  of  need, 

When  Hope's  last  reed  is  shaken, 
To  show  us  still  that,  come  what  will, 

We  are  not  quite  forsaken : 
Though  all  were  night,  if  but  the  light 

Oifriendshij^s  altar  crown'd  us, 
'Twould  prove  the  bliss  of  earth  ivas  this- 

Our  Home  and  Friends  around  us ! 


MINEl 

(a  wife's  song.) 

By  Mrs  G.  LiNNiEUS  Banks.* 

I  LOVE  thee,  I  love  thee,  as  deariy  as  when 
We  plighted  our  troth  in  the  spring-time  of  life ; 

The  tempests  of  years  have  swept  o'er  us  since  then. 
Yet  affection  survives  both  in  Husband  and  Wife. 

No  love  that  the  poet  e'er  fabled  of  yore 
Could  vie  in  its  depth  or  endurance  with  mine  ; 

No  miser  could  treasure  his  glittering  store 
As  I  hoard  in  my  heart  every  love-tone  of  thine. 

No  babe  could  repose  on  a  fond  Mother's  breast, 
More  calmly  confiding  than  I  do  on  thine ; 

I  fly  to  thy  arms,  as  a  bird  to  its  nest, 
For  shelter  and  safety,  dear  Husband  of  mine ! 

*  Formerly  Miss  Isabella  Varley,  of  Manchester,  Authoress  of  "  Ivy 
Leaves,"  &c.  Mrs  Banks  has  also  written  a  successful  novel,  entitled, 
"God's  Providence  House.'* 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  157 

Ay,  "  Mine,  and  mine  only ! "  Oh,  joy  passing  words. 
To  carol  this  song  in  my  innermost  heart ; 

''  While  thine,  and  thine  only ! "  the  vibrating  chords 
Shall  echo  till  sense,  life,  and  feeling  depart 


THE  WOODMAN'S  BALLAD. 

By  R.  W.  Procter. 

One  mom,  the  first  of  beaming  May, 
While  yet  the  night-bird  tuned  her  lay, 
I  wander'd  with  my  youth's  first  love. 
To  view  the  sweets  of  hill  and  grove, 
And  choose  wild  flowerets,  glistening  fair, 
To  wreathe  a  garland  for  her  hair. 

I  placed  the  crown,  with  heart-felt  vow, 
Upon  her  full  and  radiant  brow ; 
And  never  did  a  love-'tranced  eye 
A  rarer  May-day  queen  espy : 
I  view'd  her  with  unbounded  bliss, 
My  rapture  sealing  with  a  kiss. 

The  blooming  lass  is  now  my  bride, 
The  woodman's  hope,  the  woodman's  pride ; 
And  crown'd  will  be  my  earth-bom  joys, 
If  bless'd  with  smiling  girls  and  boys ; 
In  life 's  decline  a  balm  to  give. 
And  bid  my  name  and  memory  live ; 
E'en  when  the  turf  of  simple  green 
Wraps  Edwin  and  his  village  queen. 


158  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

"AS  WELCOME  AS  FLOWERS  IN  MAY." 

(from  "the  poetic  rosary.'*) 

By  J.  C  Prince. 

"As  welcome  as  flowers  in  May  !** 

Kind  words  with  a  musical  sound ; 
What  can  be  more  welcome  than  they, 

When  fair-footed  spring  cometh  round ; 
Glad  Spring !  ever  welcome  to  each. 

To  childhood,  to  manhood,  and  age, 
For  she  comes  to  delight  us  and  teach. 

And  she  opens  a  beautiful  page. 

There  are  many  things  welcome  as  these, 

As  we  thread  the  dim  mazes  of  life ;  , 

A  calm  sense  of  pleasure  and  ease 

After  seasons  of  sorrow  and  strife — 
A  feeling  of  safety  and  glee 

When  a  danger,  long-threaten*d,  is  past. 
And  even  the  knowledge  to  see 

That  the  worst  has  befallen  us  at  last 

Fresh  health  on  the  cheek  of  a  child. 

That  we  feai'd  was  escaping  above ; — 
A  smile  from  the  maid  undefiled. 

Who  hath  kindled  one's  soul  into  love  ; — 
The  sound  of  the  bUthe  marriage-bell 

To  the  bride  who  has  given  her  heart, 
And  the  words  of  her  husband,  that  tell 

His  devotion  will  never  depart 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  159 

The  birth  of  a  child,  when  we  feel 

We  can  foster  it,  guard  it,  and  g^ide ; 
While  the  smiles  of  its  mother  reveal 

Her  matchless  affection  and  pride  ; — 
Its  first  broken  syllables,  made 

More  closely  our  bosoms  to  bind, 
And  its  up-growing  beauty,  displa/d 

In  the  promising  dawn  of  its  mind ; — 


The  first  pleasant  glimpse  of  our  home. 

After  travel,  with  toil  and  annoy, 
When  we  vow  for  the  moment  to  roam 

No  more  from  its  threshold  of  joy ; — 
Each  form  more  expanded  in  grace, — 

Each  voice  more  melodious  grown ; — 
The  soul-beaming  gladness  of  face 

Of  the  whole  household  treasure,  our  own  ;- 

Old  Ocean's  magnificent  roar 

To  a  voyager  loving  the  sea, 
And  the  sight  of  his  dear  native  shore 

When  he  cometh  back  scatheless  and  free ; 
The  music  of  brooks  and  of  birds. 

To  a  captive  just  loosen'd  from  thraU, 
And  the  love-lighted  looks  and  sweet  words 

Of  his  wife,  who  is  dearer  than  aU ; — 


The  soul-touching  penitent  tears 
Of  those  who  have  stra/d  from  the  light, 

When  they  come,  with  their  hopes  and  their  fears. 
To  ask  us  to  lead  them  aright ; — 


i6o  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

The  franky  cordial  look  of  a  foe 

We  have  conquer*d  by  kindness  and  peace, 
And  the  pure  satisfaction  to  know, 

That  a  friendship  begun  will  increase ; — 

And  then,  in  our  calm  chimney-nook, 

Alone,  with  a  fire  burning  bright, 
How  wdcome  a  newly-brought  book, 

That  has  startled  the  world  with  delight ! 
How  welcome  one's  own  printed  name 

To  our  first  happy  efforts  in  song. 
And  the  first  grateful  whisper  of  fame. 

That  bids  us  speed  bravely  along  1 

There  are  many  more  subjects,  no  doubt, 

If  my  muse  had  but  language  and  time ; 
But  there 's  something  I  must  not  leave  out, 

It  will  gracefully  finish  my  rhyme :  « 

From  a  friend  how  heart-warming  to  hear 

What  his  lips  with  sincerity  sa)r^ 
^  Why,  your  presence  brings  comfort  and  cheer ; 

You're  as  welcome  as  flowers  in  May!" 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  i6i 

THE  POET  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

By  William  Mort. 

I  SAW  thee  in  the  noisy  town,  a  unit  'mid  the  throng, 
Wending  thy  way,  a  thing  of  light,  the  crowded  streets 

along ; 
The  eyes  of  men  were  fix'd  upon  thy  blushing  brow 

and  cheek, 
As,  like  a  timid  fawn,  thou  pass'd — so  beautiful,  so 

meek. 

Again,  within  the  sacred  dome,  I  saw  thee  bent  in 

prayer, — 
Oh,  well  might  angels  envy  man  a  child  so  purely  fair ! 
Gracefully  as  the  fuchsia's  flower  thy  gentle  head  was 

bow'd. 
And  sweetly  droop'd  thine  eyes  beneath  their  soft  and 

fringM  shroud. 

I  know  not  if  'twere  then  a  sin  to  have  so  strange  a 

thought. 
But  I  did  look  on  thee  as  one  from  heavenly  regions 

brought ; 
And  though  I  long'd  to  touch  thy  hand,  I  fear'd  the 

spirit's  rod 
Might  smite  me  as  the  man  was  smote  who  touch'd 

the  ark  of  God ! 

And  back  I  shrunk  within  myself,  like  one  who  had 

madly  striven 
To  tread  with  mortal  footsteps  on  the  threshold  of 

high  heaven : 

L 


i62  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Upon  thy  face  I  gazed  again,  nor  half  my  danger 

knew, 
Till  one  sweet  glance  of  thine  prodaim'd  that  thou 

wert  mortal  too. 

And  then  within  thy  quiet  home  I  saw  thee  yet  once 

more, 
When  smiles  as  bright  as  happiness  thy  cheek  were 

flitting  o*er ; 
When  duty,  truth,   and   love   engross'd   thy  every 

thought  and  care, 
And  not  a  doubt  came  o'er  thy  soul  to  cast  a  shadow 

there! 

And  now  thou  art  my  own,  beloved,  my  own  most 
faithful  wife, 

The  silken  cord  that  fetters  me  to  happiness  and  life. 

A  gentle  tyrant  art  thou,  love,  and  I  hug  my  chains 
and  thee, — 

And  who  but  death  shall  dare  attempt  to  set  the  cap- 
tive free ! 


THE  FIRST-BORN. 
By  Mrs  Trafford  Whitehead. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep, — and  o'er  thy  infant  dreams 
Bend  the  bright  angels,  murmuring  low  and  sweet, 

Guiding,  with  shining  hands,  the  soft  sunbeams 
Upon  thy  future, — ^and  beneath  thy  feet 

Holding  the  shadows  that  would  upward  creep. 

Calm  be  the  peace  around !— :5leep,  baby,  sleep ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  163 

What  hath  the  future  'neath  those  dreaming  eyes  ? 

Childhood's  light  joys,  and  babbling  griefs  and  fears, 
And  youth's  bewildering  thoughts,  deep,  wild,  and  wise, 

Bright  flitting  summer  clouds  that  break  in  tears. 
And  manhood's  whirling  night-mists,  hurrying  past ; 
The  stormy  wind,  guiding  to  port  at  last. 

Hath  Time  some  secret  to  disclose  to  thee, 
Thou  with  the  tiny  hands,  that  to  the  world 

Shall  bring  new  light,  making  the  darkness  flee  ? 
Perchance  the  cloak  of  ignorance  to  chaos  hurlM. 

Hath  life  some  mystery  that  thou  shalt  live  to  reap, 

That  God  hath  saved  for  thee  ?    Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

How  faint  thy  wailing  cry,  that  loud  and  shrill 
May  wake  the  echoes  from  the  vales  of  gloom. 

Where  ignorance  hovers, — ^mind  and  power  of  will 
Do  fling  a  radiance  of  immortal  doom ! 

Weak  be  thy  waving  arms, — yet  in  their  circling  hold 

Shalh mortals  limit  truths  God  hath  not  told. 

We  know  the  future  hath  a  glorious  store. 
We  know  that  life  is  vast  and  serious ; 

And  those  that  fate  hath  bless'd  are  known  before, 
And  weave  materials  imperious. 

The  weakest  grasp  may  give  the  grandest  gift, — 

The  tardiest  step  may  far  outrace  the  swift. 

And  who  shall  say  that,  in  their  counsels  low, 
The  murmuring  angels  may  not  yet  unseal 

Some  mystery  the  world  doth  pant  to  know. 
Those  infant  lips  are  chosen  to  reveal  ? 

The  thread  that  shall  unroll  truth's  gordian  coil 

Perchance  lies  in  those  hands'  allotted  toil 


i64  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

I  would  not  ask  that  glory's  clarion  peal 
Should  sound  thy  name  loud  through  the  wander- 
ing earth ; 
But  that  its  accents  human  hearts  should  feel, 

When  high  was  meeded  honour,  lauded  worth ; 
Where'er  the  great  and  good,  the  pure  and  free 
Are  found, — ^there  in  the  shining  midst,  would  I  seek 
thee! 


"COME  WHOAM  TO  THI  CHILDER  AN'  ME/' 

By  Edwin  Waugh. 

Aw'VE  just  mended  th'  fire  wi'  a  cob  ;• 

Owd  Swaddle  has  brought  thi  new  shoon  ; 
There's  some  nice  bacon  collops  o'  th'  hob, 

An'  a  quart  o'  ale-posset  i'  th'  oon ; 
Aw  've  brought  thi  top  cwot,  does  ta  know, 

For  th*  rain 's  comin'  deawn  very  dree ; 
An'  th'  har'stone  's  as  white  as  new  snow ; 

Come  whoam  to  thi  childer  an'  me. 

When  aw  put  little  Sally  to  bed, 

Hoo  cried,  'cose  her  feyther  weren't  theer, 
So  aw  kiss'd  th'  little  thing,  an'  aw  said 

Thae  'd  bring  her  a  ribbin  fro'  th'  fair ; 
An'  aw  gav'  her  her  doll,  an'  some  rags. 

An'  a  nice  little  white  cotton  bo' ; 
An'  aw  kiss'd  her  again ;  but  hoo  said 

'At  hoo  wanted  to  kiss  thee  an'  a 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  165 

An'  Dick,  too,  aw*d  sich  wark  wi'  him, 

Afore  aw  could  get  him  up-stairs  ; 
Thae  towd  him  thae'd  bring  him  a  drum, 

He  said,  when  he 're  sayin'  his  prayers ; 
Then  he  look'd  i'  my  faze,  an'  he  said, 

"  Has  th'  boggarts  taen  houd  o'  my  dad  ?" 
An'  he  cried  whol  his  een  were  quite  red ; — 

He  likes  thee  some  weel,  does  yon-lad! 

At  th'  lung-length  aw  geet  him  laid  still ; 

An'  aw  hearken't  folks'  feet  'at  went  by ; 
So  aw  iron't  o  my  clooas  reet  weel, 

An'  aw  hang'd  'em  o'  th'  maiden  to  dry ; 
When  aw'd  mended  thi  stockin's  an'  shirts, 

Aw  sit  deawn  to  knit  i'  my  cheer. 
An'  aw  rayley  did  feel  rayther  hurt, — 

Mon,  aw  'm  one-fy  when  theaw  artn't  theer. 

'^  Aw  've  a  drum  and  a  trumpet  for  Dick  ; 

Aw've  a  yard  o'  blue  ribbin  for  Sal ; 
Aw've  a  book  full  o'  babs ;  an'  a  stick, 

An'  some  bacco  an'  pipes  for  mysel ; 
Aw've  brought  thee  some  coffee  an'  tay, — 

Iv  thae  *VLf€€l  i'  my  pocket,  thae  '11  sgg; 
An'  aw  've  bought  tho  a  new  cap  to-day, — 

But  aw  olez  bring  summat  for  ilue/ 


"  God  bless  thee,  my  lass ;  aw  'U  go  whoam, 
An'  aw '11  kiss  thee  an'  th'  childer  o  reawnd ; 

Thae  knows,  'at  wheerever  aw  roam, 
Aw  'm  fain  to  get  back  to  th'  owd  greawnd  ; 


i66  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Aw  can  do  wi'  a  crack  o'er  a  glass  ; 

Aw  can  do  wi'  a  bit  ov  a  spree  ; 
But  aw've  no  gradely  comfort,  my  lass. 

Except  wi'  yon  childer  an'  thee." 


THE  STAR  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 
By  John  Critchley  Prince. 

An  angel  in  the  house  ?    Ah,  yes  f 

There  is  a  precious  angel  there ; 
A  woman,  form'd  to  soothe  and  bless. 

Good,  if  she  be  not  fair ; 
A  kindly,  patient,  faithful  wife, 

Cheerful,  and  of  a  temper  mild, 
One  who  can  lend  new  charms  to  life. 

And  make  man  reconciled. 

Oh !  'tis  a  pleasant  thing  to  see 

Such  being  going  to  and  fro. 
With  aspect  genial  and  free, 

Yet  pure  as  spotless  snow  : 
One  who  performs  her  duties,  too, 

With  steady  and  becoming  grace. 
Giving  to  each  attention  due. 

In  fitting  time  and  place. 

One  who  can  use  her  husband's  means 
With  careful  thrift  from  day  to  day, 

And  when  misfortune  intervenes 
Put  needless  wants  away ; 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  167 

Who  smooths  the  wrinkles  from  his  brow, 
When  more  than  common  cares  oppress  ; 

And  cheers  him — faithful  to  her  vow — 
With  hopeful  tenderness. 

One  whoy  when  sorrow  comes,  can  feel 

With  woman's  tenderness  of  heart ; 
And  yet  can  strive  with  quiet  zeal 

To  ease  anothei^s  smart ; 
One  who,  when  fortune's  sun  grows  bright, 

And  flings  the  clouds  of  care  aside, 
Can  bask  with  pleasure  in  its  light, 

Yet  feel  no  foolish  pride. 

One  who  can  check,  with  saint-like  power. 

Wild  thoughts  that  spring  to  dangerous  birth, 
And  wake  pure  feelings,  as  the  shower 

Of  spring  awakes  the  earth ; 
Bring  forth  the  latent  virtues  shrined 

Within  the  compass  of  the  breast. 
And  to  the  weak  and  tortured  mind 

Give  confidence  and  rest 

Good  neighbour — not  to  envy  prone ; 

True  wife,  in  luxury  or  need ; 
Fond  mother,  not  unwisely  shown ; 

Blameless  in  thought  and  deed : 
Whoever  claims  so  rare  a  wife, 

Thus  should  his  earnest  words  be  given — 
'^  She  is  the  angel  of  my  life, 

And  makes  my  home  a  heaven ! " 


i68  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


"'TIS  SWEET  TO  MEET  THE  FRIEND  WE 

LOVE." 

By  George  Richardson. 

'TIS  sweet  to  meet  the  friend  we  love, 
By  distance  kept  apart  for  years ; 

And  dearer  when  such  joys  are  link'd 
To  those  which  kindred  more  endears. 

Give  me  the  still,  domestic  home — 
The  humble  hearth,  the  lowly  state — 

Contentment,  and  inspiring  peace — 
Life's  chiefest  blessings  to  await. 

The  welcome  fare,  the  cheerful  smile, 
The  tree-embowei'd  cot  of  thatch ; 

My  gentle  wife  and  offspring  dear, 
With  none  but  friend  to  raise  my  latdu 

These  are  the  chiefest  worldly  gifts, 
Sweet  joys  which  final  blessings  prove ; 

And  what  is  life,  unless  to  live 
In  social  intercourse  and  love  ? 

I  ask  not  honour,  crave  not  wealth, 
But  just  enough  of  fortune's  smile 

To  check  adversity  and  want, 

By  honest  means  and  moderate  toil 

,      With  these  to  move  in  decent  pride. 

Through  varied  scenes  this  chequered  maze- 
To  love  and  live  endear'd  to  mine. 
And  pass  in  peacefulness  my  days  ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  169 

WELCOME,  BONNY  BRIDI 
By  Samuel  Laycock. 

Tha'rt  welcome,  little  bonny  brid, 

But  shouldn't  ha'  come  just  when  tha  did ; 

Toimes  are  bad. 
We're  short  o'  pobbies  for  eawr  Joe, 
But  that,  of  course,  tha  didn't  know, 

Did  ta,  lad  ? 

Aw  've  often  yeard  mi  feyther  tell, 
'At  when  aw  coom  i'  th'  world  misd 

Trade  wur  slack ; 
An'  neaw  it's  hard  wark  pooin'  throo— 
But  aw  munno  fear  thee ;  iv  aw  do 

Tha  11  go  back. 

Cheer  up  I  these  toimes  'ull  awter  soon ; 
Aw  'm  beawn  to  beigh  another  spoon — 

One  for  thee ; 
An'  as  tha's  sich  a  pratty  face, 
Aw  11  let  thee  have  eawr  Charley's  place 

On  mi  knee. 

God  bless  thee,  love,  aw'm  fain  tha  'rt  come, 
Just  try  an'  mak  thisel  awhoam : 

What  ar  't  co'd  ? 
Tha  'rt  loike  thi  mother  to  a  tee, 
But  tha's  thi  feyther's  nose,  aw  see, 

WeU,  aw  'm  blow'd ! 


I/O  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

m 

Come,  come,  tha  needn't  look  so  shy, 
Aw  am  no'  blacldn'  thee,  not  I ; 

Settle  deawn. 
An'  tak  this  haup'ney  for  thisel', 
There 's  lots  o'  sugar-sticks  to  sell 

Deawn  i'  th'  teawn. 

Aw  know  when  furst  aw  coom  to  th'  leet 
Aw 're  fond  o'  owt  'at  tasted  sweet ; 

Tha  11  be  th' same. 
But  come,  tha's  never  towd  thi  dad 
What  he 's  to  co  thi  yet,  mi  bd — 

What 's  thi  name  ? 

Hush !  hush  1  tha  munno  cry  this  way, 
But  get  this  sope  o'  cinder  tay 

While  it's  warm; 
Mi  mother  used  to  give  it  me, 
When  aw  wur  sich  a  lad  as  thee. 

In  her  arm. 

Hush  a  babby,  hush  a  bee — 
Oh,  what  a  temper !  dear  a-me 

Heaw  tha  skroikes : 
Here 's  a  bit  o'  sugar,  sithee ; 
Howd  thi  noise,  an'  dien  aw  11  gie  thee 

Owt  tha  loikes. 

We'n  nobbut  getten  coarsish  fare. 
But  eawt  o'  this  tha'st  ha'  thi  share. 

Never  fear. 
Aw  hope  tha '11  never  want  a  meel, 
But  alius  fill  thi  bally  weel 

While  tha 'rt  here. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  171 

Thi  feyther's  noan  bin  wed  so  long, 
An'  yet  tha  sees  he's  midcUin'  throng 

Wi'  yo*  o :  ♦ 

Besides  thi  little  brother,  Ted, 
We  'n  one  up-steers,  asleep  i'  bed 

Wi'  eawr  Joe. 

But  though  we  'n  childer  two  or  three, 
We  '11  mak'  a  bit  o*  reawm  for  thee— 

Bless  thee,  lad ! 
Tha'rt  th'  prattiest  brid  we  han  i'  th'  nest ; 
Come,  hutch  up  closer  to  mi  breast — 

Aw 'm  thi  dad. 


THE  LOST  BROTHER. 
By  William  Mort. 

Mother,  look  forth  on  yon  beautiful  cloud, 

That  sails  o'er  the  bright  blue  sky, 
And  flings  to  the  winds  its  misty  shroud 

As  it  maketh  its  course  on  high ; 
And  teU  me  if  that  is  my  brother,  who 's  gone 

To  those  dwellings  of  light  above, 
Where  the  sun  in  his  glory  for  ever  hath  shone  ? 

— That  is  not  thy  brother,  my  love ! 

Look,  mother,  look  at  yon  twinkling  star, 
That  glows  like  a  light  on  the  sea, 

And  seemeth  as  though  from  its  palace  afar 
It  were  steadfastly  gazing  on  me. 


1 


172  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Is  not  that  my  brother  who  fled  away 
From  his  home  like  a  wild  stock-dove, 

And  left  me  all  alone  to  play  ? 
— That  is  not  thy  brother,  my  love ! 

List,  mother,  list  to  the  soft  low  tone 

That  comes  on  the  evening  breeze, 
Like  the  musical  sounds  some  night-birds  moan 

As  it  steals  through  the  old  elm-trees ; 
Is  not  that  the  voice  of  my  brother,  who's  telling 

The  joys  of  his  home  above- 
Where  the  throat  of  archangel  with  rapture  is 
swelling? 

— ^That  is  not  thy  brother,  my  love ! 

The  clouds  that  flit  o'er  the  sky  so  bright, 

Soon,  soon  have  pass'd  away ; 
And  the  star  that  cheereth  the  gloom  of  night 

Is  gone  ere  the  break  of  day. 
But  thy  brother— oh  think  not,  my  love,  that  he 

Doth  change  like  the  things  of  air  J 
The  heaven  of  heavens  no  eye  can 

Thy  brother,  thy  brother  is  there  / 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  173 

EVENING  SONG. 

(from  "  HOURS  WITH  THE  MUSES.") 

By  J.  C  Prince. 

'Tis  wearing  late  I  'tis  wearing  late !  I  hear  the  vesper 

beU! 

And  o'er  yon  misty  hill  the  sun  hath  look'd  a  bright 

farewell ; 
The  bee  is  in  its  honey-home,  the  bird  is  in  its  nest, 

And  every  living  being  yearns  for  solace  and  for  rest ; 

The  household  gathers  round  the  hearth,  and  loving 

souls  draw  near, — 
Young  mothers,  rock,  young  mothers,  rock,  oh,  rock 

your  children  dear. 

It  is  the  hour,  the  happy  hour,  when  I  was  wont  to  be 

Hush'd  to  a  calm  and  blessM  sleep  upon  my  mother's 
knee; 

While  she  would  sing,  with  voice  subdued,  and  ever- 
tuneful  tongue, 

Some  well-remember'd  melody,  some  old  and  simple 
song; 

And  sometimes  on  my  cheek  would  fall  affection's  holy 
tear, — 

Young  mothers,  rock,  young  mothers,  rock,  oh,  rock 
your  children  dear. 

It  is  the  heart-awakening  time,  when  breezes  rock  the 

rose, 
Which  drooping  folds  its  vernal  leaves  in  nature's 

soft  repose ; 


174  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

And  silvery-wingM  butterflies,  in  field  or  garden  fair, 
Are  swinging  in  their  dewy  beds  by  every  passing  air ; 
And  birds  are  rock'd  in  cradles  green,  till  morning's 

hues  appear, — 
Young  mothers,  rock,  young  mothers,  rock,  oh,  rock 

your  children  dear. 

The  starry-girdled  moon  looks  down,  and  sees  her 
welcome  beam 

Rock'd  on  the  undulating  breast  of  ocean,  lake,  and 
stream ; 

And  mariners,  who  love  her  light,  are  rock*d  by  wave 
and  wind, 

Pining  for  home,  and  all  its  joys,  which  they  have  left 
behind, 

Till  Hope's  sweet  sunshine  comes  again,  their  sicken- 
ing souls  to  cheer, — 

Young  mothers,  rock,  young  mothers,  rock,  oh,  rock 
your  children  dear. 

Oh !  it  would  be  a  pleasant  thing,  had  we  the  will  and 
power. 

To  change  the  present  for  the  past,  and  fly  to  child- 
hood's hour ; 

To  seek  old  haunts,  to  hear  old  tales,  resume  our 
former  play ; 

To  live  in  joyous  innocence  but  one,  one  little  day. 

Oh !  that  would  be  a  precious  pause  on  life's  unknown 
career. — 

Young  mothers,  rock,  young  mothers,  rock,  oh,  rock 
your  children  dear. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  175 

LOVED  AND  LOST. 

By  Mrs  Trafford  Whitehead. 

The  grave  hath  won  thee,  and  thy  happy  home 
Shall  know  thy  place  no  more!    Where  thou  didst 

roam. 
Amongst  thy  shrubs  and  flowers,  thy  feet  shall  glide 
With  lingering  steps  no  more !    The  world  is  wide — 
Why  hath  Death  taken  thee  f  when  every  hour 
Some  weary  one,  with  failing  strength,  doth  cower 
'Neath  the  delaying  grasp.    Why  doth  his  decree 
Fix  with  relentless  hold,  thou  well-beloved,  on  thee  t 

Death !  stand  thou  back.     Is  this  the  victim,  bound 
In  thy  cold,  stony  grasp  ?    Is  there  no  breath 
On  those  red  lips  ?    Do  I  not  hear  a  sound  ? 
Will  she  not  speak  again  ?    O  Death  !  O  Death ! 
Arouse  thee  I    I  am  pressing  thy  still  hand : 
Thou  dost  but  linger  near  the  spirit-land. 
Can  we  not  wake  thee  ?    Thou  art  silent — tkou — 
Can  there  be  death  for  me  on  that  bright  brow  ? 

How  I  have  kiss'd  that  calm  and  icy  cheek, 
For  all  it  wears  a  cold,  repellant  guise ! 
Thy  nature  was  so  loving  and  so  meek, 
I  seek  in  vain  some  message  from  those  eyes. 
Why  art  thou  here  at  mid-day,  hush'd  and  still. 
With  the  light  closed  on  thee  ?    Thy  words  do  thrill 
Through  the  long  passages,  as  last  they  fell. 
And  thou  art  lying  here.     Is  this  Farewell  ? 
Why  do  we  stand  around  thy  silent  bed 
Unwelcomed  and  unheeded  ?    Thou  art  dead ! 


176  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

The  slow,  dull  rain  is  dripping  dully  on  ; 
With  a  soft,  grieving  sound ; — ^the  wind  wails  on. 
As  though  it  moum'd  thee  lying  stilly  here  ; 
Thou — the  spirit  of  the  place — ^to  all  so  dear. 
How  beautiful  thou  art  with  that  faint  smile ! 
How  fair  thy  lilied  cheek !  how  calm  thine  eyes, 
Closed  in  a  placid  sleep  of  peace  the  while 
That  we  are  bow'd  with  grief— thou  pure !  thou  wise ! 
God  sent  His  messenger  across  the  sky. 
Through  the  night-stricken  world,  so  tenderly. 
Ke  found  thee  panting  with  thy  weary  breath. 
And  seal'd  the  smile  upon  thy  lips — ^in  death. 

How  the  long  dreary  months  will  come  and  go. 
Making  the  grass  grow  longer  on  thy  grave  I 
And  some  shall  bring  it  leaves,  and  some  but  snow. 
And  the  sad  winds  shall  o'er  it  moan  and  wave ; 
Yet  thou  wilt  still  be  voiceless  in  the  time. 
When  coming  years  shall  ring  forth  other  chime; 
Voiceless  !  not  so ;  a  voice  is  left  for  thee — 
The  boy,  the  child  of  thine  idolatry — 
And  thou  be  voiceless  while  he  lives  to  speak 
Thy  thoughts,  thy  words,  in  accents  faint  and  weak, 
But  stiU  thine  own.    Thou  hast  a  future  cast 
In  thy  fair  child ;  not  to  the  hurried  past, 
Snapp'd  so  abruptly,  is  thy  lot  confined : 
Destiny,  striking,  pities — Fate  is  kind. 

And  when  in  after-years,  a  child  no  more, 
He  stands  beside  tliy  grave  with  bowM  head, 
Will  he  remember  times  that  now  are  o'er  ? 
Will  he  remember  thee,  who  now  art  dead  ? 
Will  thy  pale  cheek,  thy  soft  and  tender  eyes 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  177 

Upon  the  mirror  of  his  mind  arise  ? 
Will  the  dark  gloss  of  that  luxuriant  hair 
Bring  back  the  gentle  face,  so  kind  and  fair  ? 
Smiling  upon  him  in  his  childish  glee, 
Blending  thy  image  with  his  infancy. 

The  grave  hath  won  thee,  let  it  well  take  care ; 

Thou  art  but  lent  unto  its  keeping,  like  a  gem 

Too  precious  for  the  world  to  fret  and  wear. 

Befitting  rather  Heaven's  diadem. 

Take  thy  calm  rest,  beyond  all  earthly  guile. 

Deepening  upon  thy  face  that  moonlight  smile. 

Ah !  thou  hast  pass'd  the  gates  ;  we  drooping  stand, 

Watching  the  vistas  of  the  spirit-land ; 

And  thou  canst  aid  us  not,  canst  give  no  signs 

To  her  who  loved  thee,  and  who  wrote  these  lines. 


EAWR  BESSY. 

(FROM  "AFTER 'BUSINESS  JOTTINGS.**) 

By  Richard  R.  Bealey. 

Eawr  Bessy's  gone  to  th'  Sunday  schoo'. 

What  does  t'a  think  o'  that  ? 
Hoo  wesh'd  her  face,  and  comm'd  her  yure, 

An'  donn'd  her  Sunday  hat ; 
An'  then  hoo  said,  'twur  toime  to  goo — 

Aw  couldn't  get  her  t'  stay ; 
Hoo  said  hoo  wish'd  'ut  Sunday  schoo' 

Wur  comin'  every  day. 

A 


178  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

For  everythin*  hoo  loikes  so  weel, 

An*  th*  teychers  are  so  koind, 
Hoo  couldn't  think  to  stop  awhoam, 

Nor  be  a  bit  behoind. 
Bu'  then  hoo  alius  wur  so  good, 

An'  not  a  bit  loike  th'  rest ; 
Aw  think  hoo 's  loike  those  childer  'd  be, 

'Ut  th*  Saviour  took  an'  bless'd. 


But  summat  in  her  pratty  face 

Seems  t'  say  hoo  isn't  strung. 
An'  oft  aw  've  thought  hoo  wur  too  good 

T'  be  eawt  o'  heaven  lung ; 
An'  mony  a  toime  at  neet  aw've  dreamt 

'Ut  hoo  wur  ta'en  away 
Bi  th'  angels,  an'  aw  've  wakken'd  up, 

An'  fretted  o  that  day. 


Aw  couldno'  help  it,  'twur  no  use 

Heawever  aw  met  try ; 
An'  every  neaw  an'  then  hoo'd  ax 

What  made  her  mammy  cry ; 
An'  then  hoo  'd  kiss  me,  th'  little  thing, 

An'  sattle  on  my  knee. 
An'  cuddle  me,  an'  ax  me  t'  sing, 

Or  else  hoo  'd  sing  for  me. 

An'  so  hoo  dried  up  th'  sheawers  o'  rain. 
An'  melted  th'  frost  an'  snow. 

An'  brought  back  summer  toime  again. 
An'  made  th'  sweet  fleawers  to  grow ; 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         179 

Aw  wur  so  happy  at  thoose  toimes, 

My  heart  were  full  o'  glee, 
We  *d  such  a  lot  o'  happiness. 

Had  little  Bess  an'  me. 


Aw  recollect,  one  afternoon, 

When  hoo  wur  sittin'  still, 
An'  readin'  in  hur  little  book, 

Bu'  favvoi'd  bein'  ill — 
Aw  stood  an'  watch'd  her  for  a  bit, 

An'  wonder'd  while  aw  stood, 
If  onythin'  i'  heaven  above 

Wur 's  bonny  an'  as  good. 


Her  yure  wur  just  loike  threads  o'  gowd. 

Or  curlin'  rays  o'  th'  sun, 
'Ut  hung  abeawt  her  little  neck. 

As  not  o'  purpose  done  ; 
Bu'  theer  they  lay,  as  if  they'd  fc/n 

Just  loike  to  th'  flakes  o'  snow. 
So  gently,  'ut  they  seem'd  afeard 

To  let  eawr  Bessy  know. 

Her  e'en  wur  loike  to  th'  summer  sky. 

For  bein'  clear  and  blue ; 
An'  then  her  cheeks  were  loike  a  rose, 

*Ut  th'  red  wur  peepin'  through. 
An'  if  yo  con  but  understond. 

Her  face,  it  seem'd  to  me, 
Wur  loike  a  tune  upon  a  harp — 

A  moulded  melody. 


i8o  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

An'  as  hoo  sat,  an'  as  hoo  look'd, 

Aw  winnot  try  to  tell, 
Heaw  happy  an'  heaw  fear'd  aw  wur, 

Nor  heaw  my  breast  did  swell 
Aw  couldn't  tell  it  if  aw  would, 

But  if  aw  could,  thae  sees, 
Aw  'd  rayther  keep  it  to  mysel', 

For  thee  it  metna  please. 


Well,  as  aw  stood  a-lookin'  so, 

An'  watchin'  her  on  th'  sly. 
Aw  seed  a  tear  fo  on  her  book. 

An'  loike  a  diamond  lie. 
An'  then  hoo  sobb'd  as  if  her  heart 

Wur  gooin'  t'  brast  i'  two. 
An'  th'  tears  feU  loike  a  summer  sheawer. 

As  if  they'd  weet  her  through. 

For  th'  little  angel,  as  hoo  is, 

Wur  readin',  as  aw  fun', 
O'  Joseph's  nowty  brethren, 

An'  th'  mischief  as  they  'd  done ; 
Twas  when  hoo  'd  getten  just  to  th'  place 

Where  Joseph 's  sowd  away 
To  th'  Ishmaelites,  hoo  brasted  eawt, 

An'  begg'd  'em  t'  let  him  stay. 

Ay,  ay,  it  wur  a  bonny  seet 

As  e'er  a  mortal  seed ; 
An'  of  a  bonnier,  why  aw  'm  sure, 

'Ut  th'  angels  ha'  no  need. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  i8i 

Aw  did  thank  God  he'd  g'en  me  th'  lass, 

An'  couldna'  help  bu'  pray, 
'Ut  if  it  wur  His  blessed  will, 

He  'd  let  her  wi'  me  stay. 


But  here  hoo  comes,  God  bless  her  heart, 

Hoo's  bin  to  th'  Sunday  schoo*. 
An'  looks  as  breet  as  summer-toime. 

An'  beawt  a  shadow,  too. 
Hoo 's  getten  summat  in  her  yed 

To  tell  me,  aw  con  see  ; 
An'  hoo  'U  be  readin'  it  to-neet, 

Wi'  th*  book  set  on  my  knee. 


An'  when  hoo  says  her  prayers,  aw  know 

Hoo  11  say,  "  God  bless  my  dad, 
An'  dunno'  let  him  drink  again — 

It  ma'es  him  swear  so  bad ; 
An'  God  bless  mammy,  an'  eawr  Bill ; 

And  bless  eawr  Sally  too ;" 
An'  then  hoo'U  goo  to  bed  an'  sleep. 

As  nobbut  good  folk  do. 

Aw've  lots  o'  trouble  day  by  day, 

A  bit  aboon  my  share ; 
Bu'  little  Bessy  seems  to  say, 

**  Yo'n  joy  as  weel  as  care." 
An'  so  I  have,  I  know  it  weel. 

An'  if  I  met  but  choose, 
Aw  'd  stond  another  load  o'  care 

If  Bess  aw  shouldna'  lose. 


1 82  AfODERN  SONGS  AND 

But  if  that  lass  wur  ta'en  away, 

A  w  *m  sure  'ut  aw  should  dee  ; 
Aw  couldna'  live  a  single  day 

Wi'  death  'twixt  her  an'  me  ; 
Her  soul  i'  heaven,  an'  me  on  earth. 

Aw  'm  sure  it  wouldna'  do  : 
But  God  wain't  tak*  her  fro'  me  yet^ 

He  sees  we  're  lovin'  so. 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  DEWDROPS. 

IN  MEMORY  OF  A  LOST  SON. 
(FROM  "  AUTUMN  LEAVES.") 

BY  J.  C.  Prince. 

**'  O  DEAREST  mother !  tell  me,  pray. 

Why  are  the  dewdrops  gone  so  soon  ? 
Could  they  not  stay  till  close  of  day, 
To  sparkle  on  the  flowery  spray, 
Or  on  the  fields  till  noon  ?" 

The  mother  gazed  upon  her  boy, 

Earnest  with  thought  beyond  his  years. 
And  felt  a  sharp  and  sad  annoy, 
That  meddled  with  her  deepest  joy ; 
But  she  restrain'd  her  tears. 

*'  My  child,  'tis  said  such  beauteous  things, 
Too  often  loved  with  vain  excess, 

Are  swept  away  by  angel  wings. 

Before  contamination  clings 
To  their  frail  loveliness. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         183 

^  Behold  yon  rainbow,  brightening  yet, 
To  which  all  mingled  hues  are  given  ! 

These  are  thy  dewdrops,  grandly  set 

In  a  resplendent  coronet 
Upon  the  brow  of  heaven  ! 

^  No  stain  of  earth  can  reach  them  there : 
Woven  with  sunbeams  there  they  shine, 

A  transient  vision  of  the  air, 

But  yet  a  symbol,  pure  and  fair, 
Of  love  and  peace  divine ! " 

The  boy  gazed  upward  into  space, 

With  eager  and  inquiring  eyes. 
While  o'er  his  fair  and  thoughtful  face 
Came  a  faint  glory,  and  a  grace 

Transmitted  from  the  skies. 

Ere  the  last  odorous  sigh  of  May, 
That  child  lay  down  beneath  the  sod  ; 

Like  dew  his  young  soul  passed  away. 

To  mingle  with  the  brighter  ray 
That  veils  the  throne  of  God. 

Mother !  thy  fond,  foreboding  heart 

Truly  foretold  thy  loss  and  pain  ; 
But  thou  didst  choose  the  patient  part 
Of  resignation  to  the  smart, 

And  own'd  thy  loss  his  gain. 


x84  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

EDITH. 

(from  "after-business jottings.") 
By  R.  R.  Bealey. 

Two  years  old,  and  so  bonny  and  fair, 
With  thy  light  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair, 
With  thy  laughing  face  and  chattering  tongue, 
Thy  warm  embrace  and  affection  strong ; 
Thou  art  indeed  as  lovely  a  child 
As  ever  the  heart  from  itself  beguiled. 

Two  years  old,  like  a  bud  just  blown. 
Showing  the  colour  and  shade  alone  ; 
But  if,  even  now,  such  beauty  we  see, 
What  may  we  hope  the  full  flower  to  be  ? 
A  gem  from  the  hand  of  the  Florist  Divine, 
In  which  both  the  rose  and  the  lily  combine. 

Oh  that  thy  future  may  never  destroy 

That  bright  merry  laugh  and  innocent  joy ! 

But,  pure  as  the  lily,  and  sweet  as  the  rose, 

May  thy  heart  be  still  fresher  as  life  nears  its  close. 

And  at  last,  when  thy  summons  to  leave  this  earth  is 

given, 
May  angels  transport  thee  to  bloom  on  in  heaven. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  185 


MOI  OWD  MON.       ' 

SONG    IN    THE    EAST    LANCASHIRE    DIALECT. 

By  the  Author  of  "  Scarsdale." 

The  storm  that  ma'es  eawr  chimley  reek, 

Is  wild  on  Derpley  Moo-ur ; 
The  gusts  that  on  the  casement  breek, 

Flood  o  the  kitchen  floo-ur. 
Eawr  Reuben  rode  to  Brough  yestreen, 
An'  o'er  yon  moors  the  wynt  is  keen ; 
Fro'  Shap  it  roars  to  Bowland  Fell, 
An'  deawn  the  Whaarfe  fro'  KettlewelL 

He  moight  deawn  t'  Lune  an'  Ribble  roide, 

An'  so  miss  hafe  the  blast ; 
Nur  whoile  he  reyched  the  Calder  soide, 

When  Derpley  mun  be  past. 
He  11  wrap  his  maud  across  his  face, 
An'  spur  his  tit  on  eager  pace ; 
O  Christ !  tent  moi  owd  mon  fro'  skaith, 
Or  tak'  us  to  eawr  Feyther  baith  ! 

For  we  are  lone— eawr  childer's  wed, 

We  're  aged,  an'  wait  Thoi  will ; 
Sin'  we  were  bairns  together  bred, 
We'n  lived  through  well  an'  iU. 
And  if  the  Lord  would  grant  moi  prayer, 
He  would  this  neet  moi  owd  mon  spare ; 
That  oi  moight  cloas  his  eyes  mysel', 
And  then  lig  deawn  and  wi'  him  dwell. 


i86  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


TO  LITTLE  ANGEL  "CHARLIE." 

(FROM  "AFTER-BUSINESS  JOTTINGS.") 

By  R.  R.  Bealey. 

Often  have  I  been  to  see  tbee, 
And,  while  waiting  at  the  door, 

I  have  heard  thy  small  feet  patter. 
Patter,  on  the  lobby  floor : 
No,  I  ne'er  shall  hear  thee  more. 

Then  I  've  greeted  thee  with  kisses. 
Each  one  loving  to  the  core  ; 

And  thy  laugh  has  been  like  sunshine 
From  the  bright  and  heavenly  shore : 
But  I  must  not  hear  thee  more. 

Ere  thy  tongue  had  learn'd  to  prattle, 
Thoughts  were  in  thee  quite  a  store. 

And  thine  eyes  were  telling  stories. 
All  of  Love's  rich  golden  lore  ; 
Yet  I  may  not  hear  thee  more. 

As  an  infant  I  address'd  thee, 
Yea,  thy  love  I  did  implore  ; 

And  I  question'd  thcc  in  earnest 
Of  thy  hfe  in  days  of  yore, 
As  I  may  not  ask  thee  more. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         187 

Yet  I  cannot  think  tbee  absent, 

But  as  near  me  as  before ; 
Or  at  most,  that  thou  hast  shifted 

To  the  other  side  the  door — 
Lost  to  sight,  and  nothing  more. 

May  I  not  in  spirit  meet  thee, 

When  the  night  is  coming  o*er  ? 
May  I  not  in  shadows  greet  thee, 

While  the  breezes  softly  pour 
Tones  of  thine  from  yonder  shore  ? 

May  I  not  in  dreamland  see  thee 

Smiling  as  in  days  of  yore  ? 
Only  fairer,  and  more  lovely ; 

And  although  I  mayn't  adore, 

I  still  will  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Yes !  for  death  is  not  a  parting, 

Only  darkness  coming  o'er ; 
Soon  our  eyes  shall  all  be  opened, 

When  the  truth  we  will  explore, 
With  our  loved  ones  evermore. 

Teach  me,  little  angel  "  Charlie," 

Teach  my  spirit,  I  implore. 
Nearer  truth !  oh,  gather  garlands, 

Fling  them  back  on  earth's  dark  shore, 
And  I  will  learn  as  ne'er  before. 


x88  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

THE  LAST  BEHEST. 
By  William  Mort. 

"  The  tongues  of  dying  men 
Enforce  attention,  like  deep  harmony." 

Shakspesb. 

Come  hither,  wife !  I  *d  speak  with  thee  a  while  before 

I  go, 
Once  more  I  *d  commune  with  thee  ere  I  yield  me  to 

the  blow ; 
Long,  long  we've  lived  together  since  thy  maiden 

heart  I  won — 
Come  hither,  I  would  speak  with  thee  ere  yet  my 

course  is  run ! 

Oh,  well  hast  thou  perform'd  the  vows  upon  the  altar 
made, 

And  kindly  tended  me  when  God  afflictions  on  me 
laid; 

Ay,  truly  hast  thou  cherish'd  me,  my  own,  my  faith- 
ful wife — 

Come  hither,  I  would  speak  with  thee  ere  yet  I  part 
with  life! 

My  sons,  too,  and  my  darling  girl — ^my  Kate — oh,  bring 

them  all, 
And  let  me  gaze  upon  you  till  in  death's  cold  arms  I 

fall  ;— 
My  little  ones!    nay,  do  not   mourn— I  leave  your 

mother  here ; 
And  God  who  cheers  the  widow's  heart  will  dry  the 

orphan's  tear ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  189 

My  son,  my  oldest  one,  approach,— to  thee  my  charge 
is  great, 

For  thou  alone  of  all  my  flock  hast  wrought  to  man*f 
estate ; 

Oh,  look  thou  on  my  children  with  a  brother's  watch- 
ful eye, 

And  lead  them  up  in  holiness — oh,  promise,  ere  I  die ! 

Thy  sister,  too — remember,  son,  thou  art  her  father 

now; 
Protect  her,  that  no  bitter  thought  may  cloud  her 

maiden  brow ; 
Guard  thou  her  name  with  jealousy — each  sorrow 

strive  to  quell — 
Cling  to  her  with  a  brother's  love — oh,  shield  thy  sister 

well! 

•But  most,  oh,  most,  my  son,  support  thy  mothei's  fail- 
ing years— 

Her  heart  is  stricken  by  the  blast,  her  eyes  are  *'  founts 
of  tears ; " 

I  leave  her  to  thee  as  a  gem  more  rich,  more  dear 
than  life— 

My  only  solace  upon  earth— my  own,  my  faithful  wife ! 

Oft  hath  she  watch'd  thy  restless  couch  when  toss'd 

by  infant  woe ; 
Oft  hath  her  bosom  throbb'd  for  thee,  ere  thou  her 

cares  could  know ; 
And  now — ^look  on  her,  son — she  needs  that  anxious 

care  repaid— 
Oh,  be  thou  her  support  when  I  in  the  cold  grave  am 

laid ! 


190  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Come  hither— doser— all  of  you— I  feel  that  death  is 
nigh; 

Come  closer — closer  still — now  kiss  my  cheek  before 
I  die! 

Bless  you,  my  children !  bless  you  all !  through  life, 
in  joy  or  woe ! 

A  father's  blessing  be  with  you ! — all— all  he  can  be- 
stow ! 


MI    GRONFEYTHER. 
By  Samuel  Laycock. 

Aw  Ve  just  bin  a  havin'  a  peep  at  th'  farm-heawse 

Wheer  mi  gronfeyther  lived  at  so  long  ; 
So  aw  'U  draw  eawt  a  bit  ov  a  sketch  o'  th'  owd  spot. 

An'  work  it  up  into  a  song. 
An'  furst  let  me  tell  yo'  aw  'm  sorry  to  foind 

'At  th'  place  isn't  same  as  it  wur ; 
For  th'  di'mond-shaped  windows  han  o  bin  pood  eawt, 

An'  the/n  ta'en  th*  wooden  latch  off  o'  th*  dur. 

They'n  shifted  that  seeat  wheer  mi  gronfeyther  sat 

Ov  a  neet  when  he'rn  readin'  th'  Owd  Book. 
An'  aw  couldn't  foind  th'  nail  wheer  he  hung  up  his 
hat. 

Though  aw  bother'd  an'  seech'd  for 't  i'  th'  nook. 
There's  th'  dog-kennel  yonder,  an'  th'  hencote  aw  see, 

An'  th'  dooas-prop  just  stonds  as  it  did ; 
There 's  a  brid-cage  hangs  up  wheer  mi  gronfeyther^s 
wur. 

But  aw  couldn't  see  owt  ov  a  brid. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  191 

A  rare  foine  owd  fellow  mi  gronfeyther  wur, 

Wi'  a  regular  big  Roman  nose  ;     • 
An'  though  nearly  eighty,  he  look'd  strong  an'  hale, 

An'  his  cheeks  wur'n  as  red  as  a  rose. 
There  wur  nowt  abeawt  him  'at  wur  shabby  or  mean  ; 

An'  he  wur  no'  beawt  brains  in  his  skull : 
He  wur  alius  streightfomid  i'  o  'at  he  did — 

An  owd-fashun'd  Yorkshur  John  Bull 

He*d  a  farm  ov  his  own,  an'  a  noice  little  pond, 

Wheer  we  used  to  go  fishin'  for  treawt ; 
An*  aw  haven't  forgetten  when  th'  hay  time  coom 
reawnd, 

For  us  childer  had  mony  a  blow  eawt 
An'  when  th'  ^'  heawsin "  wur  done,  eh,  we  had  some 
rare  fun, 

Wi'  tipplin'  an'  rowlin'  on  th'  stack ; 
An'  then  mi  owd  gronfeyther 'd  come  wi'  his  pipe. 

An'  we  o  used  to  climb  on  his  back. 

When  aw  wur  a  lad  abeawt  thirteen,  or  so, 

Aw  remember  aw  'd  mony  a  good  ride ; 
For  mi  gronfeyther  'd  getten  a  horse  or  two  then, 

An'  a  noice  little  jackass  beside. 
An'  then  he'd  a  garden  at  th'  backside  o'  th'  heawse 

Wheer  eawr  Bobby  an'  me  used  to  ceawer, 
Eatin'  goosbris,  an'  currans,  an'  ruburb,  an'  crabs, 

Or  owt  there  wur  else  'at  wur  seawer. 

Mi  gronfeyther — bless  him — reet  doated  o'  me — 

He'd  tell  me  aw  geet  a  foine  lad ; 
An'  mony  a  toime  say,  when  aw'm  sit  on  his  knee, 

^  Eh,  bless  thee ;  tha  fawers  thi  dad ! " 


192  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Then  he  *d  tell  mi  aunt  Betty  to  beigh  me  some  spice ; 

An'  whenever  hoo  happen*d  to  bake, 
He  'd  tell  her  to  reach  deawn  a  pot  o'  presarves, 

An'  mak'  me  a  noice  presarve  cake. 

God  bless  him,  he's  gone ;  an'  a  kinder  owd  mon 

Never  walk'd  o'  two  legs  nor  he  wur ; 
Th'  last  time  aw  wur  o'er  theer,  an'  seed  him  alive, 

He  coom  back  wi'  me  ever  so  fur. 
Aw  geet  howd  ov  his  hont  when  we  parted  that  neet, 

An  aw  think  aw  shall  never  forget 
Heaw  he  look'd  i'  mi  face  when  he'm  goin'  away : 

It  wur  th'  last  time  'at  ever  we  met 

A  week  or  two  after,  th'  owd  fellow  'd  a  stroke, — 

He  fell  off  his  cheer  on  to  th'  floor ; 
They  gether'd  him  up,  an'  they  took  him  to  bed, 

But  he  never  wur  gradely  no  moor. 
Good-bye,  dear  owd  gronfeyther ;  nob'dy,  aw  know, 

Could  be  fonder  nor  aw  wur  o'  thee ; 
Aw  shall  never  forget  heaw  tha  patted  mi  yed, 

When  aw  used  to  be  ceawr'd  on  thi  knee. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE. 

By  the  Editor. 

The  lofty  cedar  of  Lebanon 

Is  stately  and  fair  to  look  upon ; 

But  dearest  of  all  the  trees  to  me 

Is  the  bright  and  dazzling  Christmas  tree  ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  193 

Sweet  are  the  spice-trees  of  the  East ; 

The  banyans  give  perpetual  feast ; 

But  the  sweetest  of  all  trees  to  me, 

Is  the  fragrant,  home-deck'd  Christmas  tree ! 

Then  let  who  will  through  forests  rove, 
Or  wander  'mid  some  orange  grove ; 
The  acacia  love,  or  the  linden-tree — 
The  evergreen  Christmas  tree  for  me ! 

In  parents'  love  it  hath  its  root — 
And  what  other  tree  e'er  bore  such  fruit  ? 
Since  first  I  knelt  by  a  mother's  knee, 
I  have  ever  loved  the  Christmas  tree ! 

It  blooms  not  in  Summer,  like  fickle  friends, 
But  a  charm  to  hoary  Winter  it  lends  ; 
It  blossoms  best  'neath  the  old  roof-tree : 
Each  child  delights  in  that  love-fruit  tree ! 

Its  boughs  a  wondrous  burden  bear; 
Its  varied  blossoms  are  rich  and  rare  ; 
Oh,  a  glorious  sight  for  children  to  §ee, 
Is  that  Winter-blooming  Christmas  tree ! 

Would  we  were  more  like  that  gladsome  tree  I 

Abounding  in  gifts  as  fair  to  see ; 

With  joy-giving  fruit  as  full  and  free, 

As  the  dear  old  home  and  its  Christmas  tree  I 


N 


194  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


«  GOD  BLESS  THESE  POOR  WIMMEN 
THAT'S  CHILDER!" 

By  Thomas  Brierley. 

God  bless  these  poor  wimmen  that 's  childer  J 

Shuz  [choose]  whether  they  Ve  rich  or  they  're  poA", 
Thur  's  nob'dy  con  tell  whot  a  woman 

Wi'  little  uns  has  to  endure ; 
The  times  that  hoo  's  wakken  i'  th*  neet-Cime^ 

Attendin'  thur  wailin  and  pain, 
Un'  smoothin*  thur  pillow  of  sickness, 

Would  crack  ony  patient  mon's  brain. 

God  bless  these  poor  wimmen  that's  childer ! 

Heaw  patient  they  are  i'  distress  I 
An  infant  that  God  has  afflicted 

Does  ever  a  woman  love  less  ? 
Not  hur !    The  sick  creatur  hoo  watches, 

Wi'  caution  ten-fowd  in  hur  ee, 
Hoo  11  nev&r  lose  seet  on 't  a  minute, 

For  fear  it  should  happen  to  dee. 

God  bless  these  poor  winmien  that's  childer  I 

Aw  deem  it  a  very  fine  treat 
To  sit  eawt  o'  seet,  un'  be  watchin' 

A  woman  gi'  th'  childer  some  meat ; 
Heaw  pleasant  un'  smilin'  hur  nature, 

Hur  face  is  surrounded  wi'  joy, 
Hoo 's  dealing  o  th'  childer  a  fist  full, 

Un'  plenty  on  table  t'  put  by. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  195 

God  bless  these  poor  wimmen  that 's  childer ! 

Aw  know  that  they  'n  mony  a  fort  [fault,] 
But  chaps  has  no  Icashun  to  chuckle. 

Men's  blemishes  are  not  so  short : 
Then  have  a  kind  word  for  these  wimmen, 

If  t*  maddest  un'  vilest  o*  men 
Wum  just  made  i'  wimmen  a  fortneet, 

They  'd  never  beat  wimmen  agen. 

God  bless  these  poor  wimmen' that 's  childer ! 

These  smoothers  of  sorrow  and  death, 
These  angels  of  softness  and  mercy, 

That  comfort  as  long  as  they  've  breath ; 
These  magical  charmers  of  manhood, 

These  wreathers  of  love  and  delight. 
These  fairies  that  never  desert  us, 

God  bless  'um,  aw  say,  wi'  yoV  might ! 


THE  KISS  BENEATH  THE  HOLLY. 

(from  **  SONGS  OF  MY  LEISURE  HOURS.") 

By  Mrs  William  Hobson. 

^  Be  merry  and  wise,"  says  the  good  old  song. 

And  joy  to  the  heart  that  penn'd  it ; 
If  we've  aught  to  fret,  the  stately  "  pet  * 

Will  never  reform  or  mend  it. 
On  Christmas  night,  when  the  log  bums  bright. 

To  be  joyous  is  not  folly ; 
There 's  nought  amiss  in  the  playful  kiss 

That  *s  stolen  beneath  the  holly. 


196  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Let  hand  clasp  hand  with  a  hearty  clasp, 

To  all  give  a  velcome  greeting ; 
Fling  pride  afar ;  don't  gloom  or  mar 

The  coming  Christmas  meeting. 
**  Be  merry  and  wise,'*  say  sparkling  eyes, 

Away  with  all  melancholy — 
There 's  nought  amiss,  just  laugh  at  the  kiss 

That 's  stolen  beneath  the  holly. 

Oh,  welcome  with  glee  the  festive  night. 
When  the  joyous  bells  are  ringing  ; 

But  once  a  year  the  chime  we  hear. 
That  the  Christmas  time  is  bringing. 

Don't  pout  or  frown  'neath  the  mystic  crown- 
To  be  joyous  is  not  folly ; 

There 's  nought  amiss  in  the  Christmas  kiss 
That 's  stolen  beneath  the  holly. 


«AW  CONNUT  DRY  MI  HEEN,  ROBIN." 
By  the  late  John  Scholes. 

^  Come,  woipe  thi  been  ;  iv  throuble  's  eawrs, 

Un'  things  gwon  wrang  to-day, 
Thae  knows,  moi  lass,  its  April  sheaw'rs 

'Ut  makun'  th'  fleaw'rs  o'  May. 
Put  th'  childer  o  to  bed,  un'  come 

Aw  'U  tak  my  pipe  un'  smook, 
Un'  we'st  happun  feel  moar  comfortsome 

Iv  thae '11  read  a  bit  i'  th'  Book." 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  197 

"  Aw  connut  read  to-neet,  Robin, 

Aw  connut  read  to-neet ; 
Thir's  a  feaw  un  fearful  seet,  Robin, 

Comes  atwixt  mi  un'  the  leet — 
It's  the  seet  o'  th'  childer  starvin', 

Un'  the  beds  thi  sleep  on  gwon, 
Fur  yon  chap,  to  th'  latest  farthin' 

He  11  sell  up  stick  un'  stwon. 

"  Oh !  it 's  weel  mi  heart  mey  break,  Robin  I 

It 's  weel  mi  heart  mey  break. 
Aw  con  see  the  Bayli's  mark,  Robin, 

On  oitch  thing  we  han  to  take ; 
Thir's  the  clock  ut  wur  mi  Gronn/s, 

Un'  mi  drawers  so  breet  un  noice, 
Un'  th'  cradle,  it  wur  eawr  Johnny's, 

Fur  it's  had  new  rockers  twoica 


"  Thir  's  thi  Faythur's  rockin-cheer,  Robin, 

Wheer  Wesley  once  sat  deawn, 
Un'  th'  candlesticks  up  theer,  Robin, 

'Ut  cost  mi  hauve-a-creawn ; 
Un'  eh  I  mi  corner  kubbort, 

'Ut  geet  yon  knob  knockt  off. 
When  wi  kessunt  eawr  poor  Roburt, 

'Ut  deed  o'  th'  hoopin-cough." 

"  Come,  dri  thi  heen,  Ailse ;  try  un'  seek 

Comfort,  un*  hope,  un'  rest." 
Un'  a  tear  stole  deawn  owd  Robin's  cheek, 

Whol  he  said,  "  Let's  hope  for  th'  best." 


198  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

^'  Aw  connut  dry  mi  heen,  Robin, 
Aw  connut  kneel,  nur  pray, 

Fur  they  '11  sell  moi  Willy's  loikeness, 
'Ut's  gwon  to  Omerika. 


'*  Thae  knows  that  mom  he  left,  Robin, 

When  th'  neeburs  o  gect  reawnd— 
Aw'd  raythur  see  that  lad,  Robin, 

But,  oh  !  he  mun  bi  dreawnM  ! 
Oh !  aw'd  raythur  far  ha'  lain  him 

r  yon  spot  wheer  wi  mun  lay ; 
Fur  thoose  natives  mun  ha'  slain  him, 

Or  else  he's  dreawn'd  i'  th'  say. 

"  Thae  11  see  his  picthur  sowd,  Robin, 

Un'  th'  mug  wi'  his  name  on  too  ; 
Aw  'd  raythur  part  wi'  loife,  Robin, 

Than  thoose  two  things  should  goo. 
Un'  oh  !  sin'  Willy  started, 

Its  six  long  year,  un'  moar. 
Not  a  letthur  sin*  wi  parted— 

But  thir's  sumb'dy  knocks  at  th'  dur !" 

"  Come  in !  come  in  !  who  con  it  be  ? 

Not  Nancy,  come  a  borrowin'  th'  maiden ! 
Nay,  Nancy  wouldn't  knock,  not  she — 

Eawr  Willy's  lass  is  summat  made  on." 
But  in  coom  Nancy,  trippin'  leet, 

Un  said,  "  A  felli  'ud  lost  his  way ; 
Could  thi  lodge  a  stranger  theer  that  neet, 

*Ut  had  corned  fro'  Omerika?" 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  199 

^  He  mey  ha*  th'  cous-cheer  drawn  up  to  th*  foire^ 

He  mey  sleep  wi*  Tummy  un*  Joe, 
Un*  eh !  iv  he 's  bin  eawt  o'  Englundshoire, 

He  '11  ha  sin  eawr  Willy,  aw  know.'* 
Mufil't  i'  shawls  un'  winter  cwots, 

The  stranger  stood  on  th'  floor, 
'Ut  seem'd  wi'  its  whoite  un  marbrt  spots, 

T  ha'  bin  dappl't  wi'  daisies  o'er. 

**  I  've  got  a  letter  here,"  he  said, 

^  With  twenty  pounds  inside, 
From  Willy  Blithe — a  sailor  lad. 

And  I  've  brought  some  gold  beside : 
His  mother  and  father  live  hereby. 

And  if  you  11  tell  me  where, 
1 11  hasten  on,  to  give  them  joy, 

And  save  them  many  a  tear." 


"  Oh  yer  yoh,  Robin !  he's  livin',  Robin ! 

Eawr  Will"— Ailse  said  na  moar ; 
Un'  th'  good  owd  mon  wur  soarly  sobbing 

As  he  kneelt  him  deawn  o'  th'  floor. 
^  Aw  connut  howd — aw  connut  bide. 

It 'shim!  It's  him,  hissel!" 
Poor  Nancy  sobb'd,  un'  laugh'd  un'  cried, 

Un'  WiUy't  muffler  fell 

"Aw 'm  fit  to  dee  wi'  joy,  Robin ! 

Though  aw  couldn't  kneel  nur  pray, 
Un'  th'  One  that  yerd  mi  greet,  Robin  1 

Browt  him  fro'  Omerika." 


200  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

^^  O  Ailse,  thae  's  cause  to  bless 
*Ut  we'er  na  moar  distressed : 

Lord,  fill  us  o  wi'  thankfulness  ; 
Thoi  ways  are  olez  best" 

'Twur  on  a  Monday  mom  T  May, 

Yung  Willy  un'  his  Nancy 
To  Ratchda'  church  tripp'd  leet  un*  gay, 

As  frolicsome  as  fancy. 
Un'  Willy  towd  in  afthur-years, 

Heaw  in  seechin'  Franklin  bold, 
'Mung  ice,  un'  snow,  un'  grisly  bears, 

He'd  toil'd  for  love  un'  gold. 


EAWR  FOLK. 
By  Edwin  Waugh. 

Er  Johnny  gi's  his  mind  to  books ; 

Er  Abram  studies  plants, — 
He  caps  the  dule  i'  moss  an'  ferns, 

An'  grooin'  polyants ; 
For  aught  abeawt  mechanician', 

Er  Ned's  the  very  lad ; 
My  uncle  Jamie  roots  i'  th'  stars, 

Enough  to  drive  him  mad. 

Er  Alick  keeps  a  badger's  shop, 
An'  teyches  Sunday  schoo' ; 

Er  Joseph 's  welly  blynt,  poor  lad ; 
Er  Timothy's — a  foo ;— 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         201 

He's  tried  three  different  maks  o'  trades, 

An'  olez  miss'd  his  tip ; 
But,  then,  he's  th*  prattiest  whistler 

That  ever  c€»ck'd  a  lip  1 


Er  Matty  helps  my  mother,  an* 

Hoo  sews,  an'  tents  er  Joe ; 
At  doin'  sums,  an'  sich  as  that, 

My  feyther  licks  them  o ; 
Er  Charley, — eh,  there  connot  be 

Another  pate  like  his. 
It's  o  crom-full  o'  ancientry. 

An'  Roman  haw-pennies  I 

Er  Tummy's  ta'en  to  preitchin*, — 

He 's  a  topper  at  it,  too  ; 
But  then, — ^what's  th'  use,— er  Bill  comes  in, 

An'  swears  it  winnut  do  ; 
When  t*  one 's  bin  strivin'  o  he  con 

To  awter  wicked  men. 
Then  t'other  mae's  some  marlocks,  an' 

Convarts  'em  back  again. 

Er  Abel's  th'  yung'st ;  an*  next  to  Joe, 

My  mother  likes  him  t'  best : 
Hoo  gi's  him  brass  aboon  his  share. 

To  keep  him  nicely  dress'd  ; 
He's  gettin'  in  wi'  th'  quality. 

An'  when  his  clarkin  's  done^ 
He 's  olez  oather  cricketin', 

Or  shootin'  wi'  a  gun. 


202  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

My  uncle  Sam  *s  a  fiddler  ;  an' 

Aw  fain  could  yer  him  play 
Fro'  set  o'  sun  till  winter  neet 

Had  melted  into  day ; 
For  eh — sich  glee — sich  tenderness  I 

Through  every  changin*  part, 
It's  th*  heart  'at  stirs  his  fiddle,— 

An'  his  fiddle  stirs  his  heart 

When  th'  owd  brid  touches  th'  tremblin'  string, 

'At  knows  his  thowt  so  wed, 
It  seawnds  as  iv  an  angel  tried 

To  tell  what  angels  feel ; 
An',  sometimes,  th'  wayter  in  his  e'en, 

'At  fun  has  teyched  to  flow. 
Can  hardly  roll  away,  afore 

It's  wash'd  wi'  drops  o'  woe. 

Then,  here 's  to  Jone,  an'  Ab,  an*  Ned, 

An'  Matty, — an'  er  Joe, — 
My  feyther,  an'  my  mother ;  an' 

£r  t'other  lads  an'  o  ; 
An'  thee,  too,  owd  musicianer. 

Aw  wish  lung  life  to  thee, — 
A  mon  that  plays  the  fiddle  wed 

Should  never  awse  to  dee  1 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         203 


LINES  TO  MY  WIFE 

DURING  HER  RECOVERY  FROM  A  LONG  ILLNESS. 

By  Samu£L  Bamford. 

The  youthful  bard  doth  chant  his  lay 

To  nymph  or  goddess  fair ; 
The  thirsty  bard  doth  Bacchus  pray 

For  wine  to  drown  his  care ; 
And  some  have  sung  of  olden  time, 

And  feats  of  chivalry ; 
And  shall  not  I  address  a  rhyme, 

My  own  dear  wife,  to  thee  ? 

Full  thirty  years  have  o'er  us  pass'd 

Since  thou  and  I  were  wed, 
And  time  hath  dealt  us  many  a  blast, 

And  somewhat  bow*d  thine  head, 
And  torn  thine  hair,  thy  bright  brown  hair. 

That  streamed  so  wild  and  free ; 
But  oh  !  thy  tresses  still  are  fair 

And  beautiful  to  me ! 

Yes,  Time  hath  ta*en  thy  lily  hand. 

And  chilled  thy  stream  of  life ; 
And  scored  some  channels  with  his  wand. 

As  envying  thee,  my  wife : 
But  let  not  sorrow  make  thee  sigh, 

Nor  care  thy  heart  distress  ; 
Though  health  do  fail,  and  charms  do  fly, 

Thy  husband  will  thee  bless  ! 


204  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Ay !  bless  thy  cheek,  all  worn  and  wan, 

With  beauty  once  beset ; 
The  red  rose  leaves,  my  love,  are  gone ; 

The  pale  ones  linger  yet : 
And  bless  thy  care-bedouded  brow, 

And  bless  thy  dimmM  sight ; 
Can  I  forget  the  time  when  thou 

Wert  my  young  morning-light  ? 


Oh,  morning-light !    Oh,  early  love ! 

Oh,  hours  that  swiftly  flew  ! 
Oh,  love  !  the  sun  was  far  above 

Before  we  miss'd  the  dew. 
We  ranged  the  bowers,  we  cull*d  the  flowers, 

All  heedless  of  the  day  ; 
And,  love-beguiled,  to  wood  and  wild, 

We  wandered  far  away. 

We  ranged  the  bowers,  we  cuU'd  the  flowers, 

By  upland  and  by  dell ; 
And  many  a  night,  by  pale  moonlight, 

We  sought  the  lonely  well. 
And  many  a  night,  when  all  above 

Shone  not  one  starlit  ray ; 
And  was  not  I  thy  Wizard,  love  ? 

And  wert  thou  not  my  Fay  ? 

One  arm  was  o*er  thy  shoulder  cast ; 

One  hand  was  held  in  thine  ; 
Whilst  thy  dear  arm  my  youthful  waist 

Did  trustfully  entwine : 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         205 

And  through  the  night,  all  still  and  stark, 

No  other  footsteps  near, 
We  stray'd ;  and,  love,  it  was  not  dark, — 

My  light  of  life  was  there  I 


Oh,  light  of  love !  oh,  early  bom ! 

Love-bom  and  lost  too  soon ! 
Oh,  love !  we  often  thought  it  mom. 

When  it  was  early  noon ! 
And,  love !  we  thought  it  still  was  noon, 

When  eve  came  o*er  the  land ; 
And^  love !  we  deem'd  it  wondrous  soon 

When  midnight  was  at  hand 

And  when  at  length  we  needs  must  part. 

And  could  no  longer  stay ; 
Still  hand  in  hand,  and  heart  by  heart. 

We  homewards  took  our  way : 
The  wild-flowers  laved  our  lingering  feet. 

The  woodbine  shed  its  dew ; 
And  o'er  the  meads  and  pastures  sweet 

The  night-wind  freely  blew. 


The  rubies  from  thy  lips  may  fade, 

Thy  cheek  be  pale  and  cold ; 
But  thou  wert  mine,  a  youthful  maid, 

And  I  '11  be  thine  when  old ! 
I  see  those  tears  that  grateful  start. 

Oh !  turn  them  not  aside ; 
But,  dear  one !  come  unto  my  heart. 

As  when  thou  wert  my  bride. 


2o6  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


ANGEL  ANNIE. 
By  Mrs  William  Hobson. 

She  came,  a  little  fairy  one, 

And  nestled  to  my  breast ; 
Came,  as  a  truant  dove  would  turn, 

And  seek  its  parent  nest ; 
Her  soft  blue  eye  beam*d  with  a  light 

That  was  not  caught  from  earth  ; 
Her  coral  lips  smiled  with  a  love 

That  had  an  angel's  birth. 

She  grew ;  grew  with  the  summer  flowcrs- 

A  little  violet  wild, 
A  rosebud  with  immortal  soul-— 

A  lovely,  winning  child. 
The  stranger  e'en  would  hush  his  breath 

To  hear  her  soft,  low  tone  ; 
Twas  like  the  echo  of  some  harp, 

Heard  but  in  heaven  alone. 


'Twat  strange  how  close  the  little  one 

Was  wreathed  about  my  heart ; 
She  was  amongst  the  things  from  which 

My  memory  could  not  part. 
I  never  see  the  violet  bloom, 

The  little  daisy  peep, 
But  I  think  of  her,  the  "  gather'd  flower"— 

I  think  of  her  and  weep. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         20? 

Death  came,  and  found  upon  her  face 

Strange,  wondrous  beauty  there ; 
A  light  shone  round  her  baby  brow, 

And  rippled  in  her  hair ; 
She  tum'd  and  said,  with  heavenly  smile, 

Bright,  yet  foreboding  sorrow, 
*^  Mamma,  I  shall  not  want  my  curls — 

Not  want  my  curls  to-morrow." 

And  then  her  blue  eyes  quivering  closed. 

She  softly  went  to  sleep ; 
The  little  bird  had  fluttei'd  home— 

It  seem'd  a  sin  to  weep : 
A  sin  to  weep  \  yet,  oh,  to  stand 

Beside  that  darling  one. 
And  feel  the  starry  light  of  home 

Had  with  her  spirit  gone  1 


We  knew  the  prattling  voice  was  hush'd, 

The  lisping,  love-taught  word 
Would  ne*er  again  call  forth  a  joy, 

Would  ne'er  again  be  heard ; 
The  pattering  step,  the  little  hand 

That  lovingly  sought  ours, 
Would  never  more  be  dasp'd  by  us, 

Nor  seek  the  summer  flowers. 


We  knew  that  God  had  care  of  her, 

The  peerless  angel  one. 
And  that  no  wintry  wind  would  blight 

The  flowers  where  she  had  gone. 


2o8  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

But  oh  I  'twas  grief,  deep  grief,  to  watch 

Beside  the  little  bed— 
To  gaze  upon  the  household  pet, 

And  know  that  she  was  dead ! 


MY  IDEAL  HOME. 
By  Mrs  William  Hobson. 

*'  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever." — Kkats. 

Nor  in  the  city,  nor  the  crowded  town, 

Where  the  faint  breeze  with  fever's  ever  rife ; 
Not  where  those  heated  hives  look  darkly  down 

Upon  the  hum  of  ever-warring  strife ; 
Nor  *midst  the  classic  shrines  of  that  fair  land 

Whose  fame  is  sung  in  ancient  poets'  story. 
Though  the  blue  iEgean  waves  roll  o'er  her  strand, 

And  sculptured  ruins  give  their  hallow'd  glory. 

Give  me  a  homestead  in  an  English  vale  ; 

A  little,  sunny,  and  secluded  spot. 
Where  the  sweet  dove  and  minstrel  nightingale 

Would  chime  their  vespers  round  my  lowly  cot ; 
Where  the  soft,  balmy  breeze  of  summer  comes, 

Laden  with  perfume  from  the  violet  wild : 
Where  the  forget-me-not  its  blue  eye  suns — 

Fair  summer's  lowliest,  yet  most  lovely  child. 

I  'd  have  it  nestling  near  thick-foliaged  trees ; 

The  rippling  stream  should  tell  its  harp-notes  near, 
And  mingle  with  the  sighing  of  the  breeze. 

Charming  with  music  the  enraptured  ear  ; 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         209 

A  river,  winding  like  a  silver  thread, 
Should  YoU  its  ever-dancing  waves  along, 

And  spangling  o'er  its  sinuous,  mossy  bed. 
The  fairest  flowers  breathe  their  voiceless  song. 

The  gushing  grape  should  hang  its  trailing  vine, 

The  tinted  apple  and  the  juicy  pear 
With  silvery  blossoms  in  the  summer  shine, 

And  autumn  find  their  golden  fruits^e  there ; 
The  blushing  rose,  with  dewy,  drooping  head, 

Should  twine  around  the  window  of  my  room, 
Like  some  fair  Cupid,  with  love's  wings  outspread, 

Whisp'ring  sweet  stories  of  the  gorgeous  June. 


I  would  not  have  a  grand  and  lordly  home. 

Where  the  famed  artist  had  spent  all  his  skill 
To  decorate  and  carve  each  fretted  dome, 

The  gazer's  mind  with  wonderment  to  fill ; 
The  only  gilding  should  be  nature's  green. 

Her  hving  tracery  of  flowers  and  leaves ; 
A  little  gem  set  in  an  emerald  scene, 

With  fond,  true  hearts  beneath  its  peaceful  eaves. 

* 

Within  the  room  fair  jewels  from  afar. 

Wrought  on  the  canvas,  breathing  full  of  life. 
Should  whisper  to  us,  like  a  lone,  bright  star. 

Of  ages  past,  of  minds  with  beauty  rife ; 
The  chisell'd  form,  cut  from  the  tinted  stone. 

The  sighing  shell,  the  flowerets  of  the  sea, 
Rare  gems  of  art,  from  climes  beyond  our  own, 

Cluster'd  around,  in  fairy  groups  should  be. 

o 


iio    MODERN  SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 

I  'd  have  the  antique  book  with  gleanings  old, 

The  master-minds  of  every  land  an  J  age ; 
Deep  science,  with  her  wealth  of  sterling  gold, 

Scatter'd  like  peails  upon  the  mystic  page ; 
The  poet's  lyre — the  soul-wrought,  breathing  lyre. 

Immortal  Shakespeare,  and  the  laurel'd  throng, 
With  glowing  imagery,  and  thoughts  of  fire. 

Should  wile  the  dreamy  twilight  hours  aloi^. 

The  brolcen-heaited  and  the  weary  one, 

The  orphan,  friendless,  and  the  homeless  poor. 
Should  ne'er  in  vain  with  sorrow's  story  come — 

A  ready  hand  would  freely  give  its  store ; 
True  love  within  each  heart  and  word  should  live. 

The  deep,  devoted  love,  that  knows  no  bliss 
Beyond  the  feeling  that  its  well-springs  give — 

Who  would  not  gladly  claim  a  home  like  this  ? 


&onBiEf  of  tkt  atio  Brotierfiooti. 

Under  this  comprehensive  title  we  include  a  num- 
ber of  songs,  not  else  to  be  grouped  together,  which 
treat  of  Life,  its  toils  and  trials,  pleasures  and  pains, 
and,  above  alt,  its  responsibilities  and  dudes ;  and 
which  recognise  the  great  bond  of  human  Brother- 
hood, the  law  of  love,  that  prompts  all  kindly  sympathy 
and  help  for  others.  We  cannot  better  introduce  this 
large  class  of  songs — which  contains  many  allowing 
incentive  to  do  the  worlc  of  life,  to  bear  its  sufferings 
and  trials,  to  love  and  help  all  who  need, — in  short, 
to  live  life  nobly,  as  hoping  for  a  nobler  and  better 
life  hereafter— than  by  a  song  of  one  of  Lancashire's 
genuine  poets,  a  son  of  the  people  :— 


212  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


THE  SONGS  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 

AN  ORIGINAL  SONG,  WRITTEN  EXPRESSLY  FOR  THIS 

VOLUME. 

By  John  Critchley  Prince. 

Oh  I  the  songs  of  the  people  are  voices  of  power, 

That  echo  in  many  a  land  ; 
They  lighten  the  heart  in  the  sorrowful  hour, 

And  quicken  the  labour  of  hand ; 
They  gladden  the  shepherd  on  mountain  and  plain, 

And  the  sailor  who  travels  the  sea ; 
The  poets  have  chanted  us  many  a  strain, 

But  the  songs  of  the  people  for  me. 

The  artisan,  wandering  forth  early  to  toil. 

Sings  a  snatch  of  old  song  by  the  way ; 
The  ploughman,  who  sturdily  furrows  the  soil, 

Meets  the  breeze  with  the  words  of  his  lay : 
The  man  at  the  stithy,  the  maid  at  her  wheel, 

The  mother  with  babe  at  her  knee. 
Oft  utter  some  simple  old  rhymes,  which  they  fed — 

Oh !  the  songs  of  the  people  for-me. 

An  anthem  of  triumph,  a  ditty  of  love, 

A  carol  'gainst  sorrow  and  care, 
A  hymn  of  the  household,  soft,  rising  above 

The  music  of  hope  or  despair ; 
A  song  patriotic,  how  grand  is  the  sound 

To  aU  who  desire  to  be  free ! 
A  song  of  the  heart,  how  it  makes  others  bound ! — 

Oh  !  the  songs  of  the  people  for  me. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         213 
FESTIVE  STRAINS.^ 

By  Georgb  Richardson. 

Festive  strains,  like  friendly  meeting. 
E'er  should  tend  to  cheer  the  soul ! 

Touch  the  heart  with  gentle  greeting- 
Temper  mirth  with  sweet  control 

Chase  the  waning  hours ;  revealing 
Joys  the  morrow  fain  may  teU ! 

Kindred  then,  as  now,  in  feeling, 
So  to  each  <'  Good  night    All's  well  1 " 


"WHY,  PRITHEE  NOW." 
By  John  Byrobi,  M.A.,  F.R.S. 

Why,  prithee  now,  what  does  it  signify. 

For  to  bustle  and  make  such  a  rout  ? 
It  is  virtue  alone  that  can  dignify, 

Whether  dothM  in  ermine  or  dout 
Come,  come,  and  maintain  thy  discretion ; 

Let  it  act  a  more  generous  part ; 
For  I  find,  by  thy  honest  confession. 

That  the  world  has  too  much  of  thy  heart. 

*  This  piece,  written  for  an  anniversary  celebration,  has  been  set  to 
muMC  and  arranged  as  a  full-choir  glee,  by  Mr  E.  J.  Loder,  the  com- 
poser of  the  opera  of  "  The  Night  Dancers,"  &c 


M4  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Beware  that  its  fatal  ascendancy 

Do  not  teeipt  thee  to  mope  and  repine ; 
With  a  humble  and  hopeful  dependency 

Still  await  the  good  pleasure  divine. 
Success  in  a  higher  beatitude 

Is  the  end  of  what 's  under  the  pole ; 
A  philosopher  takes  it  with  gratitude. 

And  believes  it  is  best  on  the  whole. 

The  world  is  a  scene,  thou  art  sensible, 

Upon  which,  if  we  do  but  our  best, 
On  a  wisdom  that 's  incomprehensible, 

We  may  safely  rely  for  the  rest 
Then  trust  to  its  kind  distribution. 

And,  however  things  happen  to  fall, 
Prithee,  pluck  up  a  good  resolution 

To  be  cheerful  and  thankful  for  all 


LIFE. 
By  Charles  Swain. 

Lovs's  a  song,  and  Life's  the  singer, 
Hope  sits  listening  to  the  strain, 

Till  old  Time,  that  discord-bringer. 
Jars  the  music  of  the  twain. 

Love,  and  life,  and  Time  together. 
Rarely  yet  were  friendly  found ; 

If  Love  heralds  sunny  weather^ 
Time,  to  other  duties  bound, 
Buries  Life  half  underground ; — 
Oh,  the  lot  of  Life,  how  sad ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         215 

Why  should  Time  thus  fail  to  cherish 

All  that  lends  existence  worth  ? 
Wherefore  should  Love  droop  and  perish 

As  but  doom*d  to  woe  on  earth  ? 
Love,  and  Life,  and  Time  together, 

Better  friends  we  trust  may  be ; 
If  Time 's  of  unconstant  feather, 

Love  and  Hope  should  still  agree  :— 

Li/g  is  lost  between  the  three! — 
Oh,  the  lot  of  Life,  how  sad ! 


THE  CHILD. 
By  the  late  John  Briggs.* 

See  the  nurse  her  charge  attending, 
Hear  the  darling's  lisping  prattle ; 

How  its  little  eyes  are  blending 
O'er  the  pretty  jingling  rattle ! 

Quickly  vex^  soon  appeased, 
Laughing,  crying,  waking,  sleeping ; 

Chid  and  grievM — ^kiss'd  and  pleasM ; 
All  its  cares  express'd  by  weeping. 

On  the  fiower'd  carpet  playing, 
Sitting,  creeping,  rolling,  lying, — 

Now  a  sunny  cheek  displaying, — 
Now  o'erspread  w^|b  clouds,  'tis  crying ! 


*  Mr  Briggs  resided  at  Cartmel,  and  edited  the  LonsdaU  MaguMtne. 
He  published,  in  x8x8,  a  volume  of  "  Poems  on  various  Subjects,"  from 
which  we  borrow  this  and  other  pieces. 


2i6  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Sweetly  wrapp'd  in  gentle  slumber, — 
By  its  cot  its  mother  watches  ; 

Balmy  kisses  without  number 
From  its  rosy  cheeks  she  snatches. 


We  're  but  children,  rather  older, 
Puling  in  the  lap  of  fashion ; 

Or,  if  aiming  to  be  bolder, 
Tott'ring  on  the  stilts  of  passion. 

What's  a  coronet,  if  gain'd, 
But  a  rushrcapy  or  as  awkward  ? 

What's  a  carriage,  when  obtain'd  ? 
Nothing  but  a  splendid jvrar^/ 

We  are  children.    Those  who  govern, 
Guardians,  sent  for  our  protection ; 

And  the  sceptre  of  the  sovereign 
Is  the  ferula  of  correction. 

Though  we're  infants, — to  avow  it 
Every  six-foot  child  refuses ; 

Yet  no  name  can  please  a  poet 
Like  ^the  elfin  of  the  Muses." 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         217 


•^THERE'S  NO  CHAP  SHOULD  EVER  LOSE 

PLUCK." 

(from  "after-business jottings.") 

By  Richard  R.  Bealey. 

Aw'll  try  to  be  meny,  aw  will. 
Aw  'U  mak'  up  my  mind  on*t  to-diay ; 

Though  care  is  a  rum  'un  to  kill, 
Aw '11  feight,  bu'  aw  11  have  him  away. 

It's  no  use  to  simper  an'  sob. 

An'  frety  because  all  isna'  square. 
It'll  nobbut  makf  worse  a  bad  job, 

An'  drive  one  reet  into  despair. 

Then  aw '11  try  to  be  merry,  aw  will, 
Aw  11  laugh,  an'  aw  'U  dance,  an'  aw  '11  sing ; 

My  spirit  aw'm  noan  goin'  to  spill. 
To  please  oather  parson  or  king. 

Aw'd  better  by  th'  hauve  goo  to  bed. 

An'  sattle  mysel'  in  a  snooze, 
Nor  sit  up  an  cry  till  my  yed 

Feels  as  heavy  as  gamkeepers'  shoes. 

Aw'U  smash  that  owd  dule  they  co'  th'  dumps, 

An'  gi'e  him  a  sattlin'  kick ; 
Aw  ne'er  knew  him  play  "ace  o'  trumps  ; " 

He  loses,  wi  nowt  for  a  trick. 


2i8  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

There's  no  chap  should  ever  lose  pluck ; 

By  th'  mon,  if*  he  does,  lad,  he 's  lost ; 
He'n  slither  deawn  th'  hill  loike  a  truck 

'Ut's  gotten  no  breaks  in  a  frost 

There 's  nowt  loike  a  will  to  (bind  th*  way, 
An'  nowt 's  hauve  so  strong  as  a  try : 

That 's  what  my  owd  granny  used  t'  say, 
An'  granny  ne'er  towd  me  a  lie. 


THE  HERMIT. 
By  John  Byrom,  M.A.,  F.R.S.,  &c 

A  HERMIT  there  was  and  he  lived  in  a  grot, 

And  the  way  to  be  happy  they  said  he  had  got ; 

As  I  wanted  to  learn  it,  I  went  to  his  cell. 

And  when  I  got  there,  the  old  hermit  said,  ^  Well, 

Young  man,  by  your  looks  you  want  something,  I  see ; 

Come,  tell  me  the  business  which  brings  you  to  me." 

**  Why,  hermit,"  I  answer*d,  "  you  say  very  true, 
And  I  '11  tell  you  the  business  which  brings  me  to  you  ; 
The  way  to  be  happy  they  say  you  have  got, — 
As  I  wanted  to  learn  it  I  came  to  your  grot ; 
Now  I  beg  and  I  pray,  if  you  've  got  such  a  plan^ 
That  you  '11  write  it  down  for  me  as  plain  as  you  can.*' 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         219 

Upon  this  the  old  hermit  soon  took  up  his  pen, 

And  he  brought  me  these  line^when  he  came  back 

ag^n: — 
''  It  is  heingf  and  doings  and  havings  that  make 
All  the  pleasures  and  pains  of  which  mortals  partake : 
Now  to  be  what  God  pleases,  to  ^  a  man's  best, 
And  to  have  a  good  heart,  is  the  way  to  be  blest" 


THE   GARLAND   OF  LIFE* 
By  the  late  }.  B.  Rogerson. 

In  youth  we  weave  a  garland  of  the  brightest,  fairest 
flowers, 

Of  buds  of  every  scent  and  hue,  from  spring  and 
summer  bowers ; 

Then  we  revel  in  its  fragrance,  and  we  gaze  with  rap- 
tured eye, 

And  little  think  the  loveliest  flowers  are  earliest  doom'd 
to  die. 


*  The  language  of  flowen,  and  emblematic  garlands,  are  of  very  an- 
cient date.  The  following  are  the  definitions  of  the  flowers  alluded  to : 
~The  Primrose,  childhood  ;  Snowdrop,  hope ;  Daisy,  innocence  ;  l^o- 
let,  modesty;  Tulip,  declaration  of  love;  Lilac,  first  emotions  of  love; 
Rose,  love ;  Pink,  pure  U>ve ;  Vervain,  enchantment ;  Heart's  Ease, 
think  of  me;  Jasmine,  amiableness;  Daffodil,  self-love:  Wall-flower, 
fidelity  in  misfortune ;  Acacia,  friendship  ;  Honeysuckle,  generous  and 
devoted  affection ;  Dead  Leaves,  sadness  and  melancholy ;  Weeping 
Willow,  mourning:  Amaranth,  immortality.^.  B.  R. 


220  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

The  primrose  of  our  childhood  soon  outlives  its  little 

day,  ^ 

The  fragile  snowdrop  of  our  hopes  will  hasten  to  decay. 
The  daisy-buds  of  innocence  all  vanish  from  our  view, 
And  the  pure  and  modest  violet  droops  its  leaves  of 

lustrous  hue. 


The  tulip  and  the  lilac-flower  a  little  longer  cling. 
And  the  tendrils  of  the  rose  and  pink  abroad  their 

beauty  fling ; 
The  vervain  of  enchantment,  and  the  heart's  ease, 

soon  are  gone, 
Though  the  jasmine  and  the  daffodil  may  yet  a  while 

live  on. 


The  wall-flower,  though  it  be  the  type  of  friendship  in 

distress. 
Falls  from  the  wreath  when  come  the  days  of  pain  and 

wretchedness ; 
The  acacia,  with  its  friendly  buds,  forsakes  the  hour 

of  gloom. 
And  the  honeysuckle  fadeth  with  its  incense  and  its 

bloom. 


We  gaze  upon  the  garland  with  a  sad  and  tearful  eye, 
And  muse  upon  the  withered  leaves  that  all  about  it  lie ; 
They  greet  us  as  the  emblems  of  our  sorrow  and 

despair. 
And  still  hang  around  the  willow-boughs  that  form'd 

the  garland  fair. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         231 

One  only  flower  survives  the  buds  of  summer  and  of 

spring, 
And  telleth  the  repining  heart  that  it  to  hope  must 

ding; 
The  blessed  amaranthine  flower  a  boon  to  man  was 

given, 
To  speak  of  immortality,  and  point  the  way  to  heaven. 


THE  TOPER'S   PLEA  FOR   DRINKING. 

By  the  late  Rev.  Thomas  Wilson,  RD.* 

If  life,  like  a  bubble,  evaporates  fast. 
We  must  take  off  our  wine,  and  the  bubble  will  last ; 
For  a  bubble  may  soon  be  destroyed  with  a  puff, 
If  it  is  not  kept  floating  in  liquor  enough. 

If  life 's  like  a  flower,  as  grave  moralists  say, 
^Tis  a  very  good  thing,  understood  the  right  way ; 
For  if  life's  like  a  flower,  even  blockheads  can  tell 
If  you  'd  have  it  look  fresh,  you  must  water  it  well 

That  life  is  a  journey  no  mortal  disputes. 
So  their  brains  theyt  wiU  liquor  instead  of  their  boots ; 
And  each  toper  will  own,  on  life's  road  as  he  reels, 
That  a  spur  in  the  head  is  worth  two  on  the  heels. 

*  Thomas  Wilson  was  bom  at  the  village  of  Priest  Hutton,  near  Lan- 
caster, on  the  yi  December  1747.  He  died  3d  March  18x3,  aged  sixty- 
five.  He  was  rector  of  Claughton,  bcumbent  of  the  parochial  churches 
of  Clitheroe  and  Downham,  head  master  for  thirty-eight  years  of  the 
Free  Gramnuur  School  of  Qitheroe,  and  a  justice  of  peace  for  the  county. 


222  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

If  life's  like  a  lamp,  then,  to  make  it  shine  brighter, 
They  assign  to  Madeira  the  post  of  lamplighter 
They  cherish  the  flame  with  Oporto  so  stout, 
And  drink  ardent  spirits  till  fairly  burnt  out 

This  life  to  a  theatre  liken'd  has  been, 
Where  each  has  assigned  him  a  part  in  the  scene ; 
If  'tis  theirs  to  be  tipsy,  'tis  matter  of  fact, 
That  the- faster  they  guzzle  the  better  they  act 

Life,  'tis  said,  like  a  dream  or  a  vision  appears. 
Where  some  laugh  in  their  slumbers,  and  others  shed 

tears; 
But  of  topers,  when  waked  from  their  dream,  'twill  be 

said. 
That  the  tears  of  the  tankard  were  all  that  they  shed. 


"HEAW  QUARE  IS  THIS  LOIFE!" 

By  Thomas  Brierley.* 

Heaw  quare  is  this  loife  I    Could  we  live  upo'  love, 
Time,  wingM  wi'  hlies,  would  fly  loike  a  dove ; 
As  it  is,  why  i'  th'  midst  of  eawr  smoiles  an'  content. 
In  comes  the  lonlort  demandin'  his  rent 

In  the  midst  uv  eawr  gaiety,  frolic,  an'  tawk. 
In  the  midst  of  the  rosiest,  busiest  walk. 
By  a  garden  o'  fleawers  that  a  foo'  would  date. 
The  stomach  will  whisper  it  wanteth  some  meight 

*  Mr  Thomas  Brierley  is  a  silk-weaver  at  Alkrington,  near  Mtddletoo. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         223 

By  a  delly  where  the  sangsters  are  werblin*  ahove^ 
An'  every  rich  hawthorn  is  braided  wi'  love, 
By  a  fountain,  the  clearest  that  nayttir  con  make, 
Yoar  teeth,  oh,  yoar  teeth  in  a  second  con  ache. 

Yoa  may  walk  wT  a  friend,  yoa  may  leighn  on  his  arm, 
Yoa  may  think  that  that  friend  in  his  hert  has  no  harm, 
Yoa  may  swear  that  he*s  honest,  ah  me !  very  good ; 
ThaXjrieMd  V  happen  slander'd  yoa  o  'at  he  could. 

You  may  sit  wi'  yoar  woife,  yoa  may  gaze  in  her  eyes, 
Yoa  may  think  they  look  very  loike  stars  up  i'  th'  skies, 
Yoa  may  doat  on  yoar  mate  as  a  kitlin  loves  play ; 
An'  yet,  so  admoired,  hoo  mun  droop  un'  decay. 

Yoa  may  think  yoa  11  be  quiet,  some  solitude  daim. 
That  for  once  i'  yoar  loife  yoa '11  indulge  in  a  dream  ; 
J'  th'  midst  o'  yoar  castles — oh  dear,  not  a  bliss, 
This  toime  'tis  yoar  little  im  wantin'  a  kiss. 

Yoa  may  tawk  uv  the  future,  wT  seigh  i'  yoar  hert, 
Yoa  may  think  that  the  world  connut  gTe  yoa  a  smart, 
Yoa  may  love  yoar  dear  childer,  as  birds  love  th'  spring ; 
Yet  deoth  con  fly  off  wi*  their  souls  on  his  wing. 


224  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

HUMAN   BROTHERHOOD. 

(from  "autumn  leaves.") 

By  John  Critchley  Prince. 

The  king  who  is  swathed  in  the  splendours  of  state. 

Whose  power  and  possessions  are  wide, 
Is  akin  to  the  beggar  who  whines  at  his  gate, 

Howe'er  it  may  torture  his  pride : 
He  is  subject  to  aihnents,  and  dangers,  and  woes, 

As  the  wretch  who  encounters  the  blast, 
And,  despite  of  his  grandeur,  his  bones  must  repose 

In  the  same  grave  of  nature  at  last 

The  beauty,  surrounded  by  homage  and  wealth, 

Whose  glance  of  command  is  supreme, 
Who  walks  in  the  grace  of  rich  raiment  and  health. 

Whose  life  seems  a  musical  dream, 
Is  sister  to  her,  who,  old,  haggard,  and  worn. 

Receives  a  chance  crust  by  the  way ; 
The  proud  one  may  treat  her  with  silence  and  scorn. 

But  their  kinship  no  truth  can  gainsay. 

The  scholar,  who  glories  in  gifts  of  the  mind, 

Who  ransacks  the  treasures  of  time ; 
Who  scatters  his  thoughts  on  the  breath  of  the  wind. 

And  makes  his  own  being  sublime ; 
Even  he  is  a  brother  to  him  at  the  plough. 

Whose  feet  crush  the  flowers  in  their  bloom ; 
And  to  him  who  toils  on,  with  a  care-furrow'd  brow. 

In  chambers  of  clangour  and  gloom. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         225 

Chance,  circumstance,  intellect,  change  us  in  life, 

Repulse  us,  and  keep  us  apart ; 
But  would  we  had  less  of  injustice  and  strife. 

And  more  of  right  reason  and  heart ! 
One  great  human  family,  bom  of  one  Power, 

Each  claiming  humanity's  thought — 
We  should  let  our  best  sympathies  flow  like  a  dower. 

And  give  and  receive  as  we  ought 


THE  GOOD  SPIRIT. 
By  Mrs  G.  LiNNiEUS  Banks. 

Of  all  the  good  spirits  that  brighten  the  earth, 

Good  temper  is  surely  the  best ; 
And  luckless  the  hearth  where  she 's  seldom  at  home, 

Or  comes  but  a  casual  guest ; 
Where  the  plumage  is  torn  from  her  delicate  wings. 
And  little  is  thought  of  the  blessings  she  brings. 

Good  temper  can  give  to  the  lowliest  cot 

A  charm  with  the  palace  to  vie, 
For  gloomy  and  dark  is  the  loftiest  dome 

Unlit  by  her  radiant  eye  ; 
And  'tis  she  who  alone  makes  the  banquet  divine. 
Gives  for  viands  ambrosia,  and  nectar  for  wine. 

The  world  would  be  dreary  and  barren  indeed, 

Our  pilgrimage  weary  and  sad. 
Did  the  strife^seeking  spirit  of  Sullenness  reign, 

To  trample  on  hearts  that  were  glad ; 

p 


226  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

He  would  blot  out  life's  sunshine,  and  pluck  up  its 

flowers, 
Driving  Hope's  sweetest  song-birds  away  from  its 
bowers. 

Alas !  that  we  ever  should  fall  'neath  a  sway 

So  tyrannous,  cruel,  and  stem — 
Should  wilfully  chase  fair  Good  Temper  away. 

Her  favours  indignantly  spurn ; 
For  with  her  there  is  pleasure,  and  gladness,  and  light ; 
With  Sullenness,  discord,  and  sadness,  and  night 

Let  who  will,  give  the  demon  a  place  in  his  breast. 
May  Good  Temper  preside  over  mine ; 

She  will  lighten  my  sorrows,  and  whisper  to  Care 
Fewer  thorns  in  my  chaplet  to  twine : 

Then,  be  mine  this  Good  Spirit  who  comes  at  our  call. 

And  would  come,  were  she  welcome,  to  each  and  to  all ! 


THE  SUN  AND  THE  FLOWERS : 

A  SONG  OF  LIFE. 

By  James  Watson,  "The  Doctor.'** 

The  sun  the  early  mom  doth  greet ; 

The  dew  begems  the  ground ; 
Hie  flowers  with  fragrant  odours  meet, 

And  perfume  all  around 

*  James  Watson  was  born  in  Manchester  in  1775.    He  was  for  a  short 
time  at  the  Free  Grammar  School  there.    As  a  youth  he  became  stage- 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         227 

So  enters  .man  life's  giddy  maze, 

Fearless  of  future  harms  ; 
Pleasure  her  wily  path  displays, 

And  lures  him  by  her  charms. 

The  sun  pursues  his  eager  flight, 

The  dcwdrops  soon  are  fled ; 
Each  flower,  obedient  to  the  light. 

Bends  low  its  drooping  head. 

So  thoughtless  man,  his  hopes  to  win, 
In  pleasure's  labyrinth  strays, 

Till  disappointment  rushes  in, 
And  blights  his  future  days. 


SONG  OF  THE  EXILE.  * 
By  the  late  Rev.  Richard  Parkinson,  D.D. 

Farewell  the  shores  I  long  have  loved, 
The  land  where  I  have  roam'd  so  long. 

Where  first  my  boyish  heart  was  moved, 
That  gave  me  birth  and  taught  me  song ; 

To  mountain  heath,  and  stream,  and  dell, 

And  loveliest  home,  a  long  farewell ! 

struck,  associated  with  George  Frederick  Cooke  when  in  Manchester, 
and  other  kindred  spirits,  and  became  intemperate.  He  was  by  turns 
an  apothecary,  an  actor,  librarian  at  the  Portico,  usher  in  a  school  at 
Altrincham,  ftc,  and  was  drowned  in  the  Mersey,  near  Didsbury,  on 
the  a4th  June  i8aa  While  an  apothecary,  his  friends  gave  him  the  so- 
briquet of  "  The  Doctor."  The  late  D.  W.  Paynter  published  a  volume 
of  Watson's  poems  in  i8ao,  to  which  he  prefixed  a  memoir  of  the  poet, 
and  entitled  the  book  "The  Spirit  of  the  Doctor.'* 


?28  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

And  farewell  every  tender«tie 
That  binds  to  life  the  wayward  heart ; 

The  soothing  tongue,  the  gentle  eye, 
The  open  brow,  the  winning  art, 

That  drive  the  clouds  of  sorrow  by, 

And  swell  delight  to  ecstasy. 

My  loved  companions — some  win  shed 
A  tear  for  my  unpitying  doom, 

And  some  forget  me,  with  the  dead 
Of  ages  in  the  silent  tomb : 

The  tomb  would  be  a  happier  lot — 

I  should  not  know  myself  forgot ! 

Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  I  see, 
Though  fair  and  splendid  be  the  scene. 

Its  splendour  has  no  charms  for  me, 
Unless  it  tells  of  what  hath  been  ; 

And  then  it  wrings  my  bosom's  core, 

To  think  that  it  shall  be  no  more ! 

This  vast  interminable  plaia 
My  labouring  eye  with  sorrow  fills ; 

These  waving  seas  of  yellow  grain 
Delight  not  like  my  native  hills, 

With  darkly-frowning  forests  bound. 

And  with  the  heath's  sweet  blossom  crown'd. 

Oh !  death  is  but  a  dreamless  sleep — 
Or  gladly  would  I  couch  my  head. 

Where  I  shall  cease  to  watch  and  weep. 
In  slumber  with  the  unhallow'd  dead ; 

For  when  asleep,  in  visions  bland, 

I  see  once  more  my  native  land ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         229 


THE  BRIDE. 
By  William  Mort. 

She  left  her  father's  land  and  the  birthplace  of  her 

mother, 
She  broke  the  bonds  of  sisterhood,  she  parted  from  her 

brother, 
And  with  one  of  distant  country  she  cross*d  the  open 

sea, 
Her  husband  bore  her  to  his  home — thy  fair  land,  Italy ! 


He  bore  her  to  his  native  home ;  and  who  shall  blame 

the  pride 
That  swell'd  his  breast  while  gazing  on  his  beauteous 

English  bride  ? 
He  took  her  to  the  valley  where  his  boyhood  had  been 

pass*d. 
And  he  pointed  out  the  mountain  where  he  look*d 

upon  it  last 


He  led  her  to  his  aged  sire — his  mother  long  was 
dead — 

And  he  heard  with  joyous  feelings  all  the  words  of  wel- 
come said ; 

He  introduced  his  sisters — they,  too,  were  young  and 
fair — 

And  with  a  smiling  face  he  gave  his  wife  unto  their 
care. 


230  .   MODERN  SONGS  AND 

And  seven  days  pass'd  over,  and  his  bliss  was  unal- 
loy'd, 

And  pleasure  danced  before  him  as  a  thing  to  be  en- 
joyed ; 

And  every  night  his  glowing  cheek  was  pillow'd  on  the 
breast 

Of  her  whose  happy  heart  alone  his  fervent  love  pos- 
sess*d. 


Fled  seven  days  of  happiness — ^and,  lo !  the  eighth  she 

lay 
A  thing  of  love  and  beauty  still,  but  life  had  pass'd 

away! 
The  fairy  foot  was  motionless,  the  voice  of  music 

hush'd, 
The  spirit,  like  a  frightened  bird,  from  out  its  cage  had 
•  rush'd.' 

And  in  his  native  valley  he  interred  his  English  wife — 
That  bitter  hour  reveaTd  to  him  how  frail  a  thing  is 

life! 
He  moum'd  as  mourn  the  desolate  when  all  their  hope 

hath  died. 
And  again  he  crossed  the  ocean — but  where  was  now 

his  pride  ? 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         aji 

AVARICE. 
By  the  late  Rev.  Thomas  Wilson,  B.D. 

What  man  in  his  wits  had  not  rather  be  poor. 

Than  for  lucre  his  freedom  to  give  ? 
Ever  busy  the  means  of  his  life  to  secure. 

And  for  ever  neglecting  to  live ! 

Environed  from  morning  to  night  in  a  crowd, 

Not  a  moment  unbent  or  alone ; 
Constrained  to  be  abject,  though  ever  so  proud, 

And  at  every  one's  call  but  his  own. 

Still  repining  and  looking  for  quiet  each  hour, 

Yet  studiously  plying  it  stiU ; 
With  the  means  of  enjoying  such  wish  in  his  power, 

But  accurst  in  wanting  the  wilL 

For  a  year  must  be  passed,  or  a  day  must  be  come, 

Before  he  has  leisure  to  rest ; 
He  must  add  to  his  store  this  or  that  petty  sum, 

And  then  he'll  have  time  to  be  blest 

But  his  gains,  more  bewitching  the  more  they  increase. 

Only  swell  the  desires  of  his  eye  :  — 
Such  a  wretch  let  my  enemy  live,  if  he  please^ 

But,  oh,  not  so  wretchedly  die ! 


232  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

THINK  NOT  OF  FAILURE. 

(from  "songs  of  my  leisure  hours.") 

By  Mrs  Wm.  Hobson. 

Think  not  of  failure, 

Look  hopefully  on ; 
Droop  not  o'er  sorrows 

Whilst  joy  may  be  won ; 
Cease  useless  pining, 

Be  up  and  astir, 
Look  boldly  round  thee, 

At  fate  ne'er  demur. 

Think  not  of  stopping, 

Because  in  the  strife 
Some  gain  before  thee 

The  battle  of  life ; 
Let  it  awake  thee 

To  what  may  be  won ; 
Let  it  arouse  thee 

To  what  may  be  done. 

Think  not  of  casting 

Thy  soul's  dream  away, 
Because  the  road's  rugged, 

And  dreary  the  day ; 
Clear  the  mountain  crest 

With  the  eagle's  eye, 
Its  summit  surmount 

Though  it  pierce  the  sky. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  233 

Think  not  that  shadows 

For  ever  will  rest ; 
Sunshine  must  follow — 

Hope  on  for  the  best 
Life  has  its  beauty, 

Its  summer  and  flowers. 
To  cheer  with  their  light 

The  dreariest  hours ! 


A  WELCOME, 
By  James  Dawson,  Jun. 

Eh,  Jone,  aw'm  rare  un*  fain  thae'rt  come, 

Thae's  had  thi  back  to  th'  leet,  aw  'm  sure ; 
Thae  has  no'  bin  this  dur  within 

These  hawve-a-dozen  years,  or  moor ; 
Aw'm  fain,  aw  say,  for  t'  see  thee  here, 

Owd  brid !  an'  heaw  art  getting  on  ? 
Aw  have  no'  seen  thoose  roguish  een 

This  mony  a  weary  winter  gone. 

Thae  fawert,  then,  a  feightin'  cock. 

Bo'  neaw  thae  'rt  loike  a  mopin'  hen  ; 
An'  next,  thae  'U  be  like  some  owd  clock 

'At 's  stopt,  an'  winno  go  agen ; 
Thae  'rt  lookin'  wur  for  th'  wear,  for  sure  ; 

Bo'  thae'rt  so  loike,  for  owt  aw  know, 
Thae 's  bin  i'  th'  meawt,  aw  dunno  deawt ;. 

Come,  sit  thee  deawn  an'  tell  me  0. 


234  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

This  momin*,  when  I  lee  i'  bed, 

Aw  thowt,  "  Well,  Jone  *11  come  to-neet ;" 
An'  this  owd  heart,  ut  's  fought  an'  bled, 

Beawnc't  loike  a  bo,  an'  felt  as  leet ! 
Aw  'd  rayther  ha'  thee  i'  mi  heawse 

Than  owt  i'  th'  lord  or  lady  line ; 
Ther  's  moor  i'  th'  fruit  than  what 's  i'  th'  root — 

r  deeds  than  names,  tho'  ne'er  so  fine. 

Eawr  Moll 's  gone  deawn  to  th'  Ferny  Bank, 

Eawr  Robin 's  eawt  a  cooartin'  Nell ; 
Pu'  up  thi  chear  to  th'  fender  here, 

We'n  th'  heawse  an'  th'  har'stone  to  ussel ; 
It 's  rare  an'  grand  an'  comfortin', 

When  folk  are  getten  owd  an'  lone. 
For  t'  have,  rent  free,  like  thee  an'  me, 

A  heawse  an'  harbour  o'  ther  own. 

Bur  come ;  aw  'm  howdin'  back  thi  tale ; 

Aw  know  thae  has  one,  good  or  bad, — 
Some  rare  owd  yam  for  t'  taych  an'  warn, 

Let 's  yer  thi  seawnd  thi  keigh-note,  lad ; 
An'  tell  me,  while  thae  'rt  wiftin'  on, 

Heaw  things  are  deawn  i'  Howden  Dale, 
An  heaw  thae 's  peck'd  sin  th'  trade  wur  wreck'd, 

An'  hearts  an'  looms  began  for  t*  fail  ?  * 

*  This  song  was  writteo  in  1864.    The  writer  is  a  wotking  nan,  at 
Hartshead,  near  Ashtoo-under-Lyne. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         235 

DO  A  GOOD  TURN  WHEN  YOU  CAN. 

By  Charles  Swain. 

It  needs  not  great  wealth  a  kind  heart  to  display, — 

If  the  hand  be  but  willing,  it  soon  finds  a  way ; 

And  the  poorest  one  yet  in  the  humblest  abode 

May  help  a  poor  brother  a  step  on  his  road. 

Oh !  whatever  the  fortune  a  man  may  have  won, 

A  kindness  depends  on  the  way  it  is  done ; 

And  though  poor  be  our  purse,  and  though  narrow  our 

span, 
Let  us  all  try  to  do  a  good  turn  when  we  can  ! 

The  bright  bloom  of  pleasure  may  charm  for  a  while, 
But  its  beauty  is  frail,  and  inconstant  its  smile ; 
Whilst  the  beauty  of  kindness,  immortal  in  bloom. 
Sheds  a  sweetness  o'er  life,  and  a  grace  o*er  the  tomb ! 
Then  if  we  enjoy  life,  why,  the  next  thing  to  do. 
Is  to  see  that  another  enjoys  his  life  too  ; 
And  though  poor  be  our  purse,  and  though  narrow  our 

span, 
Let  us  all  try  to  do  a  good  turn  when  we  can ! 


LOVE,  HONOUR,  AND  DEATH. 
By  Henry  Kirk. 

Oh,  gladly  the  breeze  over  sweet  Devon's  lands 
Bore  the  sound  of  the  bells  in  the  morning. 

As  a  loving  young  pair,  who  had  plighted  their  hands, 
From  the  altar  with  glad  eyes  were  turning ! 


236  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

And  many  a  noble,  warm  heart  that  was  there, 
Shower'd  on  them  its  rich  store  of  blessing, 

While  the  soldier  bent  bver  his  fond,  blushing  fair, 
Her  soft  hand  in  his  own  still  caressing ! 

When  the  brown,  wither*d  leaves,  as  the  autunm  came 
round, 

From  the  trees  of  rich  Devon  were  falling. 
Again  the  glad  breeze  bore  the  bells'  pealing  sound, 

While  the  loud  boom  of  cannon  was  rolling. 
They  told  of  a  victory  won  o'er  the  foe, — 

Of  deeds  of  the  true  British  glory, — 
How  the  brave y^w  rejoiced  o'er  the  many  laid  low, 

And  wrote  down  in  blood  the  red  story ! 

When  the  wild,  rushing  winds  of  December's  drear 
mom. 

O'er  the  plains  of  bleak  Devon  were  sweeping. 
Again  on  their  wings  the  deep  pealing  was  borne, — 

But  now  'twas  the  knell  of  the  sleeping ! 
In  the  van  of  the  brave  the  young  soldier  had  died. 

With  the  bright  wreath  of  valour  before  him ; 
And  this  was  the  knell  of  his  heart-broken  bride. 

Who  ceased  but  in  death  to  deplore  him  t 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  A  BOAT. 
By  the  late  Rev.  Richard  Parkinson,  D.D. 

Pull  !  pull  I  my  boys,  the  stream  runs  fast, 

And  favouring  is  the  gale ; 
And  see,  the  setting  sun  has  cast 

A  shadow  o*er  the  vale ; 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         237 

Our  course  is  rough,  the  way  is  long, 

The  light  is  sinking  fast, 
Pull !  pull  I  my  boys,  your  oars  are  strong, 

And  favouring  is  the  blast. 

How  bounds  the  boat  beneath  each  stroke 

The  labouring  arm  applies  I 
How,  by  the  dashing  oars  awoke. 

The  air-blown  bubble  flies ! 
How  sweet,  as  on  its  wat'ry  wings, 

The  steady  pinnace  glides. 
To  listen  to  the  stream  that  sings, 

And  ripples  round  its  sides  I 

Fast  flies  on  either  hand  the  bank, 

As  down  the  stream  we  bound ; 
How  soon  yon  towering  mountain  sank 

Beneath  the  swelling  ground ! 
See  on  that  hillock's  verdant  brow 

The  sun's  last  radiance  quiver ; 
We  turn  this  juUing  point-:-and  now — 

The  beam  is  gone  for  ever  I 

So  floats  our  life  down  Time's  rough  stream, 

Such  is  its  constant  motion ; 
And  bubbles  on  the  land  will  gleam 

Like  bubbles  on  the  ocean. 
Then  pull,  my  boys !  the  stream  runs  fast, 

The  sun's  last  beam  is  shining. 
And  fix  your  steady  anchor  fast 

Before  the  day's  declining. 


238  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

HOPE  AND  PERSEVERANCE. 
By  John  Critchley  Prince. 

Strive  on,  brave  souls,  and  win  your  way 

By  energy  and  care, 
Waste  not  one  portion  of  the  day 

In  languor  or  despair ; 
A  constant  drop  wiU  wear  the  stone, 

A  constant  effort  clear 
Your  way,  however  wild  and  lone : 

Hope  on  and  persevere  ! 

Strive  on,  and  if  a  shadow  fall 

To  dim  your  forward  view, 
Think  that  the  sun  is  over  all. 

And  will  shine  out  anew ; 
Disdain  the  obstacles  ye  meet, 

And  to  one  course  adhere, 
Advance  with  quick  but  cautious  feet  *. 

Hope  on  and  persevere  I 

Rough  places  may  deform  the  path 

That  ye  desire  to  tread. 
And  clouds  of  mingled  gloom  and  wrath 

May  gather  overhead ; 
Voices  of  menace  and  alarm 

May  startle  you  with  fear ; 
But  faith  has  a  prevailing  charm : 

Believe  and  persevere ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         239 

THE  WEAVER  OF  WELLBROOK. 

By  B.  Brierley.^ 

Yo  gentlemen  o  with  yor  heawnds  an'  yor  parks, — 

Yo  may  gamble  an'  sport  till  yo  dee ; 
Bo  a  quiet  heawse  nook^ — a  good  wife  an'  a  book. 
Is  mooar  to  the  likins  o'  me — e. 
Wi'  mi  pickers  an*  pins, 
An'  mi  wellers  to  th'  shins ; 
Mi  linderins,  shuttle,  and  yealdhook  \ — 
Mi  treddles  an'  sticks. 
Mi  weight-ropes  an'  bricks ; — 
What  a  life ! — said  the  wayver  o'  WeUbrook. 

Aw  care  no'  for  titles,  nor  heawses,  nor  lond ; 

Owd  Jone  's  a  name  fittin'  for  me ; 
An'  gie  mi  a  thatch  wi'  a  wooden  dur  latch, 

An'  six  feet  o'  greawnd  when  aw  dee-— e. — &c 

Some  folk  liken  f  stuff  their  owd  wallets  wi'  mayte, 
Till  they  're  as  reawnt  an'  as  brawsen  as  frogs ; 

Bo  for  me — aw'm  content  when  aw've  paid  deawn  mi 
rent, 
Wi'  enoof  t'  keep  mi  up  i*  mi  clogs— ogs, — &c 

An'  ther  some  are  too  idle  to  use  ther  own  feet, 
An*  mun  keawr  an'  stroddle  i'  th'  lone ; 

Bo  when  aw'm  wheelt  or  carried — it'll  be  to  get  berried. 
An'  then  Dicky-up  wi'  Owd  Jone — one.— &c 

•  The  graphic  writer  in  dialect  of  "  Daisy  Nook/'  the  *'  Chronicles 
of  Waverlow,"  (from  which  this  song  is  taken,)  "  The  Layrock  of  Lang- 
ley  Side,"  and  "  Tales  and  Sketches  of  Lancashire  Life,"  &c. 


240  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Yo  may  turn  up  yor  noses  at  me  an'  th*  owd  dame, 
An'  thrutch  us  like  dogs  agen  th'  wo ; 

Bo  as  lung 's  aw  con  nayger  aw  '11  ne'er  be  a  beggar, 
So  aw  care  no'  a  cuss  for  yo  o— o. — &c 


Then,  Margit,  turn  reawnd  that  owd  hum-a-drum  wheel, 

An'  mi  shuttle  shall  fly  like  a  brid ; 
An'  when  aw  no  lunger  can  use  hont  or  finger. 

They  'n  say — ^while  aw  could  do  aw  did—itL — &c. 


THE  LESSON  OF  THE  LEAVES. 
By  Mrs  G.  Linnaus  Banks. 

Glancing  in  the  sunlight. 

Dancing  in  the  breeze. 
See  the  new-bom  leaflets 

On  the  summer  trees : 
Joying  in  existence, 

Whisp'ringly  they  play. 
Toying  with  each  other 

Through  the  golden  day : 
And  when  evening's  eyelids 

Qose  upon  the  hill. 
Casting  loving  glances 

On  the  answering  riU : 
Thus  they  dance  and  flutter 

All  the  summer  through, 
Light,  and  gay,  and  gladsome. 

Leaflets  green  and  new : 
"  Life  is  all  before  us — life  is  full  of  glee  !** 
Is  the  joyous  chorus  heard  from  every  tree. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         241 

Hanging  in  the  branches, 

Drooping  in  the  shade,    - 
Mark  the  autumn  leaflets 

How  they  pine  and  fade ; 
Rustling — as  the  storm-blast 

Sweeps  across  the  moor — 
Driven  by  the  whirlwind 

To  the  cottar's  door ; 
Dark,  and  thick,  and  heavy, 

With  the  dust  of  Time, 
Weary  of  existence. 

List  their  wintry  chime^ 
As  the  mournful  cadence 

Rings  in  human  ears, 
A  never-ending  moral 

For  the  coming  years, 
This  the  parting  chorus — *'  Leaves,  our  course  is  run ; 
Death  is  now  befpre  us — but  our  work  is  done  t  '* 


"MY  PIECE  IS  O  BU'  WOVEN  EAWT." 

(from  "after-business  jottings.*') 

By  Richard  R.  Bealey. 

Mv  "piece"  is  o  bu*  woven  eawt, 

My  wark  is  welly  done : 
Aw've  "treddled"  at  it  day  by  day. 

Sin'  th'  toime  'ut  aw  begun. 

Q 


142  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Aw  Ve  sat  i'  th'  loom-heawse  long  enough. 
An'  made  th*  owd  shuttle  fly ; 

An*  neaw  aw'm  fain  to  stop  it  off, 
An'  lay  my  weyvin'  by. 


Aw  dunnot  know  heaw  th'  piece  is  done ; 

Aw'm  fear'd  it's  marred  enough ; 
Bu'  th'  warp  wem't  made  o'  th'  best  o'  yam, 

An'  th'  weft  were  nobbut  rough. 
Aw  've  been  some  bothered  neaw  an'  then 

Wi'  knots,  an'  breakin's  too ; 
The/n  hamper'd  me  so  mich  at  toimes 

Aw've  scarce  known  what  to  do. 


Bu'  th'  Mester 's  just,  an'  weel  He  knows 

'Ut  th'  yam  were  none  so  good ; 
He  winna'  "bate"  me  when  He  s^es 

Aw've  done  as  weel's  aw  could. 
Aw'se  get  my  wage — ^aw  'm  sure  o'  that ; 

Hell  gi'e  me  o  'ut's  due. 
An',  mebbe,  in  His  t'other  place. 

Some  better  wark  to  do. 


Btt'  then,  aw  reckon,  'tisn't  th'  stuff 

We'n  getten  t*  put  i'  th'  loom, 
Bu'  what  we  mak'  on 't,  good  or  bad, 

*Ut  th'  credit  on't  11  come. 
Some  wark  i'  silk,  an'  other  some 

Ha*e  cotton  i'  their  gear ; 
Bu'  silk  or  cotton  matters  nowt^ 

If  nobbut  th'  skiU  be  theere. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  243 

Bu*  now  it's  nee'  to  th'  eend  o'  th'  week, 

An'  close  to  th'  reckonin'  day : 
Aw'U  tak'  my  "piece"  upon  my  back. 

An'  yer  what  th'  Mester  '11  say : 
An'  if  aw  nobbut  yer  His  voice 

Pronounce  my  wark  "  weel  done," 
Aw  '11  straight  forget  o  th'  trouble  past 

r  th'  pleasure  'ut's  begun. 


OUR  DAILY  PATHS* 
By  Mrs  Hemans. 

"  Nought  shall  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings." 

Wordsworth. 

There's  beauty  all  around  our  paths,  if  but  our 
watchful  eyes 

Can  trace  it  'midst  familiar  things,  and  through  their 
lowly  guise ; 

We  may  find  it  where  a  hedge-row  showers  its  blos- 
soms o'er  our  way, 

Or  a  cottage  window  sparkles  forth  in  the  last  red 
light  of  day. 

*  The  admiration  which  the  late  Mr  Dugald  Stewart  always  expressed 
for  Mrs  Hemans's  poetry  was  mingled  with  regret  that  she  so  genendly 
made  choice  of  melancholy  subjects ;  and  he  sent  her,  through  a  friend 
of  both,  a  message  suggestive  of  his  wish  that  she  would  employ  her 
fine  talents  in  giving  more  consolatory  views  of  Providence,  rather  than 
dwell  on  the  oainful  and  depressing.     In  reply,  Mrs  Hemans  sent  to 


244  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

We  may  find  it  where  a  spring  shines  clear  beneath 
an  aged  tree, 

With  the  foxglove  o*er  the  water's  glass,  borne  down- 
wards by  the  bee ; 

Or  where  a  swift  and  sunny  gleam  on  the  birchen 
stems  is  thrown, 

As  a  soft  wind  playing  parts  the  leaves,  in  copses 
green  and  lone. 

We  may  find  it  in  the  winter  boughs,  as  they  cross 
the  cold,  blue  sky. 

While  soft  on  icy  pool  and  stream  their  penciU'd 
shadows  lie, 

When  we  look  upon  their  tracery,  by  the  fairy  frost- 
work bound. 

Whence  the  flitting  red-breast  shakes  a  shower  of 
crystals  to  the  ground. 

Yes !  beauty  dweUs  in  all  our  paths — ^but  sorrow  too 

is  there ; 
How  oft  some  cloud  within  us  dims  the  bright,  still 

summer  air ! 
When  we  carry  our  sick  hearts  abroad  amidst  the 

joyous  things, 
That  through  the  leafy  places  glance  on  many-coloured 

wings. 

W^ith  shadows  from  the  past  we  fill  the  happy  wood- 
land shades. 

And  a  mournful  memory  of  the  dead  is  with  us  in  the 
glades ; 

the  friend  the  above  piece,  requesting  it  might  be  given  to  Mr  Stewart, 
to  whom  it  was  read  by  his  daughter.  He  was  much  charmed  and 
gratified ;  and  some  of  its  lines  were  often  repeated  to  him  during  the 
few  remaining  weeks  of  his  life. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         245 

And  our  dream-like  fancies  lend  the  wind  an  echo's 

plaintive  tone 
Of  voices,  and  of  melodies,  and  of  silvery  laughter 

gone. 

But  are  we  free  to  do  even  thus — ^to  wander  as  we 

will- 
Bearing  sad  visions  through  the  grove,  and  o'er  the 

breezy  hill? 
No  I  in  our  daily  paths  lie  cares,  that  ofttimes  bind 

us  fast. 
While  from  their  narrow  round  we  see  the  golden  day 

fleet  past 

They  hold  us  from  the  woodlark's  haunts,  and  violet 
dingles,  back, 

And  from  all  the  lovely  sounds  and  gleams  in  the 
shining  rivei's  track ; 

They  bar  us  from  our  heritage  of  spring-time,  hope, 
and  mirth, 

And  weigh  our  burden'd  spirits  down  with  the  cum- 
bering dust  of  earth. 

Yet  should  this  be  ?    Too  much,  too  soon,  despond- 

ingly  we  yield ! 
A  better  lesson  we  are  taught  by  the  lilies  of  the  field ! 
A  sweeter  by  the  birds  of  heaven,  which  teU  us  in  their 

flight 
Of  One  that  through  the  desert  air  for  ever  guides 

them  right. 

Shall  not  this  knowledge  calm  our  hearts,  and  bid 

vain  conflicts  cease  ? 
Ay,  when  they  commune  with   themselves  in  holy 

hours  of  peace ; 


246  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

And  feel  that  by  the  lights  and  clouds  through  which 

our  pathway  lies, 
By  the  beauty  and  the  grief  alike,  we  are  training  for 

the  skies ! 


HELP  ONE  ANOTHER. 
By  Thomas  Brierley. 

Slur  on  one  another  through  life, 

Save  om'dy*  fro  bangs  that  yo  con, 
Help  folk  wi'  thur  sledges  along, 

Un'  do  it  wi*  th'  heart  of  a  mon ; 
Beware  uv  th'  noddles  un'  cracks, 

Un'  always  give  honest  advice ; 
For  life  has  a  meanderin'  track^ 

Through  rindles  un'  rivers  uv  ice. 

Tak'  note  if  it's  brittle  un'  weak, 

Tak*  note  if  it 's  slippy  un'  thin, 
Tak'  note  if  it 's  rotten  un'  rough, 

For  happen  the  ice  may  let  in  ; 
Tak'  note  uv  the  jags  un'  the  points, 

Un'  if  thur 's  a  treacherous  dot, 
Be  shure  to  point  to  o  others 

That  very  same  dangerous  spot 

Tak'  care  uv  the  windin'  un'  turns, 
Tak'  care  uv  the  mazes  that  meet, 

Un'  always  cry  out  i'  good  time, 
Wheer  men  connot  ston  o'  thur  feet ; 

•  Anybody. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         247 

Beware  if  it  happens  to  thaw, 

When  th'  wayter  comes  trickling  deawn, 
For  th*  ice  will  impair  in  its  Strength, 

Un'  theawsands  are  sartain  to  dreawn. 

But  recollect  wed  that  the  best 

Can  never  be  always  i*  th'  reet ; 
Th'  wisest  of  men  mun  sometimes 

Be  startled,  un'  slip  off  thur  feet ; 
Tis  best  to  prepare  then  i'  time, 

Un'  give  earthly  bubbles  thur  due ; 
We'st  never  get  through  every  slur, 

Witheawt  an  odd  tumble  .or  two. 

If  we  tak'  prudent  care  uv  eawrsels, 

If  we  help  other  folk  when  we  con, 
If  we  stick  to  a  friend  when  he's  guU'd, 

Un'  give  him  another  lift  on ; 
If  we  toss  an  old  bite  to  distress. 

If  we  hond  a  good  shirt  to  the  poor. 
If  we  strain  every  nerve  for  true  worth, 

We  're  doin*  what 's  reet,  un*  no  moor. 


248  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

SONGS  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 

Na  I. — ^THE  GATHERING.  * 

By  William  Mort. 

Hark  !  to  the  hurried  trampling 

Of  the  many  thousand  feet, 
.   As  they  hasten  to  the  rendezvous 

Along  the  crowded  street ! 
No  martial  music  heralds  them, 

No  lordling  leads  them  on  ; 
Their  trumpets'  notes  are  wild  **  hurrahs ! " — 

Plumed  chieftain  they  have  none ! 

Yet  firm  are  they  in  purpose 

From  thraldom  to  be  freed  ; 
They  have  sworn  a  mighty  oath  to  God, 

To  battle  for  their  creed ! 
And  who,  among  created  men, 

llie  dastard  that  would  pause 
Like  her  of  Sodom,  to  look  back 

In  such  a  glorious  cause ! 

No  princely  names  possess  they 

Their  mission  to  support ; 
They  have  not  sued  to  coronets. 

Nor  boVd  and  cringed  at  court. 
They've  pass'd  the  palace  of  the  peer, 

And  shunn'd  its  stately  door. 
Preferring  welcome  and  a  meal 

With  the  more  noble  poor. 

*  This  was  written  in  May  1834,  and  i4>peared  thirty  yean  ago  !■ 
TmiiU  Mtignain*, 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  249 

And  now  once  more  they  summon 

Their  ill-clad  ranks  to  meet ; 
The  rude-made  banners  rise  again, 

And  sail  along  the  street 
King  I  Lords !  and  Commons !  ye  shall  hear 

What  famish'd  men  can  dare— 
The  voice  of  trampled  slaves  shall  rise 

And  echo  through  the  air ! 

But,  lo !  Despair  is  with  them — 

You  may  hear  his  hoUow  tread. 
As  vacantly  he  stalks  along, 

And  feebly  mutters,  "  Bread  I " 
And  o*er  his  bony  shoulder  peers 

Dark  Famine's  sunken  eye, 
As  with  a  mocking  shout  he  lifts 

The  g^udy  flag  on  high ! 


Behold !  they  gain  the  platform — 

Their  haggard  chairman  speaks ; 
Alas  I  he  cannot  varnish  o*er 

That  mute  appeal,  their  cheeks ! 
Calmly  he  speaks,  and  calmly  they 

Drink  every  burning  word — 
So  still,  betwixt  each  breathing  pause 

A  whisper  had  been  heard ! 


Another  rises — limbs  deformed 
Support  his  wasted  frame— 

And  long  and  loud  and  wild  applause 
His  proud  success  proclaim  \ 


aso  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

And  lo !  a  third — well-favoured  he. 
And  young,  at  least  in  years — 

He  speaks,  and  music  falls  to  earth, 
And  draws  from  beggars  tears ! 

But  vain  their  speeches— vain,  alas  ! 

Bright  gold  would  serve  them  more  ; 
What  can  tk€ir  feeble  cries  avail 
*  Beneath  the  full-fang'd  boar  ? 

As  well,  expecting  bread,  might  they 

Go  forth  and  ask  a  stone. 
As  seek  redress  from  men  whose  hearts 

Are  callous  to  their  groan  ! 

O  ye  who  dress  in  purple  robes, 

And  daily  eat  a  meal ; 
Who  have  no  wrongs  to  be  avenged, 

No  starving  pangs  to  heal ; 
Plead  ye  for  those  who  have  not  gold 

To  pay  the  pleader's  fee ; 
And  let  it  be  no  more  a  taunt, 

That  British  men  arefrul 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         251 

BOWTON'S  YARD. 
By  Samuel  Laycock. 

At  number  one,  i'  Bowton^s  yard,  mi  gronny  keeps  a 

schoo', 
But  hasn*t  mony  scholars  yet,  hoo  's  only  one  or  two ; 
They  sen  th*  owd  woman 's  rayther  cross, — well,  well, 

it  may  be  so ; 
Aw  know  hoo  box'd  me  rarely  once,  an'  poo'd  mi  ears 

an*  o. 

At  number  two  lives  widow  Bums — ^hoo  weshes  clooas 

for  folk ; 
Their  Billy,  that's  her  son,  goes  reawnd  a  beggin'  wi' 

a  poke; 
They  sen  hoo  cooarts  wi'  Sam  o*  Neds,  at  lives  at 

number  three, — 
It  may  be  so,  aw  conno'  tell,  it  matters  nowt  to  me. 

At  number  three,  reet  facin'  th'  pump,  Ned  Grimshaw 

keeps  a  shop ; 
He's  Eccles-cakes,  an'  gingerbread,  an'  treacle  beer, 

an'  pop ; 
He  sells  oat-cakes  an'  o,  does  Ned,  he  has  boath  soft 

an'  hard. 
An'  everybody  buys  of  him  'at  lives  i'  Bowton's  yard. 

At  number  four  Jack  Blunderick  lives ;  he  goes  to  th' 

mill  an'  wayves. 
An'  then  at  th'  week-end,  when  he 's  time,  he  pows  *  a 

bit,  an'  shaves ; 

*  PolIs»  cuts  hair. 


252  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

He's  badly  ofi^  is  Jack,  poor  lad,  he's  rayther  lawm, 

an'  then 
His  wife's  had  childer  very  fast, — aw  think  the/n  nine 

or  ten. 

At  number  five  aw  live  mysel',  wi'  owd  Susannah 

Grimes, 
But  dunno'  loike  so  very  weel,  hoo  turns  me  eawt 

sometimes ; 
An  when  aw  'm  in  there 's  ne'er  no  le^t,  aw  have  to 

ceawer  i'  th'  dark ; 
Aw  conno'  pay  mi  lodgin'  brass,  becose  aw'm  eawt  o' 

wark. 

At  number  six,  next  dur  to  us,  an'  dose  o'  th'  side  o' 

th'  speawt, 
Owd  Susy  Collins  sells  smo'  drink,  but  hoo's  welly 

allis  beawt ; 
But  heaw  it  is  that  is  the  case  aw'm  sure  aw  conno' 

tell, 
Hoo  happen  maks  it  very  sweet,  an'  sups  it  o  hersd ! 

At  number  seven  there 's  nob'dy  lives,  they  left  it  yes- 
terday, 

Th'  bum-baylies  coom  an'  mark'd  their  things,  an' 
took  'em  o  away ; 

They  took  'em  in  a  donkey-cart — aw  know  nowt  wheer 
they  went — 

Aw  reckon  the/n  bin  ta'en  and  sowd  becose  they  ow'd 
some  rent. 

At  number  eight  they're  Yawshur  folk — ^there's  only 

th'  men  an'  woife. 
Aw  think  aw  ne'er  seed  noicer  folk  nor  these  i'  o  my 

loife ; 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         253 

YoUl  never  yer  'em  foin'  eawt,  loike  lots  o*  married 

folk, 
They  allis  seem  good-temper*d  like,  an'  ready  wi'  a 

joke. 

At  number  nine  th'  owd  cobbler  lives—  th'  owd  chap 

'at  mends  mi  shoon, 
He's  gettin'  very  weak  an'  done,  hell  ha'  to  leove  us 

soon; 
He  reads  his  Bible  every  day,  an'  sings  just  loike  a 

lark, 
He  says  he's  practisin'  for  heaven, — he's  welly  done 

his  wark. 

At  number  ten  James  fiowton  lives,— he's  th'  noicest 
heawse  i'  th'  row ; 

He's  allis  plenty  o'  sum'at  t'  eat,  an'  lots  o'  brass  an*  o ; 

An'  when  he  rides  an'  walks  abeawt  he 's  dress'd  up 
very  fine, 

•But  he  isn't  hawve  as  near  to  heaven  as  him  at  num- 
ber nine. 

At  number  'leven  mi  uncle  lives — aw  co'  him  uncle 
Tum, 

He  goes  to  concerts,  up  an'  deawn,  an'  plays  a  kettle- 
drum; 

r  bands  o'  music,  an'  sich  things,  he  seems  to  tak  a 
pride, 

An'  allis  maks  as  big  a  noise  as  o  i'  th'  place  beside. 

At  number  twelve,  an'  th'  eend  o'  th'  row,  Joe  Stiggins 

deals  i'  ale ; 
He's  sixpenny,  an'  fourpenny,  dark-coloui'd,  an'  he's 

pale; 


254  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

But  aw  ne'er  touch  it,  for  aw  know  it 's  ruined  mony  a 
bard, — 

Aw  'm  tV  only  chap  as  doesn't  drink  'at  lives  i'  Bow- 
ton's  yard 

An'  neaw  aw've  done  aw'U  say  good-bye,  an'  leave  yo 
for  a  while, 

Aw  know  aw  haven't  towd  mi  tale  i'  sich  a  first-rate 
style ; 

Iv  yo  're  weel  pleased  aw'm  satisfied,  an'  ax  for  no  re- 
ward, 

For  tellin'  who  mi  nayburs  is,  'at  lives  i'  Bowton's 
yard 


WELCOME  WHITSUNTIDE* 

(from  "  SONGS  OF  MY  LEISURE  HOURS.") 

By  Mrs  Wm.  Hobson. 

Welcome,  with  thy  face  of  beauty ; 

Welcome  with  thy  joyous  smile ; 
Pleasure  beams  around  each  duty 

When  thy  sunny  hours  beguile — 

Glowing  Whitsuntide. 

Welcome,  with  thy  look  of  gladness 

Sparkling  forth  from  every  eye ; 
Where 's  the  heart  that 's  dimm'd  with  sadness 

When  thou  comest  laughing  by  ? 

Joyous  Whitsuntide. 

*  Whitsuntide  is  the  great  yearly  holiday  of  the  working- classes  of 
Lancashire. — Ed. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         255 

Welcome,  with  thy  flowerets  gemming 

Field  and  meadows,  hill  and  dale, 
Gleaming,  round,  rare  pearl  drops  hemming 

O'er  the  forest  and  the  vale — 

JeweU'd  Whitsuntide. 

Welcome,  with  thy  form  of  brightness, 

And  thy  music-breathing  tone ; 
Happiness  and  love  and  lightness 

Are  the  children  of  thy  home — 

Laughing  Whitsuntide. 

Welcome,  with  thy  life-breeze  springing, 

Wafting  round  us  health  and  joy ; 
To  each  care-worn  spirit  bringing 

Pleasures  bearing  no  alloy — 

Freshening  Whitsuntide. 

Welcome,  with  thy  pleasant  rambles 

By  the  ocean  and  the  stream, 
Through  the  heath-wood  and  the  brambles^ 

Glowing  as  a  poet^s  dream — 

Fairy  Whitsuntide. 

Welcome,  with  thy  laugh  of  childhood. 

Mingling  with  each  zephyr*s  sigh  ; 
Ringing  through  the  gladdened  wild-wood, 

Startling  feather  d  songsters  nigh — 

Youthful  Wliitsuntide. 

Welcome,  with  thy  holy  teaching, 

Weighty  truths  of  nature's  gold, 
Bringing  to  our  minds  the  preaching 

Of  the  patriarchs  of  old — 

Hallowed  Whitsuntide. 


256  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Welcome,  with  thy  simple  treasures, 

Violet  and  azure  bell, 
Coming  to  the  heart  as  pleasures 

With  a  holy,  heaven-wroiight  spell — 

Happy  Whitsuntide. 

Welcome,  with  thy  youthful  voices, 
Gaily  singing  from  each  glen : 

How  the  inmost  soul  rejoices, 
Listening  to  thy  strains  s^ain — 

Pleasant  Whitsuntide 

Welcome,  with  thy  scenes  Elysian, 
Glowing  landscapes  rich  and  grand, 

Like  the  pictures  of  some  vision 
We  have  read  of  fairy  land — 

Dreamy  Whitsuntide. 

Welcome,  gladly  do  we  greet  thee, 

Holy,  happy,  regal  time ; 
And,  with  bounding  hearts,  we  *11  meet  thee 

With  a  joyous,  silvery  chime — 

Welcome  Whitsuntide. 


LOWLY  WORTH. 
By  the  Editor. 

Is  the  lily  less  pure,  that  it  springs  from  the  earth, 
Whose  dark  mould  its  pale  leaves  o*erwave  ? 

Is  the  pearl  the  less  bright,  because  hid  at  its  birth 
In  the  fathomless  ocean's  cave  ? 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  257 

Is  the  flower  of  a  richly-expanding  mind 
To  be  spum'd,  because  penury's  child ; 

Is  the  pure,  noble  heart,  that  in  sorrow  has  pined, 
To  be  therefore  unvalued,  reviled  ? 

"  Yes,  yes," — by  the  proud  and  the  weak  and  the  vain ; 

**  No  ;* — not  by  the  good  and  the  wise : 
Lowly  flowers  shall  bloom,  lost  gems  sparkle  again, 

In  the  radiant  light  of  the  skies. 


STANZAS  WRITTEN  TO  MUSIC 
By  the  late  Rev.  Richard  Parkinson,  D.D. 

'Tis  sadly  sweet,  in  day's  decline, 

To  mark  the  waning  sun, 
And  catch  his  last  soft  beams  that  shine 

When  noonday  hours  are  done :  ^ 
And  though  more  bright  and  glorious  be 

His  morning's  glorious  ray. 
Yet  dearer  is  his  smile  to  me 

When  evening  dies  away. 

And  so  it  is,  as  life  declines. 

Each  holier  duty  throws 
A  glory  round  our  path,  that  shines 

More  sweetly  to  the  dose. 
And  though  the  days  of  youth  be  bright. 

And  manhood's  hours  be  gay, 
Yet  cheering  is  our  gentler  light 

When  evening  dies  away 

K 


258  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

THE  SONG  OF  OTHER  DAYS. 

By  Robert  Rockliff. 

Oh  !  sing  it  not,  that  simple  air, 
Though  sung  by  one  so  young  and  fair, 
Awakes  no  feeling  save  despair — 

Oim^! 

For  every  note  recalls  the  time 
When  first  I  listened  to  its  chime. 
And  life  and  love  were  in  their  prime— 

Oim^l 

I  heard  it  on  my  bridal  day. 
And  felt  the  happier  for  a  lay 
At  once  so  tender  and  so  g^y — 

Oim^! 

But  death  has  taken  from  my  side 
The  fondly  loved  and  loving  bride, 
Who  sang  it  in  that  hour  of  pride — 

Oim^I 

And  now  the  sweetest  songs  appear 
Unto  my  disenchanted  ear 
A  discord,  which  I  loathe  to  hear — 

Oim^  1 

And  even  in  this  simple  air, 
Though  sung  by  one  so  young  and  fair, 
There  breathes  no  feeling  save  despair — 

Oim^! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         259 

TO  FALSEHOOD. 

By  the  late  John  Briggs. 

Hail,  Falsehood !  jaundiced  gossip,  hail  1 
Thy  squint-eyed  leer  can  oft  prevail 

O'er  truth  itself,  victorious ! 
Thy  empire's  large  and  unconfined, 
And  o*er  the  hearts  of  half  mankind 

Thy  lying  flag  waves,  glorious. 

In  childhood's  purest,  simplest  walks, 
The  truant  schoolboy  oft  invokes 

Thine  aid,  his  faults  to  cover. 
Wrapp'd  in  a  tender  billet-doux^ 
Thine  artful  smile  can  Delia  woo, — 

And  thus  befriend  the  lover. 

The  noblest  name  below  the  sky, 
Touch'd  by  thy  poisonous  breath,  will  die, 

And  Scandal  make  a  feast  on 't. 
The  reputation  of  the  fair 
Beneath  thy  frown  will  disappear — 

Willy&^— to  say  the  least  on 't 

Thy  power  is  great,  we  must  confess. 
And  all  must  own  thy  usefulness y 

However  much  we  scout  thee ; 
And  though  we  say,  with  pouting  scorn, 
"  We  wish  that  thou  hadst  ne'er  been  born,'*— 

Yet,  who  can  do  without  thee  ? 


26o  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

What  could  we  do  without  thine  aid. 
In  all  the  honest  tricks  of  trade. 

Where  truth  must  keep  her  distance  ? 
Could  many  a  parson  be  ordain'd. 
Could  half  our  lawyers  be  maintained, 

Without  thy  kind  assistance  ? 

The  youth  who  strains,  for  gold,  his  art. 
Yet  swears  that  Cupid  fires  his  heart. 

Is  in  thy  train-band  'listed. 
She,  who  to  hide  some  former  flame, 
Would  re-assert  her  virgin  fame, 

Must  be  by  thee  assisted. 

Shaped  like  a  mask  of  modest  grace, 
Thou  shad'st  the  Yorkshire  clothiei's  face — 

Thou  'rt  really  queen  of  witches. 
In  honesty  thou  veiFst  a  knave ; 
Thou  makest  e*en  cowards  pass  for  brave ; 

And  giv'st  poor  Paddy,  riches. 

Wrapp'd  in  a  coat  of  sober  gray. 
Squeezed  in  a  Quaker's  yea  and  nay, 

Unseen  thou  *lt  oft  past  muster. 
The  dangling  beau,  the  modish  belle. 
Transmuted  by  the  magic  spell, 

To  thee  owe  half  their  lustre. 

The  bulletin — the  doctor's  fee — 
Is  often  dictated  by  thee — 

Thy  conscience  never  scruples. 
In  courts  and  senates  thou  canst  shine ; 
And  masquerades  are  wholly  thine ; 

And  quacks — are  all  thy  pupils. 


BALIJLDS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  261 

That,  but  for  thee,  the  poet  *s  quiU 
Could  ne*er  its  arduous  task  fulfil, 

Is  powerfully  attested ; 
And  when  a  truth  too  bold  appears, 
And  critics  pinch  the  author's  ears, 

The  Muse  screams  out — "  YjesUd^^ 


GOOD  NEET. 
By  James  Dawson,  Jun. 

Good  neet,  owd  friend !  aw  wish  thee  well, 

An'  o  thi  family  too ; 
May  wisdom  faithful  in  thee  dwell. 

Like  folly  in  a  foo\ 

May  o  thi  days  be  spent  i'  peace. 

Like  thoose  o'  which  we  sung 
r  th'  winter  neets,  at  th'  "  Gowden  Fleece,"' 

When  thee  an'  me  wur  yung. 

An'  may  thae  never  need  to  cringe 

Before  a  titled  Sur ; 
An  honest  workin'  mon  is  th'  hinge, 

A  lord  is  nobbut  th'  dur. 

Be  guided  still,  through  weal  or  woe, 

By  thy  dear  spousie's  tung ; 
For  then,  though  foo's  deny,  aw  know 

Thae  never  con  be  wrung. 


2b2  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

This  world,  thae  knows,  is  full  o*  snares 

To  tangle  honest  men ; 
Thae  rises,  but  ther's  scores  o'  stairs 

To  help  thee  deawn  ogen. 

Just  wipe  thi  specs,  an'  rub  thi  een. 
An  stretch  thi  up,  owd  mon ! 

Look  where  thae  will,  some  \'ice  is  seen 
Allurin'  virtue  on. 

But  no  sich  form  eawr  steps  shall  lure, 
Though  clothed  i'  garments  smart ; 

We  11  jog  along  wi'  morals  pure, 
True  noblemen  i'  heart. 

Oft  have  we  met,  an'  often  still 
As  true  friends  may  we  meet ; 

Aw  rank  thee  th'  fost  o'  th'  jovial  crill— 
Good  neet,  owd  friend,  good  neet ! 


THE  FRIENDS  OF  "AULD  LANG  SYNE." 

(FROM  "  SONGS  OF  MY  LEISURE  HOURS.") 

By  Mrs  William  Hobson. 

Here's  to  the  friends  who  have  cheei'd  our  youth, 

The  friends  we  loved  and  knew ; 
When  the  world  was  bright  to  our  dazzled  sight, 

And  every  heart  seem*d  true ; 
We  fondly  cherish  their  memory  yet, 

*Tis  'graved  in  affection's  mine. 
And  we  often  turn  with  heartfelt  yearn. 

To  the  friends  of  "  Auld  lang  syne." 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         263 

The  heart  looks  back  to  its  early  love, 

And  lingering,  longs  to  dwell 
O'er  the  first  sweet  vow  that  flush'd  our  brow, 

And  thrill'd  with  its  nameless  spell : 
That  spell  it  is  haunting  our  day-dream  yet, 

It  tells  of  the  radiant  time, 
And  we  sighing  turn,  and  fondly  yearn 

To  the  love  of  "  Auld  lang  syne." 

Here 's  to  the  friends,  wherever  they  be, 

The  absent,  the  lost,  or  the  dead ; 
Their  names  shall  rest  in  our  faithful  breast, 

Till  we  're  laid  in  the  grassy  bed. 
We  never  again  may  dasp  their  hand. 

Yet  deep  in  affection's  shrine, 
We  have  'graven  there,  on  an  altar  fai 

^  To  the  Friends  of '  Auld  lang  syne' 


FAME. 
Br  Thobcas  Brierley. 

There  is  a  simple  thing  on  earth. 

That  pleases  nearly  every  one : 
Its  spring,  or  rise,  or  growth,  or  birth. 

Was  never  yet  determined  on* 
And  men  of  sense  and  learning  too. 

Philosophers  and  poets  warm, 
Great  warriors  stem  and  patriots  true. 

Have  striven  hard  to  taste  this  charm. 


264  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

'Tis  nought  to  carry,  nought  to  touch, 

'Tis  nought  to  view,  'twill  nothing  bless ; 
'Twill  not  adorn,  forsooth,  e*en  such 

As  wear  it  in  its  grandest  dress. 
'Tis  tasteless,  colourless,  and  thin, 

'Tis  never  steady,  never  true ; 
'Tis  nought,  and  all  the  world  to  win, 

And  yet  'tis  sweet  as  honey  too. 

'Tis  like  a  primrose  in  the  grass, 

'Tis  various  as  the  new-cut  blades, 
It  can  be  seen  through  just  like  glass. 

And  yet  has  many  a  thousand  shades  ; 
'TIS  fleeting  as  a  sunny  smile, 

It  can  be  grasp'd  at  many  ways. 
And  scores  have  worn  it  for  a  whUe, 

But  not  a  mortal  all  his  days. 

What  is  this  tasteless,  honey  food, 

This  brilliant  rainbow,  magic  wand, 
That 's  made  a  thousand  warriors  brood, 

And  slain  so  many  poets  grand ; 
This  never-to-be-finger'd  gem, 

This  soul  and  pleasure-swealing  flame. 
This  wreath  and  rosy  diadem  ? — 

'Tis  nought  but  bubbling,  windy  Fame ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         265 

"BE  KIND  TO  EACH  OTHER  I" 
By  Charles  Swain. 

Be  kind  to  each  other ! 

The  night's  coming  on, 
When  friend  and  when  brother 

Perchance  may  be  gone  I 
Then  'midst  our  dejection, 

How  sweet  to  have  eam'd 
The  blest  recollection 

Of  kindness— r^f/wfwV/ 
When  day  hath  departed, 

And  Memory  keeps 
Her  watch — broken-hearted— 

Where  all  she  loved  sleeps. 

Let  falsehood  assail  not 

Nor  envy  disprove, — 
Let  trifles  prevail  not 

Against  those  ye  lov« ! 
Nor  change  with  to-morrow, 

Should  fortune  take  wing ; 
But  the  deeper  the  sorrow 

The  closer  still  cling ! 

Oh,  be  kind  to  each  other !  &c. 


a66  MODERN  SONGS  AND  \ 

! 
FAREWELL 

By  the  late  John  Just.» 

Soon  we  feel  the  sad  impression ; 

Soon  the  faltering  tale  we  tell, 
How  each  highly-prized  possession 

Bids  us  all  a  long  farewell  i 

« 

Youth  with  ail  its  envied  pleasures, 

Broods  o'er  sorrows  oft  as  well, — 
Smiles  an  hour  on  what  it  treasures, 

Then  for  ever  sighs  farewelL 

What  avails  a  mother's  feeling  ? 

Children's  eyelids  vainly  swell ; 
Heart  from  heart  the  world  is  stealing : 

We  must  feel  thy  pangs — ^farewell ! 

High  in  hope  and  golden  dreaming, 

Still  at  home  we  all  would  dwell ; 
Parting  comes,  and  tears  are  streaming, 

Hot,  wrung  out  by  our  farewelL 

There's  a  youth  just  by  yon  dwelling, 

Wherein  first  his  accents  fell ; 
What  emotions  he  is  quelling 

As  his  hand  waves  his  farewell ! 

*  John  Jas^  though  a  native  of  Natland,  near  Kendal,  spent  the  best 
and  most  valuable  part  of  his  life  ai  Bury  and  the  neighbourhood.  He 
was  second  master  of  the  Bury  Grammar  School  from  183a  till  his  death, 
on  the  14th  October  185a,  in  the  fifty-ftfih  year  of  his  age.  He  was  an 
able  geologist  and  chemist,  an  accomplished  archaeologist  and  antiquary, 
botanist,  and  philologist ;  and  left  many  essays  and  papers  in  all  these 
branches  of  science.  The  stanzas  printed  were  one  of  his  juvenile 
pieces. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         267 

Near  the  door  there  stands  his  mother, 

Mute  with  grief  unspeakable, — 
Sisters  sobbing,  and  his  brother 

Sunk  in  soul — at  his  farewell. 

But,  ah !  who 's  she  he  now  is  meeting, 

Pale  and  sad,  within  the  dell  ? 
As  'twould  break  her  heart  is  beating,— 

Keen  as  death  is  her  farewell 

Fondest  hopes  she  '5  long  been  rearing, 
Broken  now 's  the  illusive  spell ; 

Far  away  her  love  is  steering, 
And  for  ever 's  their  farewelL 

Mark  an  only  child  there  dying. 
Low  beneath  the  straw-roof'd  cell ; 

Oh,  what  grief  their  souls  are  trying, 
While  its  parents  weep — farewell ! 

Can  a  new-made  bride  feel  sorrow, 

Join'd  to  him  she  loves  so  well  ? 
Friends  and  home  she  quits  to-morrow. 

Feels  no  joy  in  her  farewelL 

'Tis  a  trial'  past  man's  bearing, 
While  slow  sounds  the  funeral  knell, 

In  her  grave  to  leave,  despairing. 
Her  he  loved,  and  look — farewell. 

Constant  as  the  day's  returning. 

Lose  we  what  we  think  excels  ; 
Life's  short  span 's  a  span  of  mourning, 

Fill'd  with  nought  but  sad  farewells. 


268  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


KINDLY  WORDS. 

(from  "miscellaneous  poems.") 

By  J.  C  Prince. 

The  wild  rose,  mingled  with  the  fragrant  bine, 

Is  calmly  graceful,  beautiful  to  me, 
And  glorious  are  the  countless  stars  that  shine 

With  silent  splendour  over  earth  and  sea ; 
But  gentle  words,  and  hearts  where  love  has  room. 

And  cordial  hands,  that  often  clasp  my  own, 
Are  better  than  the  fairest  flowers  that  bloom. 

Or  all  the  unnumber'd  stars  that  ever  shone. 

The  fostering  sun  may  warm  the  fields  to  life. 

The  gentle  dew  refresh  the  drooping  flower, 
And  make  all  beauteous  things  supremely  rife 

In  gorgeous  summer's  grand  and  golden  hour ;  j 

But  words  that  breathe  of  tenderness  and  love. 

And  genial  smiles,  that  we  are  sure  are  true. 
Are  warmer  than  the  summer  sky  above^ 

And  brighter,  gentler,  sweeter  than  the  dew. 

It  is  not  much  the  selfish  world  can  give, 

With  all  its  subtle  and  deceiving  art ; 
And  gold  and  gems  are  not  the  things  that  live. 

Or  satisfy  the  longings  of  the  heart ; 
But  oh !  if  those  who  cluster  round  the  hearth 

Sincerely  soothe  us  by  affection's  powers. 
To  kindly  looks  and  loving  smiles  give  birth, 

How  doubly  beauteous  is  this  world  of  ours! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         269 

THE  SONG  OF  NIGHT.^ 
By  Mrs  Hemans. 

"O  night. 

And  storm,  and  darkness  I  ye  are  wondrous  strong. 

Yet  lovely  in  yonr  strength  I* 

Byron. 

I  COME  to  thee,  O  earth ! 
With  all  my  gifts !— for  every  flower,  sweet  dew 
In  bell,  and  urn,  and  chalice,  to  renew 

The  glory  of  its  birth. 

Not  one  which  glimmering  lies 
Far  amidst  folding  hills,  or  forest  leaves, 
But  through  its  veins  of  beauty  so  receives 

A  spirit  of  fresh  dyes. 

I  come  with  every  star ; 
Making  thy  stream,  that  on  their  noon-day  track. 
Give  but  the  moss,  the  reed,  the  lily  back, 

Mirrors  of  worlds  afar. 

I  come  with  peace : — I  shed 
Sleep  through  thy  wood-walks,  o'er  the  honey-bee, 
The  lark  s  triumphant  voice,  the  fawn's  young  glee, 

The  hyacinth's  meek  head. 

On  my  own  heart  I  lay 
The  weary  babe ;  and  sealing  with  a  breath 
Its  eyes  of  love,  send  fairy  dreams,  beneath 

The  shadowing  lids  to  play. 

*  Suggested  by  Thorwaldsen's  bas-relief  of  Night,  represented 
under  the  form  of  a  winged  female  figure,  with  two  infants  asleep  in 
her  arms. 


270  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

I  come  with  mightier  things  I 
Who  calls  me  silent  ?    I  have  many  tones, — 
The  dark  skies  thrill  with  low,  mysterious  moans, 

Borne  on  my  sweeping  wings. 

I  waft  them  not  alone 
From  the  deep  organ  of  the  forest  shades, 
Or  buried  streams,  unheard  amidst  their  glades, 

Till  the  bright  day  is  done ; 

But  in  the  human  breast 
A  thousand  still  small  voices  I  awake. 
Strong,  in  their  sweetness,  from  the  soul  to  shake 

The  mantle  of  its  rest 

I  bring  them  from  the  past : 
From  true  hearts  broken,  gentle  spirits  torn. 
From  crushed  affections,  which,  though  long  overborne. 

Make  their  tones  heard  at  last 

I  bring  them  from  the  tomb : 
0*er  the  sad  couch  of  late  repentant  love 
They  pass — though  low  as  murmurs  of  a  dove — 

Like  trumpets  through  the  gloom. 

I  come  with  all  my  train  ; 
Who  calls  me  lonely  ?    Hosts  around  me  tread, 
The  intensely  bright,  the  beautiful,  the  dead, — 

Phantoms  of  heart  and  brain ! 

Looks  from  departed  eyes — 
These  are  my  lightnings ! — fiird  with  anguish  vain, 
Or  tenderness  too  piercing  to  sustain, 

They  smite  with  agonies. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         271 

I,  that  with  soft  control, 
Shut  the  dim  violet,  hush  the  woodland  song, 
I  am  the  avenging  one !  -the  arm'd,  the  strong — 

The  searcher  of  the  soul ! 

I,  that  shower  dewy  light 
Through   slumbering   leaves,  bring  storms ! — the 

tempest  birth 
Of  memory,  thought,  remorse  : — Be  holy,  earth ! 

I  am  the  solemn  Night  1 


SONG  FOR  THE  BRAVE* 
By  Samuel  Bamford. 

Say,  what  is  the  life  of  the  brave  ? 

A  gift  which  his  Maker  hath  given. 
Lest  nothing  but  tyrant  and  slave 

Remain  of  mankind  under  heaven. 
And  what  is  the  life  of  the  brave, 

When  staked  in  the  cause  of  his  right  ? 
'Tis  but  as  a  drop  to  a  wave — 

A  trifle  he  values  as  light 

And  what  is  the  death  of  the  brave  ? 

A  loss  which  the  good  shall  deplore ; 
His  life  unto  freedom  he  gave, 

And  free  men  behold  him  no  more. 

*  This  song  is  most  respectfully  inscribed  by  the  anther  to  Colonel 
Peard,  honourably  known  and  greatly  esteemed  in  Britain  as  "Gari- 
baldi's Englishman." 


272  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

'Tis  the  close  of  a  glorious  day ; 

'Tis  the  setting  of  yonder  bright  sun  ; 
A  summons  that  heralds  the  way 

To  a  heaven  already  begun ! 

And  what  is  the  fame  of  the  brave  ? 

'Tis  the  halo  which  follows  his  day. 
The  noble  examples  he  gave 

Remaining  in  splendid  array ! 
The  coward  doth  hopeless  behold ; 

The  lyise  and  the  good  do  admire ; 
But  in  the  warm  heart  of  the  bold 

Awakens  a  nobler  fire ! 

Then  who  would  not  live  with  the  brave  ? 

The  wretch  without  virtue  or  worth. 
And  who  would  not  die  with  the  brave  ? 

The  coward  that  cumbers  ihe  earth. 
And  who  shall  partake  with  the  brave 

The  fame  which  his  valour  hath  won  ? 
Oh,  he  that  abides  with  the  brave 

Till  the  battle  of  freedom  is  done. 


FRIENDS  DO  NOT  DIE. 

(FROM  "APTER-BUSINESS  JOTTINGS.*') 

By  Richard  R.  Bealey. 

One  cord  more, 

That  bound  my  barque  to  this  earthly  shore, 

Is  cut  in  twain. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         273 

0*er  the  sea 

There  is  one  voice  more  that  calls  to  me, 

In  loving  strain. 

Here  on  earth 

There  is  one  friend  less  that  we  deemed  of  worth, 

And  loved  to  know. 
There  above, 
Is  gone  that  friend,  whom  we  still  may  love, 

Where  we  shall  go. 

*Tis  not  far 

To  the  land  where  all  those  loved  ones  are ; 

We  feel  it  nigh. 
Naught  can  part 
Those  who  *re  united  in  the  heart ; 

Our  friends  don't  die. 


"THERE  ARE  MOMENTS  IN  LIFE." 
By  Charles  Swain. 


There  are  moments  in  life — ^though  alas  for  their  fleet- 
ness ! — 

As  brilliant  with  all  that  existence  endears, 
As  if  we  had  drain'd  the  whole  essence  of  sweetness 

That  nature  intended  should  last  us  for  years ! 
They  pass — and  the  soul,  as  it  swells  with  emotion, 

Believes  that  some  seraph  hath  hallow'd  the  clime. 
For  never  were  pearls  from  the  bosom  of  ocean 

So  precious  and  dear  as  those  moments  of  time  ! 

s 


274  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

That  moment  when  hearts  which  have  long  been 
divided 
First  meet,  after  absence  hath  tried  them  in  vain ; 
Oh,  years  of  affection,  when  smoothly  they've  glided, 

Can  yield  not  a  moment  so  blissful  again  ; 
When  friends,  that  a  word  had  estranged,  have^S^r- 
given 
The  word,  and  unite  hand  and  heart  as  of  old, 
Oh,  such  moments  of  peace  are  like  moments  from 
heaven, 
They  are  gifts  from  a  world  which  the  angels  behold! 


ENGLAND'S  DEAD. 
By  Mrs  Hemans. 

Son  of  the  ocean  isle ! 

Where  sleep  your  mighty  dead  ? 
Show  me  what  high  and  stately  pile 

Is  rear'd  o'er  glor/s  bed. 

Go,  stranger !  track  the  deep, 

Free,  free,  the  wild  sail  spread  ! 

Wave  may  not  foam,  nor  wild  wind  sweep. 
Where  rest  not  England's  dead. 

On  Egypt's  burning  plains. 

By  the  pyramid  o'erswa/d. 
With  fearful  power  the  noonday  reigns, 

And  the  palm-trees  yield  no  shade. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         275 

But  let  the  angry  sun 

From  heaven  look  fiercely  red, 
Unfelt  by  those  whose  task  is  done  !— 

There  slumber  England's  dead. 

The  hurricane  hath  might 

Along  the  Indian  shore, 
And  far  by  Ganges'  banks  at  night 

Is  heard  the  tiger's  roar. 

But  let  the  sound  roll  on  ! 

It  hath  no  tone  of  dread, 
For  those  that  from  their  toils  are  gone, — 

There  slumber  England's  dead. 

Loud  rush  the  torrent  floods 

The  western  wilds  among, 
And  free  in  green  Columbia's  woods 

The  hunter's  bow  is  strung. 

But  let  the  floods  rush  on  ! 

Let  the  arrow's  flight  be  sped ! 
Why  should  they  reck  whose  task  is  done  ? — 

There  slumber  England's  dead  I 

The  mountain  storms  rise  high 

In  the  snowy  Pyrenees, 
And  toss  the  pine  boughs  through  the  sky, 

Like  rose  leaves  on  the  breeze. 

But  let  the  storm  rage  on ! 

Let  the  fresh  wreaths  be  shed ! 
For  the  Roncesvalles'  field  is  won, — 

There  slumber  England's  dead. 


276  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

On  the  frozen  deep's  repose, 

'Tis  a  dark  and  dreadful  hour, 

When  round  the  ship  the  ice-fields  close, 
And  the  northern  night-douds  lower. 

But  let  the  ice  drift  on  ! 

Let  the  cold-blue  desert  spread ! 
Their  course  with  mast  and  flag  is  done, — 

Even  there  sleep  England's  dead. 

The  warlike  of  the  isles, 

The  men  of  field  and  wave ! 

Are  not  the  rocks  their  funeral  piles. 
The  seas  and  shores  their  grave  ? 

Go,  stranger !  track  the  deep. 

Free,  free,  the  white  sail  spread ! 

Wave  may  not  foam,  nor  wild  winds  sweep, 
Where  rest  not  England's  dead. 


THE  TRIED  AND  TRUE. 
By  Mrs  George  LiNNiEUs  Banks. 

1  PASS  unregarded  the  selfish  and  vain, 
Who  proffer  a  favour  and  make  it  a  debt ; 

For  service  so  rendered  comes  loaded  with  pain, 
But  true-hearted  kindness  I  never  forget. 

From  the  butterfly  friends  who  when  summer  was 
bright 

Fluttered  round  me  with  offers  I  did  not  require, 
I  turn  to  the  few  who  in  winter's  dark  night 

Were  true  and  devoted— gold  tried  in  the  fire. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         277 

Or  when  prostrate  in  sickness,  disabled  by  pain, 
Surrounded  by  hirelings,  unheeded  I  lay ; 

From  paraded  assistance  I  tam'd  with  disdain, 
But  the  true-hearted  kind  ones  I  ne'er  can  repay. 

To  these  and  these  only  will  memory  cling. 
For  sympathy  shown  in  look,  action,  or  word ; 

And  the  waters  of  gratitude  ever  upspring 

In  the  heart's  brimming  fount,  though  they  sparkle 
unheard. 

The  hand  of  the  spoiler  hath  often  been  laid 
On  the  dear  ones  whose  loss  I  must  ever  regret ; 

But  the  true  friends  I  tried  in  those  seasons  of  shade. 
Are  embalm'd  in  a  heart  which  can  never  forget. 


THE  PASS  OF  DEATH/ 

(written  shortly  after  the  decease  of  the  right 

hon.  george  canning.) 

By  Samuel  Bamford. 

Another  's  gone,  and  who  comes  next, 

Of  all  the  sons  of  pride  ? 
And  is  humanity  perplex'd 

Because  this  man  hath  died  ? 

*  This  piece  was  written  long  before  the  "  King  Death  "  of  Barry 
Cornwall,  which  resembles  it. — Ed. 


278  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

The  sons  of  men  did  raise  their  voice, 

And  criM  in  despair, 
"  We  will  not  come,  we  will  not  come. 

Whilst  Death  is  waiting  there !" 


But  Time  went  forth,  and  dragg'd  them  on 

By  one,  by  two,  by  three ; 
Nay,  sometimes  thousands  came  as  one. 

So  merciless  was  he ! 
And  still  they  go,  and  still  they  go. 

The  slave,  the  lord,  the  king ; 
And  disappear,  like  flakes  of  snow. 

Before  the  sun  of  spring  ! 

For  Death  stood  in  the  path  of  Time, 

And  slew  them  as  they  came  ; 
And  not  a  soul  escaped  his  hand, 

So  certain  was  his  aim. 
The  beggar  fell  across  his  staff. 

The  soldier  on  his  sword, 
The  king  sank  down  beneath  his  crown. 

The  priest  beside  the  Word. 

And  Youth  came  in  his  blush  of  health, 

And  in  a  moment  fell ; 
And  Avarice,  grasping  stiU  at  wealth. 

Was  rolled  into  hell ; 
And  Age  stood  trembling  at  the  pass, 

And  would  have  turn'd  again  ; 
But  Time  said,  "  No,  'tis  never  so, 

Thou  canst  not  here  remain." 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  279 

The  bride  came  in  her  wedding-robe — 

But  that  did  nought  avail ; 
Her  ruby  lips  went  cold  and  blue. 

Her  rosy  cheek  tum*d  pale ! 
And  some  were  hurried  from  the  b.iM, 

And  some  came  from  the  play ; 
And  some  were  eating  to  the  last, 

And  some  with  wine  were  gay. 


And  some  were  ravenous  for  food, 

And  raised  seditious  cries  ; 
But,  being  a  "  legitimate,'' 

Death  quickly  stopt  their  noise ! 
The  father  left  his  infant  brood 

Amid  the  world  to  weep ; 
The  mother  diM  whilst  her  babe 

Lay  smiling  in  its  sleep. 


And  some  did  offer  bribes  of  gold. 

If  they  might  but  survive ; 
But  he  drew  his  arrow  to  the  head, 

And  left  them  not  alive ! 
And  some  were  plighting  vows  of  love, 

When  their  very  hearts  were  torn ; 
And  eyes  that  shone  so  bright  at  eve 

Were  closM  ere  the  ftiom ! 


And  one  had  just  attain'd  to  power. 
He  wist  not  he  should  die ; 

Till  the  arrow  smote  his  stream  of  life, 
And  left  the  cistern  dry ! 


28o  MODERN  SONGS,  E  TC. 

Another 's  gone,  and  who  comes  next, 
Of  all  the  sons  of  pride  ? 

And  is  humanity  perplexed, 
Because  this  man  hath  died  ? 

And  still  they  come,  and  still  they  go, 

And  still  there  is  no  end, — 
^  The  hungry  grave  is  yawning  yet, 

And  who  shall  next  descend  ? 
Oh !  shall  it  be  a  crownM  head, 

Or  one  of  noble  line  ? 
Or  doth  the  slayer  turn  to  smite 

A  life  so  frail  as  mine  ? 


FINIS. 
By  Charles  Swain. 

Life's  not  our  own — ^'tis  but  a  loan 

To  be  repaid ! 
Soon  the  dark  Comer's  at  the  door, 
The  debt  is  due — the  dream  is  o'er — 

Life 's  but  a  shade ! 

Thus  all  decline — that  bloom  or  shine — 

Both  star  and  flower  ; 
'Tis  but  a  little  odour  shed — 
A  light  gone  Qjit — a  spirit  fled — 

A  funeral  hour ! 

Then  let  us  show  a  tranquil  brow, 

Whatever  befalls,— 
That  we  upon  Life's  latest  brink 
May  look  on  Death's  dark  face,  and  think 

An  angel  calls ! 


V. 


JLa^fl  of  tfie  Cotton  ifamfne. 


It  would  have  been  strange  indeed  if  the  vast  dis- 
tress throughout  the  cotton  manufacturing  districts  of 
Lancashire  in  the  years  1862,  1863,  and  1864,  should 
have  been  left  unsung.  The  street-ballads  of  that 
period,  on  this  sad  subject,  would  fill  a  volume.  We 
shall  draw  very  sparingly  from  them;  preferring  to 
select  from  two  or  three  other  sources,  of  known  autho- 
rity, a  few  pieces,  as  embodying  an  expression  of  the 
general  thought  and  feeling.  They  represent  the  un- 
employed work-people  as  exhibiting  great  patience  and 
fortitude  under  severe  privation.  A  high  sense  of  in- 
dependence appears  in  the  regret  uttered,  that  strong 
men,  willing  to  work,  should  have  to  accept  the  dole  of 
charity,  instead  of  the  wages  of  labour ;  and  in  the 
resolution  to  starve  rather  than  to  enter  the  union 
workhouse.  True  brotherly  sympathy,  in  the  help 
given  by  the  poor  to  the  poor,  blends  with  a  warm  ex- 


282  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

pression  of  genuine  gratitude  towards  real  friends  in  all 
other  classes.  Altogether  these  lays  present  a  picture 
which,  in  many  noble  traits  of  true  heroism,  brotherly 
sympathy,  and  domestic  affection,  has  been  rarely  sur- 
passed. 


THE  MILL-HANDS'  PETITION. 

We  take  extracts  from  a  song  by  some  "W.  C^" 
printed  as  a  street  broadside  at  Ashton-under-Lyne, 
and  sung  in  most  towns  of  South  Lancashire : — 

We  have  come  to  ask  for  assistance ; 

At  home  we  Ve  been  starving  too  long, 
And  our  children  are  wanting  subsistence ; 

Kindly  aid  us  to  help  them  along. 

CHORUS. 

For  humanity  is  calling, 

Don't  let  the  call  be  in  vain  ; 
But  help  us,  we  Ve  needy  and  falling, 
And  God  will  return  it  again. 
•  ••..■ 

Wat's  clamour  and  civil  commotion 
Has  stagnation  brought  in  its  train  ; 

And  stoppage  brings  with  it  starvation. 
So  help  us  some  bread  to  obtain. 

The  American  war  is  still  lasting ; 

Like  a  terrible  nightmare  it  leans 
On  the  breast  of  a  country,  now  fasting 

For  cotton,  for  work,  and  for  means. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         283 
THE  FACTORY  LASS  * 

(FROM  "  PHASES  OF  DISTRESS  :  LANCASHIRE  RHYMES.") 

Bv  Joseph  Ramsbottom. 

O  LADY,  lady,  stop  a  while, 

Until  mi  little  tale  aw  Ve  towd  ; 
To-day  aw've  wandhert  mony  a  mile, 

O'er  teighrin'  roads,  i'  th*  weet  an'  cowd. 
Ne'er  shake  your  yead  *cose  aw'm  ill-clad, 

For  yo  mistak  mi  aim,  aw  *m  sure ; 
Aw  *m  noan  a  beggar — nowt  so  bad — 

Aw*re  aye  to*  preawd,  aw'm  neaw  to'  poor.f 

Aw  *m  seechin'  wark  to  help  us  thro' : — 
Aw  'd  scorn  a  beggar's  cringin'  part ; — 

Bo'  sthrivin'  hard  an'  clemmin'  too. 
It  welly  breaks  a  body's  heart. 

*  We  copy  extracts  from  this  and  several  other  pieces  from  a  volume 
having  the  above  title,  edited  by  "John  Wtiittaker,  a  Lancashire  Lad," 
who  says : — "  In  the  following  poems,  the  author  has  given  expression 
to  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  operatives  of  Lancashire,  during  the 
most  terrible  crisis  through  which  they  have  ever  passed.  He  possesses 
all  the  qijalities  requisite  to  enable  him  to  do  this  successfully.  He  is 
as  familiar  with  the  various  features  of  their  everyday  .ife  as  any  one 
can  be.  His  knowledge  is  not  that  of  an  outsider,  who  simply  looks  on 
at  a  new  phase  of  life,  and  describes  what  he  sees : — it  is  the  knowledge 
possessed  by  one  who  is  closely  related  to  the  people  themselves,  and 
who  has  himself  shared  their  wants,  their  struggles,  and  their  plea- 
sttfes."  The  editor  speaks  of  his  friendship  with  the  author — "  a  friend- 
ship which  has  lasted  from  the  time  when  we  were  both  lads,  toiling  in 
the  same  dye-house  " — ^to  the  present  day.  Most  of  the  pieces  in  Rams- 
bottom's  volume  are  too  long  to  present  entire.  We  have  therefore 
selected  what  we  think  the  best  and  most  graphic  verses  in  each.  l*he 
Factory  Lass  is  supposed  to  be  addressing  a  lady  in  the  street 

t  In  the  Lancashire  dialect  too  is  almost  invariably  pronounced  te^ 
short  instead  of  long. 


284  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Yo  knawn  what  mills  abeawt  are  stopt ; 

An'  beawt  ther's  wark,  what  con  one  have  ? 
Eawr  two-three*  things  we'n  sowd  or  popt,t 

An*  as  for  savin',  we  'd  nowt  t'  save. 

My  feyther  deed  some  six  yer  sin*, 

An'  me  an'  mother  then  wur  left ; 
For  these  last  three  mi  mother 's  bin 

O'  th'  use  o'  her  reet  arm  bereft 
Mi  wage  sin'  then,  yo  seen,  's  kept  two, 

An'  so,  yo  're  sure  we'n  had  no  fat ; 
We  'n  ne^er  complain'd,  we  'n  made  it  do  ; 

Bo'  could  we  save  owt  eawt  o'  that  ? 
•  ••••• 

Owd  folk  betoimes  are  cross  an'  sore. 

An*  speyken  sharp  when  things  are  weei ; 
So  when  they're  clenmiin'  o  th'  day  o'er, 

An'  cripplet  too,  they  're  sure  to  feel. 
Aw  dunno'  think  hoo  wants  t*  offend, 

Bo'  being  pitied  maks  her  sore ; 
Hoo  sometimes  thinks  her  arm  'ull  mend, 

An'  be  just  loike  it  wur  before. 
«  .  «  «  .    ■       • 

Aw  'm  quite  content  'ut  th'  facthory  lass 

Shall  bear  her  mother's  weight  o'  care — 
Shall  help  her  when  hard  thrials  pass. 

An'  in  her  quiet  pleasures  share. 
Neaw,  lady,  mi  short  tale  aw  've  towd, 

If  wark  for  wages  yo  can  give. 
Aw  'd  rayther  have  it  than  your  gowd ; 

Aw  11  bless  yo  for  it  while  aw  live. 

•  Two-lhrcc,  i.e.,  two  or  ihree.  f  Pledged,  pawned. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         285 

"SHORT  TIME,  COME  AGAIN  NO  MORE." 

(from  a  street  broadside.) 

Op  this  song  of  four  verses,  the  first  will  suffice  to  in- 
dicate its  character.  It  is  a  sort  of  parody  on  a  well- 
known  song : — 

Let  us  pause  in  life's  pleasures,  and  count  its  many 
tears, 

While  we  all  sup  sorrow  with  the  poor ; 
There 's  a  song  that  will  linger  for  ever  in  our  ears, 

Oh,  short  time,  come  again  no  more ! 

Chorus. 
It's  the  song  of  the  factory  operatives, 

Short  time,  short  time,  come  again  no  more ; 
For  we  can't  get  our  cotton  from  the  old  Ken- 
tucky shore ; 
Oh,  short  time,  short  time,  come  again  no  more ! 


EAWT  O'  WARK. 

(FROM  "phases  op  DISTRESS  :  LANCASHIRE  RHYMES. 'O 

By  Joseph  Ramsbottom. 

Brother  Jim, — 

It's  bo'  sad  news  aw  send, 
An'  aw  dun'  know  heaw  to  write  it,  aw  *m  sure ; 
For  to  tell  folk  o*  one's  own  disthress 
Con  be  no  pleasant  task  for  th'  poor. 


286  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Bo'  eawr  mesther  has  lockt  up  his  mill^ 
An'  beawt  wark,-thae  knows  weel,  ther's  no  brass, 

An*  beawt  brass  ther  's  no  mayt ;  so  thae  sees 
*Ut  we'n  getten  far  on  i'  this  pass. 

•  ••••• 

Thae  con  think  o'  what  faces  ther  wur, 

When  he  fust  put  up  th'  notice  to  stop  ; 
Childher  laugh'd,  feythers  soikt,  mothers  wept, 

An'  ther  sich  heavy  hearts  thro'  o  th'  shop. 
Me  an'  th'  wife,  when  aw  geet  whoam  at  neet, 

Had  to  talk  it  o  o'er,  an'  hoo  said, 
'Ut  if  wust  coom  to  th'  wust,  we  should  then 

Ha'  for  t'  turn  some  o'  th'  oddments  to  bread. 

Weel,  eawr  Family  Bible,  wi'  th*  clasps. 

An'  mi  gronfeyther's  name  in,  we'n  sowd ; 
An'  mi  gronmother's  prayer-book,  *ut  wur 

O'er  a  hundert  an*  forty  yer  owd ; 
An'  that  owd  oaken  dresser 's  gone,  too, 

Wi'  thoose  foine,  fancy  carvins  o'  th'  feet ; 
Eh !  it 's  dhreadful  wark,  strippin'  one's  whoam. 

An'  it 's  heart-wringin',  too,  mon,  to  see  't. 

Neaw,  we  'n  not  a  red  cindher  f  th'  grate, 

An'  o  th'  childher  gone  hongry  to  bed ; 
To  their  sthraw,  for  their  beds  have  bin  sowd. 

An'  their  blankets  too,  bless  thee,  for  bread. 
Heaw  aw  hush-a-be-bo*d  little  Bob, 

An'  his  mother,  eh.  Lord !  heaw  hoo  soik't, 
Wi'  greet  tears  runnin'  whot  deawn  her  face. 

As  eawr  little  thing  yammer't  an'  skroik't* 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

*  Fretted  and  screamed. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         287 

Som'dy  sent  Will  an  ar*nt  t'  other  day, 

An*  they  gan  him  a  cake  to  bring  whoam ; 
So  he  shared  eawt  wi'  Nanny  an'  Bob, 

Aji'  a  bit  he  put  by  for  eawr  Tom ; 
An*  their  mother  an'  me,  whoile  they  ate, 

Stoode  an*  watcht,  and  so  fed  second-hond  ; — 
Nibblin'  close  enoof  this  side  o'  th*  grave, 

Let  us  hope  for  good  pasther  beyond. 

When  they  *d  eaten  their  meawthful  a-piece, 

They  'd  a  notion  o'  mankin*  *  a  bit ; 
Bo*  then  Famine  *ud  mate  noan  wi*  Fun, 

An'  they  couldno*  mak*  grim  Sorrow  t'  flit ; 
So  they  keawrt  *em  deawn  upo*  th'  floor, 

An*  they  talk't  abeawt  th*  stoppin*  o*  th*  mill ; 
An'  they  towd  o*er  their  sthring  o*  complaints, 

As  ther*s  childher  o*ergrown  sometoimes  will 


An'  o*  thattens  +  their  little  tongues  ran  ; 

Bo*  sich  prattlin*  o  went  agen  th*  grain ; 
When  misfortins  are  bad  o*  thirsels, 

Frettin'  childher  *ull  lessen  no  pain. 
Heaw  we  look  back  to  th*  past  wi'  regret, 

Wi*  a  present  so  bleak  and  so  dbrear ; 
An'  a  future  so  dhreadi'ully  blank, 

'Ut  Hope's  deein*,  whoile  sthronger  grows  Fear. 

Aw  wur  wadin*  lip-deep  i*  disthress, 
Mi  wife  wastin'  wi'  clemmin'  an'  care ; 

O  mi  childher  kept  cravin*  for  bread. 
An*  mi  sorrows  geet  hardher  to  bear. 

*  PUyingf  larking.  t  In  that  way. 


288  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

For  eawr  spirits  wur  quite  brokken  deawn^ 

An*  o  gone  wur  eawr  family  pride ; 
An*  we*d    plann'd,  an'  we'd  schemed,    an  we'd 
clemm'd, 

And  we  'd  no  honest  shift  left  unthried. 

We  could  still  gwo  to  the  Booard,  an'  aw  went, — 

Towd  mi  tale  wi'  great  tears  i'  mi'  een, — 
"  Yo  'n  a  very  hard  case,  John,"  they  said, 

"  Welly  th'  hardest  we  *n  yet  ever  seen ; 
Bo'  this  awful  condition  o'  things, 

An'  th'  wur  state  'ut  we  're  fast  comin'  to, 
Maks  '  admittance  to  th'  Heawse,'  John,  for  yo 

Abeawt  th'  very  best  thing  we  con  do." 

•  •••••• 

Any  mon  wi*  a  good,  lovin'  woife, 

An*  wi'  chitdher  o  prattlin'  abeawt ; 
Wi'  a  whoam,  when  there 's  wark,  loike  a  heaven. 

He  may  partly  mi  feelin's  mak  eawt 
Aw  've  bin  strugglin'  up  th'  hill  o  my  loife, 

An'  did  hope  better  days  aw  should  see ; 
Bo*  aw  *st  stick  to  mi  whoam,  though  it 's  bare ; 

For  a  Bastile  *  is  no  place  for  me. 

So  we  'n  nowt  for  it  neaw  bo'  dem  on, 

For  aw  darno'  tell  this  tale  to  th'  woife ; 
To  their  own,  folk  'ull  cling  i'  disthress, 

It's  so  hard  to  be  parted  i'  loife. 
Thae  mun  just  fling  a  thowt  now  an'  then 

0*er  to  us  'ut 's  sich  reason  t'  be  sad ; 
An*  thae  *11  bear  mi  good  wishes  o  reawnd. 

To  thi  woife,  an'  thi  lasses,  an'  lad. 

*  The  popular  name  fur  the  new  Poor-law  Union  Workhouse. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         289 


THE  SMOKELESS  CHIMNEY. 
By  a  Lancashire  Lady,*  (E.  J.  B.) 


Traveller  on  the  Northern  Railway  I 
Look  and  learn,  as  on  you  speed ; 

See  the  hundred  smokeless  chimneys  ; 
Learn  their  tale  of  cheerless  need. 


"  How  much  prettier  is  this  county ! " 

Says  the  careless  passer-by ; 
'*  Clouds  of  smoke  we  see  no  longer, 

What's  the  reason  ? — ^tell  me  why. 

"  Better  far  it  were,  most  surely. 

Never  more  such  clouds  to  see, 
Bringing  taint  o'er  nature's  beauty, 

With  their  foul  obscurity." 

Thoughtless  fair  one !  from  yon  chimney 
Floats  the  golden  breath  of  life ; 

Stop  that  current  at  your  pleasure  I 
Stop !  and  starve  the  child — the  wife. 

*  These  stanzas  were  written  by  a  lady  in  aid  of  the  Relief  Fund. 
They  were  printed  on  a  card  and  sold,  principally  at  the  railway 
stations.  Their  sale,  there  and  elsewhere,  is  known  to  have  realised 
the  sum  of  £\6o.  Their  authoress  is  the  wife  of  Mr  Sexjeant  Bellasis, 
and  the  only  daughter  of  the  late  William  Gamett,  Esq.  of  Quemmore 
Park  and  Bleasdale^  Lancsuriure, 

T 


ago  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Ah  1  to  them  each  smokeless  chimney 

Is  a  signal  of  despair ; 
They  see  hunger,  sickness,  ruin. 

Written  in  that  pure,  bright  air. 

*  Mother  1  mother  I  see  I  *twas  truly 
Said  last  week  the  mill  would  stop ; 

Mark  yon  chinmey,  nought  is  going. 
There  *s  no  smoke  from  out  o*  th'  top  I 

^  Father  I  father !  what's  the  reason 
That  the  chimneys  smokeless  stand  ? 

Is  it  true  that  all  through  strangers, 
We  must  starve  in  our  own  land  ?  ^ 

Low  upon  her  chair  that  mother 
Droops,  and  sighs  with  teaiful  eye ; 

At  the  hearthstone  lags  the  father, 
Musing  o'er  the  days  gone  by. 

Days  which  saw  him  glad  and  hearty, 
Punctual  at  his  work  of  love ; 

When  the  week's  end  brought  him  plenty, 
And  he  thank'd  the  Lord  above. 

When  his  wages,  eam'd  so  justly, 
Gave  him  clothing,  home,  and  food ; 

When  his  wife,  with  fond  caresses, 
Bless' d  his  heart,  so  kind  and  good. 

Neat  and  clean  each  Sunday  saw  them, 
In  their  place  of  prayer  and  praise. 

Little  dreaming  that  the  morrow 
Piteous  cries  for  help  would  raise. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  291 

Weeks  roll  on,  and  still  yon  chimney 

Gives  of  better  times  no  sign  ; 
Men  by  thousands  cry  for  labour, 

Daily  cry,  and  daily  pine. 

Now  the  things,  so  long  and  dearly 

Prized  before,  are  pledged  away ; 
Qock  and  Bible,  marriage-presents, 

Both  must  go — ^how  sad  to  say ! 

Charley  trots  to  school  no  longer, 
Nelly  grows  more  pale  each  day ; 

Nay,  the  baby's  shoes,  so  tiny. 
Must  be  sold,  for  bread  to  pay. 

They  who  loathe  to  be  dependent. 

Now  for  alms  are  forced  to  ask ; 
Hard  is  mill-work,  but  believe  me. 

Begging  is  the  bitterest  task. 

Soon  will  come  the  doom  most  dreaded, 

With  a  horror  that  appals ; 
Lo  I  before  their  downcast  faces 

Grimly  stare  the  workhouse  walls. 

Stranger,  if  these  sorrows  touch  you, 

Widely  bid  your  bounty  flow  ; 
And  assist  my  poor  endeavours 

To  relieve  this  load  of  woe. 

Let  no  more  the  smokeless  chimneys 
Draw  from  you  one  word  of  praise  ; 

Think,  oh,  think  upon  the  thousands 
Who  are  moaning  out  their  days. 


292  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Rather  pray  that,  peace  soon  bringing 
Work  and  plenty  in  her  train, 

We  may  see  these  smokeless  chimneys 
Blackening  all  the  land  again. 


"CHEER  UP  A  BIT  LONGER.'' 
By  Samuel  Laycock. 

Cheer  up  a  bit  longer,  mi  brothers  i'  want, 

There 's  breeter  days  for  us  i*  store ; 
There  '11  be  plenty  o*  tommy  an'  wark  for  us  o, 

When  this  'Merica  bother  gets  o'er. 
Yo'n  struggled  reet  nobly,  an'  battled  reet  hard, 

While  things  han  bin  lookin'  so  feaw;* 
Yo'n  borne  wi'  yor  troubles  an'  trials  so  long, 

It 's  no  use  o'  givin'  up  neaw. 

It's  hard  to  keep  clemmin'  an'  starvin',  it's  true ; 

An'  it 's  hard  to  see  th'  little  things  fret 
Becose  there's  no  buttercakes  for 'em  to  eat ; 

But  we'n  alius  kept  pooin'  through  yet 
As  bad  as  toimes  are,  an'  as  feaw  as  things  look. 

One 's  certain  they  met  ha'  bin  worse ; 
For  we  'n  getten  a  trifle  o'  summat,  so  fur, — 

It's  only  bin  roughish,  of  course. 

•  »  .  •  • 

•  Foul^Ud. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         293 

God  bless  yo,  mi  brothers,  we're  nobbut  on  th* 
tramp; 

We  never  stay  long  at  one  spot ; 
An'  while  we  keep  knockin'  abeawt  i'  this  world, 

Disappointments  will  fall  to  eawr  lot ; 
So  th'  best  thing  we  can  do,  iv  we  meon  to  get 
through. 

Is  to  wrastle  wi'  cares  as  they  come ; 
Iv  we're  teighert  an'  weary, — well,  let's  never  heed, 

We  can  rest  us  weel  when  we  get  whoam. 

Cheer  up,  then,  aw  say,  an'  keep  hopin'  for  th'  best, 

An'  things  'U  soon  awter,  yo  '11  see ; 
There  '11  be  oachans  o'  butties*  for  Tommy  an'  Fred, 

An'  th'  little  uns  perch'd  on  yor  knee. 
Bide  on  a  bit  longer,  tak  heart  once  agen, 

An'  do  give  o'er  lookin'  soa  feaw ; 
As  we  'n  battled,  an'  struggled,  an'  suffered  so  long, 

It's  no  use  o'  givin'  up  neaw. 


PHILIP  CLOUGH'S  TALE. 

(from  "phases  op  distress — LANCASHIRE  RHYMES.") 

By  Joseph  Ramsbottom. 

£h  !  dear,  what  weary  toimes  are  these, 
There 's  nob'dy  ever  knew  'em  wur' ; 

For  honest  wortchin'  folks  one  sees 
By  scores  reawnd  th'  Poor-law  Office  dur. 

*  Oceans  of  pieces  of  bread  and  butter. 


294  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

It 's  bad  to  see  \  bo*  wus  a  dyeal, 
When  one's  sel*  helps  to  mak^  up  th*  lot ; 

We'n  nowt  to  do,  we  dar'no'  steyl, 
Nor  con  we  beighl  an  empty  pot 

•  <  •  •  * 

To  wortch  wi'  paupers,  aw*d  noa  do% 
Aw  'd  starve  until  aw  sunk  to  th'  floore  ; 

Bo*  th'  little  childher  bring  me  to  St- 
one's like  to  bend  for  them,  yo're  sure. 

Heawever  hard  things  are,  or  queer, 
We're  loike  to  tak  *em  as  they  come  ; 

For  th'  cravin'  stomach's  awlus  theer, 
An'  childher  conno'  clem  a-whoam. 

•  •  •  •  • 
Mi  little  savins  soon  wur'  done, 

An'  then  aw  sowd  mi  two-three  thingS} — 
Mi  books  an'  bookcase,  o  are  gone, — 
Mi  mother's  picther,  too,  fun*  wings. 

•  •  •  •  • 
Mi  feyther's  rockin'-cheer  is  gone, 

Mi  mother's  corner  cubbort,  too ; 
An'  th'  eight-days  clock  has  followed,  mon  ;• 
What  con  a  hungry  body  do  ? 

Aw  Ve  sowd  until  aw  've  nowt  to  sell, 

An'  heaw  we'n  clemm'd  *s  past  o  belief; 
An'  wheer  to  goo  aw  couldno'  tell. 

Except  to  th'  Booard,  to  get  relief. 
Ther  wur  no  wark,  for  th'  mill  wur  stopt ; 

Mi  childher  couldno'  dee,  yo  known ; 
Aw  'm  neaw  a  pauper,  'cose  aw  've  dropt 

To  this  low  state  o'  breakin'  stone. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         295 
TICKLE  TIMES. 

(P&Oli    "LANCASHIRE    SONGS.") 

By  Edwin  Waugh. 

Here  *s  Robin  looks  fyeifuUy  gloomy, 

An'  Jamie  keeps  starin'  at  th'  greawnd, 
An'  thinkin'  o'  th*  table  'at's  empty, 

An'  th'  little  things  yammerin'  reawnd ; 
It's  true,  it  looks  dark  just  afore  us,— ^ 

But,  keep  your  hearts  eawt  o'  your  shoon, — 
Though  clouds  may  be  tbickenin'  o'er  us, 

There 's  lots  o'  blue  heaven  aboon ! 

But,  when  a  mon  's  honestly  willin', 

An'  never  a  stroke  to  be  had, 
And  clenunin'  for  want  ov  a  shillin',— 

No  wonder  'at  he  should  be  sad ; 
It  troubles  his  heart  to  keep  seein' 

His  little  brids  feedin'  o'  th'  air ; 
An'  it  feels  very  hard  to  be  deein', 

An'  never  a  mortal  to  care. 

But  life's  sich  a  quare  little  travel, — 

A  marlock  wi'  sun  an'  wi'  shade, — 
An'  then,  on  a  bowster  o'  gravel. 

They  lay'n  us  i'  bed  wi'  a  spade ; 
It's  no  use  a  peawtin'  an'  fratchin' — 

As  th'  whirligig 's  twirlin'  areawnd, 
Have  at  it  again  ;  and  keep  scratchin' 

As  lung  as  your  ycd  's  upo*  greawnd. 


296  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Iv  one  could  but  grope  i*'th*  inside  on% 

There's  trouble  i*  every  heart ; 
An'  thoose  that'n  th'  biggest  o'  th'  pride  on\ 

Oft  leeten  o'  th'  keenest  o*  th'  smart 
Whatever  may  chance  to  come  to  u% 

Let's  patiently  hondle  er  share, — 
For  there 's  mony  a  fine  suit  o'  dooas 

That  covers  a  murderin'  care. 

There's  danger  i'  every  station, — 

r  th'  palace  as  much  as  i'  th'  cot ; 
There's  hanker  i'  every  condition, 

An'  canker  i'  every  lot ; 
There's  folk  that  are  weary  o*  livin'. 

That  never  fear't  hunger  nor  cowd ; 
And  there 's  mony  a  miserly  nowmun 

'At 's  deed  ov  a  surfeit  o*  gowd. 

One  feels,  neaw  'at  times  are  so  nippin', 

A  mon's  at  a  troublesome  schoo'. 
That  slaves  like  a  horse  for  a  livin', 

An'  flings  it  away  like  a  foo* ; 
But,  as  pleasure's  sometimes  a  misfortin. 

An'  trouble  sometimes  a  good  thing, — 
Though  we  livin'  o'  th'  floor,  same  as  layrocks. 

We  'n  go  up,  like  layrocks,  to  sing. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         297 
FRETTIN'. 

(from  "  PHASES  OF  DISTRESS— LANCASHIRE  RHYMES.") 

By  Joseph  Ramsbottom. 


FR<y  heawrs  to  days — a  dhreary  length — 
Fro'  days  to  weeks,  one  idle  stonds. 

An'  slowly  sinks  fro'  pride  an'  sthrength, 
To  weeny  heart  and  wakely  honds. 

An'  still  one  hopes,  an'  ever  thries 
To  think  'ut  betther  days  mun  come ; 

Bo'  th'  sun  may  set,  an'  the  sun  may  rise — 

No  sthreak  i'  leet  we  find  a-whoam  I 

•  ••••• 

Aw  want  to  see  thoose  days  agen. 

To  see  folks  earn  whate'er  they  need ; 
O  God !  to  think  'ut  wortchin'  men 

Should  be  poor  things  to  pet  'un  feed ! 
Ther's  some  to  th'  Bastile  has  to  goo. 

To  live  o'  th'  rates  they'n  help'd  to  pay ; 
An'  some  get  dow  *  to  help  'em  thro'. 

And  some  are  ta'en,  or  sent  away. 

Whot  is  ther  here,  'ut  one  should  live, 

Or  wish  to  live,  weigh'd  deawn  wi'  grief, 
Thro'  weary  weeks  an'  months,  'ut  give 

Not  one  short  heawr  o'  sweet  relief? 
A  sudden  plunge,  a  little  blow, 

At  once  'ud  eend  mi  care  an'  pain ! 
An*  why  noa  do  *t  ? — for  weel  aw  know 

Aw  lose  bo'  ills,  if  nowt  aw  gain. 

*  Dole,  relief  from  charity. 


298  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Ay,  why  noa  do  it  ?    It  ill  'ud  tell 
O*  thoose  wur  left  beheend,  aw  fear : 

It 's  wrong,  at  fust,  to  kill  mysd*, 
An'  wrong  to  lyev*  ml  childher  here. 

One's  loike  to  tak  some  thowt  for  them — 

.    Some  sort  o'  comfort  one  should  give ; 

So  one  mun  bear,  an'  starve,  an'  clem, 
An'  pine,  an'  mope,  an'  fret,  an'  live. 


TH'  SHURAT  WEAVER'S  SONG.* 

By  Samuel  Laycock. 

Tune. — Rory  O'Mon. 

CONFEAUND  it !  aw  ne'er  wur  so  woven  afore, 
Mi  back's  welly  brocken,  mi  fingers  are  sore ; 
Aw  've  bin  starin'  an'  rootin'  among  this  Shurat, 
Till  aw  'm  very  near  getten  as  bloint  as  a  bat. 


*  During  what  luui  been  well  named  "The  Cotton  Famine,"  amongst 
the  impoits  of  cotton  from  India,  perhaps  the  worst  was  that  denomi- 
nated "  Sunt,"  from  the  city  of  that  name,  in  the  province  of  Guzerat, 
a  great  cotton  district  Short  in  staple,  and  often  rotten,  bad  in  quality, 
and  dirty  in  condition,  (the  result  too  often  of  dishonest  packers,)  it  was 
found  to  be  exceedingly  difficult  to  work  up :  and  from  its  various  de- 
fects, it  involved  considerable  deductions,  or  "batings"  for  bad  work, 
from  the  spinners^  and  weaver^  wages.  This  naturally  led  to  a  general 
dislike  of  the  Surat  cotton,  and  to  the  application  of  the  word  "  Surat** 
to  designate  any  inferior  article.  One  action  was  tried  at  the  assizes— 
the  offence  being  the  applying  to  the  beverage  of  a  particular  brewer  the 
term  of  "  Surat  beer."  Besides  the  song  given  above,  several  others 
were  written  on  the  subject  One  called  "  Surat  Warps,"  and  said  to 
be  the  production  of  a  Rossendale  rhymester,  (T.  N.,  of  Bacup,}  appeared 
in  Noia  and  Qtteries  of  June  3,  x86s,  (3d  series,  vol.  viL,  p.  43a,}  and 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         299 

Aw  wish  aw  wur  fur  enough  off,  eawt  o'  th'  road, 
For  o'  weavin'  this  rubbitch  aw'm  getten  reet  stow'd ; 
Aw  Ve  nowt  i'  this  world  to  lie  deawn  on  but  straw. 
For  aw  've  only  eight  shfllin'  this  fortneet  to  draw. 

Neaw  aw  haven't  mi  family  under  mi  hat, 
Aw  've  a  woife  an'  six  childher  to  keep  eawt  o'  that ; 
So  aw  'm  rayther  among  it,  at  present,  yo  see : 
Iv  ever  a  fellow  wur  puzzled,  it 's  me  I* 

Iv  one  turns  eawt  to  steal,  folk  11  co'  me  a  thief, 
An'  aw  conno'  put  th'  cheek  on  to  ax  for  relief ; 
As  aw  said  i'  eawr  heawse  t'  other  neet  to  mi  woife, 
Aw  never  did  nowt  o'  this  soart  i'  mi  loife. 


is  there  stated  to  be  a  great  favourite  amongst  the  old  '*  Deyghn.  Lay- 
rocks,"  {Anglice,  *'  The  I^rks  of  Dean,"  in  the  forest  of  Rossenda!e,) 
"  who  sing  it  to  one  of  the  easy-going  psalm-tunes  with  much  gustoi* 
One  verse  runs  thus—  * 

"  I  look  at  th'  yealds,  and  there  they  stick ; 
I  ne'er  seen  the  like  sin  I  wur  wick  I 
What  pity  could  befal  a  heart, 
To  think  about  these  hard-sized  warps  !" 

Another  song,  called  *'  The  Surat  Weyver,"  was  written  by  William 
Billington  of  Blackburn.  It  is  in  the  form  of  a  lament  by  a  body  of 
Lancashire  weavers,  who  declare  they  had 

'*  Borne  what  mortal  man  could  bear, 
Affoore  they  'd  weave  Surat" 

But  they  had  been  compelled  to  weave  it,  though 

"  Stransportashun  's  not  as  ill 
As  weyvin  rotten  Su." 

This  song  concludes  with  the  emphatic  execratioi^^ 

"  To  hell  wi' of  Sural." 


300  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Oh  dear !  if  yond'  Yankees  could  only  just  see 
Heaw  they  're  dammin'  an*  starvin'  poor  weavers  loike 

me, 
Aw  think  they'd  soon  settle  t&eir  bother,  an'  strive 
To  send  us  some  cotton  to  keep  us  alive. 

There 's  theawsands  o'  folk  just  i'  th'  best  o'  their  days, 

Wi'  traces  o'  want  plaiAly  seen  i'  their  faze ; 

An'  a  future  afore  'em  as  dreary  an'  dark, 

For  when  th'  cotton  gets  done  we  shall  o  be  beawt  wark. 

We  'n  bin  patient  an'  quiet  as  long  as  we  con  ; 
Th'  bits  o'  things  we  had  by  us  are  welly  o  gone  ; 
Mi  clogs  an'  mi  shoon  are  gettin'  worn  eawt, 
An'  mi  halliday  doas  are  o  on  'em  '*  up  th'  speawt" 

•  •  •  •  s  • 

Mony  a  toime  i'  mi  days  aw've  seen  things  lookin* 

feaw, 
But  never  as  awkard  as  what  they  are  neaw  ; 
Iv  there  isn't  some  help  for  us  factory  folk  soon, 
Aw'm  sure  we  shall  o  be  knock'd  reet  eawt  o'  tune. 


GOOIN'  r  SCHOO'. 

(FROM  "  PHASES  OF  DISTRESS— LANCASHIRE  RHYMES.") 

By  Joseph  Ramsbottom. 

Heaw  slow  these  weary  weeks  drag  on ! 

Th'  hard  toimes  'ull  ne'er  be  o'er,  aw  'm  sure ; 
Eawr  mill's  bin  stondin'  idle  yon' 

For  these  last  eighteen  months,  or  mooar. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         301 

We  walk  abeawt  i'  the  leet  o*  the  day 
r  dooas  'ut  som'dy  else  has  bowt ; 

Think  o'er  it  when  an'  heaw  we  may, 
We're  like  to  own  it's  up  to  nowt« 

To  thrust  to  som'dy  else  for  bread. 

An*  by  th'  relief  keep  torin'  on,* 
Maks  honest  folk  to  hang  their  yead, 

An'  crushes  th'  heart  o'  th'  preawdest  mon. 
We  know  'n  it 's  not  eawr  bread  we  ate ; 

We  know  'n  they're  not  eawr  dooas  we  wear ; 
We  want  agen  eawr  former  state, 

Eawr  former  dhrudgin'  life  o'  care. 


It's  fro'  no  faut  o*  eawrs,  it's  true, 

An'  folks  han  met  eawr  wants  like  men, 
Like  brothers  and  like  sisters  too, — 

May  th'  great  God  pay  'em  back  agen. 
Heawe'er  aw  g^mle  at  mi  state, 

Aw've  no  hard  word  to  say  to  them ; 
Aw  thank  the  poor,  aw  thank  the  great, 

'Ut  couldno'  stond  to  see  us  denL 

Their  help  has  bin  great  hdp  to  me. 
It's  that  alone  'ut  sent  me  t'  schoo' ; 

It's  that  'ut  towt  me  th'  A  B  C, 
For  o  aw'd  turnt  o'  forty-two. 

'Twur  rayther  hard  at  fust  to  sit 
An'  stare  at  things  aw  couldno  tell, 

'Cose  when  owt  puzzl't  me  a  bit, 

O  th'  lads  'ud  lough  among  thersel'. 
•  ••*•• 

*  Labouring  and  living  hardly. 


302  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

On  lots  o*  things  aw  get  new  leet, 

Mi  idle  toime  *s  noan  badly  spent ; 
To  tlfe  woife  an'  the  childher  neaw  oitch  neet 

Aw  read  a  bit  i'  th'  Testiment — 
Heaw  Jesus  Christ  once  fed  the  poor. 

An'  the  little  childher  to  Him  co'd ; 
Heaw  th'  sick  an'  blind  He  oft  did  cure, 

An'  the  lame,  to  help  'em  on  their  road. 

When  o  these  weary  toimes  are  past — 

When  th'  schoo's  an'  o  are  past  away — 
These  happy  neets  a-whoam  'ull  last, 

At  th'  eend  o'  mony  a  breeter  day : — 
Bo'  th'  eend  o'  th'  iU  it 's  hard  to  see, 

An'  very  hard  to  battle  thro' ; 
A  gradely  plague  it 's  bin  to  me — 

It's  been  a  gradely  blessin'  too. 


SEWIN'-CLASS  SONG. 
By  Samuel  Laycock. 

Come  lasses,  let's  cheer  up  an'  sing ;  it 's  no  use  look- 
in'  sad. 

We  'U  mak  eawr  sewin'-schoo'  to  ring,  and  stitch  away 
loike  mad ; 

We'U  try  an'  mak*  th'  best  job  we  con,  o'  owt  we  han 
to  do, 

We  read  an'  write,  an'  spell  and  kest,  while  here  at  th' 
sewin'-schoo'. 

Chorus. — Then,  lasses,  let 's  cheer  up  an* 
sing ;  it's  no  use  lookin'  sad. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         303 

Eawr  Queen,  th'  Lord  Mayor  o'  London,  too,  they  send 

us  lots  o'  brass, 
An'  neaw,  at  welly  every  schoo'  we'n  gA  a  sewin*- 

dass; 
We  'n  superintendents,  cutters-eawt,  an*  visitors,  an'  o ; 
We  'n  parsons,  cotton-mesturs,  too,  come  in  to  watch 

us  sew. 


God  bless  these  kind,  good-natured  folk,  'at  sends  as 

o  this  stuff; 
We  conno'  tell  'em  o  we  feel,  nor  thank  'em  hawve 

enuff; 
They  help  to  find  us  meyt  an'  dooas,  an'  eddicashun 

too. 
An'  what  creawns  o,  they  gi'en  us  wage  for  gooin'  to 

th'  sewin'-schoo*. 


There'll  be  some  lookin'  eawt  for  wives  when  th'  fac- 
tories start  again. 

But  we  shall  never  court  wi'  noan  but  decent,  sober 
men; 

So  o  vulgar  chaps  beawt  common  sense,  wiU  hae  no 
need  to  come. 

For,  sooner  than  wed  sich  as  these,  we  'd  better  stop  a- 
whoam. 


304  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


HARD  XIMES;  OR,  TH'  WEYVUR  TO  HIS 

WIFE. 

Bv  "a  Lancashire  Lad,"  (James  Bowker.) 

Draw  up  thy  cheer,  owd  lass,  we  'n  still  a  bit  o'  fire, 
An'  I  'm  starv't  to  deoth  wi*  cummin'  throo  th'  weet 

an'  mire ; 
He  towd  a  lie  o'  thee  an'  me,  as  said  as  th'  love  o*  th' 

poor 
Flies  out  o'  th'  kitchen  window,  when  clemmin'  cums 

to  th'  door. 
Aw'm  not  ruein' — ^as  thae  weel  knows — as  ever  I  wed 

thee, 
But  I  've  monny'aquarethowt  as  thae  mon  sometimes 

rue  o'  me. 

I  'm  mad  at  them  America  foos,  as  never  hes  enuff 
O'  quarrelin'  an'  strugglin',  and  sich  unnatVel  stuff, 
An'  its  ter'ble  hard,  owd  wife,  to  ceawer  bi'  th'  chimley 

jam. 
An'  think  if  they  keep  on  feightin',  as  thee  an'  memun 

clam ; 
An'  not  aar  faut,  its  like  breykin'  wer  shins  o'er  th' 

neighbours'  stoos. 
An'  it  shows  us  for  one  woise  mon,  ther  's  welly  twenty 

foos. 

But  better  chaps  nor  me  an'  thee  hes  hed  to  live  o' 

•  nowt, 
An'  we  'n  hed  a  tidy  time  on 't  afoor  th'  war  brok'  out ; 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         305 

An*  if  I  'm  gerrin'  varra  thin,  it  matters  nowt  o'  me, 
Th*  hardest  wark  is  sittin'  here  schaming  for  th'  choilt 

an'  thee.  • 

Tha'art  gerrin'  ter'ble  pale  too,  but  fowk  wi'  nowt  to 

heyt 
Con't  luk  as  nice  an*  weel  as  them  as  plenty  hes  o' 

meyt. 


Ther's  lots  o'  hooams  areawnd  us  whear  wot  they 

waste  i'  th'  day, 
'Ud  sarve  for  thee  an'  th'  choilt  an'  me,  an'  some  to 

give  away ; 
An'  as  I  passes  by  their  dooars,  I  hears  their  music 

sweet, 
An'  I  con't  but  think  o'  thee  till  th'  teears  dim  mi 

seet ; 
For  if  I  'd  lots  o'  brass,  thae  shud  be  diff'rent,  never 

fear, 
For  th  'art  nooan  so  feaw,  yet,  wench,  if  thae  'd  gradely 

dooas  to  wear. 


An'  aar  bonny  little  Annie,  wi'  her  pratty  een  so  breet, 

Hoo  shud  sleep  o'  feathers,  and  uv  angels  dreom  o 
neet; 

I  fancies  I  con  see  her  monny  a  weary  heawf  i'  th* 
day. 

As  I  shud  loike  her  to  be  sin,  if  luv  mud  heve  its  way ; 

And  if  what's  i'  this  heart  o'  moine  cud  nobbut  cum 
to  pass, 

Hoo  shud  bi'  th'  happiest  woman,  as  hoo  is  th'  bonni- 
est lass. 

u 


3o6  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

I'm  a  foo  wi'  clammin*  soa,  or  I  shudn't  toke  like 

this, 
It  nobbut  meks  wer  teeth  watter  to  think  o'  sich  like 

bliss ; 
An'  th'  winter  cummin'  on  so  fast,  wi'  th'  dark,  an'  th' 

snow,  an'  th'  cowd. 
For  I  heeard  th'  robin  sing  to-day  as  I  heeard  him 

sing  of  owd, 
When  thee  an'  me  wur'younger,  an'  i'  wur  soft  cooartin 

days, 
An'   I  cum  whistlin'  thro'  the  fields  to  yoar  owd 

woman's  place. 


Thea  loved  me  then,  an'  as  wimmen  's  soft  enuff  for 

owt, 
I  do  believe  thae  loves  me  neaw,  mooar  nor  ever  I  'd 

hae  thowt. 
An'  tha'  hes  but  one  excuse,  if  I  'm  ragg'd,  I  'm  fond 

o'  thee. 
An'  times,  though  hard,  I  connot  think  11  change  thee 

or  me. 
For  if  we're  true  an'  reet,  an'  as  honest  as  we're  poor, 
We 's  never  hev  no  wos  chap  nor  poverty  at  th'  dooar. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         307 


"GOD  BLESS  *EM,  IT  SHOWS  THEY'N  SOME 

THOWT!'' 

By  Samuel  Laycock. 

Is  there  nob*dy  to  thank  these  good  folk  ? 

No  poet,  to  scribble  a  line  ? 
Aw  wish  aw  could  write  yo'  a  song, 

Aw  *d  mak*  yo*  reet  welcome  to  mine. 
There's  Waugh,  he's  bin  writin'  for  years. 

An'  mony  a  good  tale,  too,  he's  towd ; 
But  he  says  nowt  abeawt  these  bad  times ; 

Aw  wonder,  neaw,  heaw  he  con  howd. 

Iv  aw  could  draw  pickturs  loike  him. 

An'  ceawer  deawn  an'  write  hawve  as  weel, 
Aw'd  tell  folk  heaw  thankful  aw  am ; 

But  aw  couldn't  tell  th'  hawve  'at  aw  feel. 
When  aw  tak'  up  a  papper  to  read, 

Aw  can  see  theer  heaw  ready  folk  are 
At  helpin'  poor  creatures  i'  need, 

An'  givin'  us  o  they  can  spare. 

We'n  gentlemen,  ladies,  an'  o, 

As  busy  i*  th'  country  as  owt, 
Providin'  'for  th*  Lancashire  poor ; 

God  bless  'em,  it  shows  they  'n  some  thowt  I 
Iv  they  '11  only  keep  on  as  they  do. 

We  shall  o  be  rigg'd  eawt  very  soon  ; 
There 's  one  party  givin'  us  frocks, 

An'  another  lot  sendin'  us  shoon. 


3o8  MODERN  SONGS,  ETC 

Th'  Australians  ban  sent  us  some  gowd, 

To'rt  feedin'  an'  dothin'  o'  th'  poor ; 
An'  they  say  it  *s  noan  o  we  mun  have, 

For  they're  busy  collectin'  us  moor. 
An'  th'  Indians  are  helpin'  an'  o, 

Aw  reckon  they're  g^rateful  for  th'  past, 
So  they  11  give  us  a  bit  ov  a  lift, 

For  helpin'  them  eawt,  when  they'm  fast 

We  'n  clogs  an'  we  'n  clooas  gan  us  neaw, 

There 's  boath  second-bonded  an'  new ; 
Some  are  givin'  us  soup  twice  a  week, 

An'  others  are  givin'  us  stew. 
We're  rare  an'  weel  done  to,  aw 'm  sure. 

For  we  're  fed,  an'  we  're  clothed,  an'  we  're  towt ; 
They  pay  'n  us  for  gooin'  to  the  schoo'. 

An'  gi'en  us  good  lamin'  for  nowt 

God  bless  'em  for  o  'at  they've  done. 

An'  aw  hope  they'll  keep  doin'  as  well. 
Till  th'  cleawd  'at  hangs  o'er's  blown  away. 

An'  we  're  able  to  do  for  eawrsel'. 
Excuse  me  for  writin'  these  loines. 

For  it's  no  use,  aw  conno'  be  still, 
As  long  as  they  help  us  to  live, 

^«/'// thank  'em,  iv  nob'dy  else  will 


VI. 

If  some  gentle  reader  should  wonder  why  sea  songs 
are  included  in  a  volume  of  Lancashire  songs  and 
ballads,  our  answer  to  the  unuttered  query  would  be 
twofold: — First,  because  Lancashire  is  a  maritime 
county,  possessing  in  Liverpool  the  greatest  commer- 
cial seaport  in  the  world ;  and,  secondly,  because  a  few 
years  ago  we  also  had  a  local  Dibdin  in  the  benevo- 
lent and  lamented  Edward  Rushton  of  Liverpool,*  a 
few  of  whose  songs  we  have  obtained  permission  from 
his  descendants  to  copy. 


WILL  CLEWLINE. 

A  TALE  OF  THE  PRESSGANG. 
BV  THE  LATE  EDWARD   RUSHTON. 

From  Jamaica's  hot  dime  and  her  pestilent  dews ; 

From  the  toil  of  a  sugar-stow'd  barque ; 
From  the  perilous  boatings  that  oft  thin  the  crews, 

And  fill  the  wide  maw  of  the  shark ; 

•  Sec  note  on  page  131. 


3 1  o  MODERN  SONGS  A  ND 

From  fever,  storm,  famine,  and  all  the  sad  store 

Of  hardships  by  seamen  endured, 
Behold,  poor  Will  Qewline  escaped,  and  once  more 

With  his  wife  and  his  children  safe  moor'd 

View  the  rapture  that  beams  in  his  sunembrown'd 
face. 

While  he  folds  his  loved  Kate  to  his  breast — 
While  his  little  ones,  trooping  to  share  his  embrace, 

Contend  who  shall  first  be  caress'd ! 
View  them  dimb  his  loved  knee,  while  each  tiny  heart 
swells, 

As  he  presses  the  soft  rosy  lip, 
And  of  cocoa-nuts,  sugar,  and  tamarinds  tells 

That  are  soon  to  arrive  from  the  ship  ! 

Then  see  him  reclined  on  his  favourite  chair, 

With  his  arm  round  the  neck  of  his  love, 
Who  tells  how  his  friends  and  his  relatives  fare. 

And  how  the  dear  younglings  improve. 
The  evening  approaches,  and  round  the  snug  fire 

The  little  ones  sport  on  the^oor — 
When  lo !  while  delight  fills  the  breast  of  the  sire, 

Loud  thunderings  are  heard  at  the  door. 

And  now,  like  a  tempest  that  sweeps  through  the  sky, 

And  kills  the  first  buds  of  the  year — 
Oh !  view,  'midst  this  region  of  innocent  joy, 

A  gang  of  fierce  hirelings  appear. 
They  seize  on  the  prey,  all  relentless  as  fate  : 

He  struggles — is  instantly  bound  ; 
Wild  scream  the  poor  children,  and  lo  1  his  loved  Kate 

Sinks  pale  and  convulsed  to  the  ground. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         3" 

To  the  hold  of  a  tender,  deep,  crowded,  and  foul, 

Now  view  your  brave  seaman  confined. 
And  on  the  bare  planks,  all  indignant  of  soul, 

All  unfriended,  behold  him  reclined. 
The  children's  wild  screams  still  ring  in  his  ear : 

He  broods  on  his  Kate's  poignant  pain ; 
He  hears  the  cat  hauling — ^his  pangs  are  severe ; 

He  feels,  but  he  scorns  to  complaia 

Arrived  now  at  Plymouth,  the  poor  enslaved  tar 

Is  to  combat  for  freedom  and  laws — 
Is  to  brave  the  rough  surge  in  a  vessel  of  war : 

He  sails — and  soon  dies  in  the  cause. 
Kate  hears  the  sad  tidings,  and  never  smiles  more. 

She  falls  a  meek  martyr  to  grief ; 
His  children,  kind  friends  and  relations  deplore, 

But  the  parish  alone  gives  relief. 

Ye  statesmen,  who  manage  this  cold-blooded  land. 

And  who  boast  of  your  seamen's  exploits, 
Aht    think   how  your  death-dealing   bulwarks   are 
mann'd. 

And  learn  to  respect  human  rights. 
Like  felons,  no  more  let  the  sons  of  the  main 

Be  severed  from  all  that  is  dear ; 
If  their  sufferings  and  wrongs  be  a  national  stain, 

Oh,  let  the  foul  stain  disappear. 


312  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

THE  FAREWELL. 
By  the  late  Edward  Rushton. 

The  shivering  topsails  home  are  sheeted, 

And  cheerily  goes  the  windlass  round ; 
'*  Heave,  heave,  my  hearts ! "  is  oft  repeated, 

And  Mary  sighs  at  every  sound. 
The  yellow  fever,  scattering  ruin  ; 

The  shipwrecked  veteran's  dying  cries ; 
And  war,  the  decks  with  carnage  strewing — 

All,  all  before  her  fancy  rise. 

As  bends  the  primrose,  meek  and  lowly, 

All  bruised  by  April's  pelting  hail ; 
So,  while  the  anchor  rises  slowly. 

Poor  Mary  droops,  distressed  and  pale. 
And  oft,  while  at  his  handspike  toiling, 

Full  many  a  glance  her  seaman  steals ; 
And  oft  he  tries,  by  gaily  smiling. 

To  hide  the  parting  pang  he  feels. 

Now  through  the  blocks  the  wind  is  howling- 

The  pilot  to  the  helmsman  cries  ; 
And  now  the  bulky  ship  is  rolling, 

And  now  aloft  the  searboy  flies. 
The  whiten'd  canvas  swift  is  spreading, 

Around  the  bows  the  surges  foam  ; 
And  many  a  female  tear  is  shedding. 

And  thoughts  prevail  for  love  and  home. 

Her  tar,  among  the  sunburnt  faces, 
Now  Mary  views  with  fond  regard ; 

Now  o*er  the  deck  his  form  she  traces — 
Now,  trembling,  sees  him  on  the  yard. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         313 

Where'er  he  moves,  alert  and  glowing, 
Her  beauteous  azure  eyes  pursue — 

Those  eyes  that  show,  with  grief  o'erflowing, 
Like  violets  wet  with  morning  dew. 

Unmoved,  'midst  regions  wild  and  dreary^ 

Poor  Will  had  pass'd  through  woes  severe  ; 
Yet  now  from  far  he  views  his  Mary, 

And  turns  to  hide  a  falling  tear. 
The  biting  winds  blow  strong  and  stronger, 

And  the  broad  waves  more  wildly  swell : 
Will  hears  the  boat  can  wait  no  longer, 

And  springs  abaft  to  bid  farewell 

**  O  my  sweet  girl !"  with  strong  emotion. 

The  tar  exclaims,  "  now — ^now — adieu  ! 
I  go  to  brave  the  changeful  ocean. 

Yet  thou  shalt  ever  find  me  true." 
With  quivering  lip  and  deep  dejection, 

"  Heaven  shield  my  Will,"  she  cries,  "from 
harms." 
His  look  bespeaks  extreme  affection. 

And  now  he  locks  her  in  his  arms. 

Again  the  boatmen,  hoarsely  bawling, 

Declare  they  cannot,  will  not  stay ; 
And  though  the  crew  the  cat  are  hauling. 

Yet  Will  must  see  his  love  away. 
Now  at  the  side,  expression  ceases : 

She  gains  the  skiff— she  makes  for  land, 
And  'twixt  them,  as  the  brine  increases. 

They  gaze,  they  sigh,  they  wave  the  hand. 


314  MODERN  SONG  ANDS 


ABSENCE. 

By  the  late  Edward  Rushton. 

When  through  the  wild  unfathom*d  deep, 
Wet  with  the  briny  spray,  we  sweep. 
To  Kate,  to  lovely  Kate,  and  home, 
My  anxious  thoughts  unceasing  roam. 
Again  I  see  her  on  the  pier — 
Again  behold  the  falling  tear ; 
Again  I  view  her  bosom  swell, 
And  hear  the  sorrowing  word  "  Farewell*' 

When  all  is  calm,  and  the  bleach'd  sails 
Are  furl'd,  or  hanging  in  the  brails, 
The  wide  expanse  of  glassy  sea, 
And  sky  from  cloudy  vapours  free, 
While  thoughtless  o'er  the  side  I  lean. 
Bring  to  my  mind  the  placid  mien 
Of  that  dear  girl  whom  I  adore. 
And  left  in  tears  on  Albion's  shore. 

Or  when  the  fierce  tornadoes  howl, 
And  nerve  the  fearless  seaman's  soul, 
The  towering  surges,  as  they  break, 
Display  the  whiteness  of  her  neck ; 
The  petrels,  too,  that  seem  to  tread 
The  foaming  brine,  with  wings  outspread 
Oft  bring  the  ebon  locks  to  mind 
Of  that  dear  girl  I  left  behind. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         3 1 5 

When  on  my  watch,  the  dawn  full  oft 
Has  shovm  those  tints,  so  mild  and  soft, 
That  mark  the  lip  and  cheek  of  her 
Whom  I  *bove  all  the  world  prefer. 
And  thus,  wherever  the  seaman  goes, 
'Midst  torrid  heat,  or  polar  snows, 
Some  image  still  recalls  to  mind 
The  witching  charms  he  leaves  behind. 


THE  NEGLECTED  TAR. 
By  the  late  Edward  Rushton. 

To  ocean's  sons  I  lift  the  strain, 

A  race  renown'd  in  story ; 
A  race  whose  wrongs  are  Britain's  stain, 

Whose  deeds  are  Britain's  glory. 
By  them,  when  courts  have  banish'd  peace. 

Your  sea-girt  land's  protected ; 
But  when  war's  horrid  thunderings  cease. 

These  bulwarks  are  neglected. 

When  thickest  darkness  covers  all. 

Far  on  the  trackless  ocean ; 
When  lightnings  dart  and  thunders  roll. 

And  all  is  wild  commotion ; 
When  o'er  the  barque  the  foam-capt  waves 

With  boisterous  sweep  are  rolling ; 
The  seaman  feels^  yet  nobly  braves, 

The  storm's  terrific  howling. 


3i6  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

When  long  becalm'd  on  southern  brine. 

Where  scorching  beams  assail  him  ; 
When  all  the  canvas  hangs  supine, 

And  food  and  water  fail  him. 
Then  oft  he  dreams  of  that  loved  shore, 

Where  joys  are  ever  reigning ; — 
The  watch  is  call'd, — ^his  rapture 's  o*er, — 

He  sighs,  but  scorns  complaining. 

Now  deep  immersed  in  sulphurous  smoke. 

Behold  him  at  his  station  j 
He  loads  his  gun,  he  cracks  his  joke. 

And  moves  all  animation. 
The  battle  roars,  the  ship 's  a  wreck, 

He  smiles  amid  the  danger ; 
And  though  his  messmates  strew  the  deck. 

To  fear  his  soul 's  a  stranger. 


Or,  burning  on  that  noxious  coast, 

Where  death  so  oft  befriends  him  ; 
Or  pinch'd  by  hoary  Greenland's  frost. 

True  courage  still  attends  him. 
No  clime  can  this  eradicate. 

He  glories  in  annoyance ; 
He,  fearless,  braves  the  storms  of  fate. 

And  bids  grim  death  defiance. 


Why  should  the  man  who  knows  no  fear 

In  peace  be  thus  neglected  ? 
Behold  him  move  along  the  pier, 

Pale,  meagre,  and  dejected  ; 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE,         317 

He  asks  a  berth,  with  downcast  eye, 

His  prayers  are  disregarded  , 
Refused — ah !  hear  the  veteran  sigh, 

And  say — are  tars  rewarded  ? 

Much  to  these  fearless  souls  you  owe ; 

In  peace  would  you  neglect  them  ? 
What  say  you,  patriot  souls  ?    Oh  no  ! 

Admire,  preserve,  protect  them. 
And  oh !  reflect,  if  war  again 

Should  menace  your  undoing, 
Reflect  who  then  would  sweep  the  main. 

And  shield  your  realm  from  ruin. 

Chorus. — ^Then  oh  I  protect  the  hardy  tar ; 
Be  mindful  of  his  merit ; 
And  if  pure  justice  urge  the  war. 
He  11  show  his  daring  spirit 


THE  LASS  OF  LIVERPOOL. 
By  the  late   Edward   Rushton. 

Where  cocoas  lift  their  tufted  heads, 

And  orange-blossoms  scent  the  breeze. 
Her  charms  the  mild  Mulatto  spreads. 

And  moves  with  soft  and  wanton  ease. 
And  I  have  seen  her  witching  smiles, 

And  I  have  kept  my  bosom  cool ; 
For  how  could  I  forget  thy  smiles, 

O  lovely  lass  of  Liverpool  I 


3i8  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

The  softest  tint  the  conch  displays, 

The  cheek  of  her  I  love  outvies  ; 
And  the  sea-breeze,  'midst  burning  rays, 

Is  not  more  cheering  than  her  eyes. 
Dark  as  the  petrel  is  her  hair, — 

And  Sam,  who  calls  me  love-sick  fool. 
Ne'er  saw  a  tropic  bird  more  fair 

Than  my  sweet  lass  of  Liverpool 

Though  doom'd  from  early  life  to  brave 

The  feverish  swamp  and  furious  blast ; 
Though  doom'd  to  face  the  foam  capt  wave, 

And  mount  the  yard  and  quivering  mast ; 
Though  doom'd  to  brave  each  noxious  soil, 

And  train'd  in  stem  misfortune's  school ; 
Yet  still,  oh !  'twould  be  bliss  to  toil 

For  thee,  sweet  lass  of  Liverpool. 

And  when  we  reach  the  crowded  pier, 

And  the  broad  yards  are  quickly  mann'd ; 
Oh  I  should  my  lovely  girl  be  near. 

And  sweetly  smile,  and  wave  her  hand  ; 
With  ardent  soul  I  'd  spring  to  shore, 

And,  scorning  dull  decorum's  rule^ 
To  my  fond  bosom  o'er  and  o'er 

Would  press  the  lass  of  Liverpool 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.        319 


"WHEN  THE  BROAD  ARCH  OF  HEAVEN."  ♦ 

SONG— WRITTEN    FOR    THE  ANNIVERSARY    OF    THE    LAN- 
CASTER MARINE  SOCIETY. 

By  the  late  Edward  Rushton. 

When  the  broad  arch  of  heaven  is  blue  and  serene, 

And  the  ocean  reflects  the  bright  day ; 
When,  unswell'd  by  the  breeze,  the  bleach'd  canvas  is 
seen, 

And  the  bows  are  unwash'd  by  the  spray ; 
When  the  mom  is  thus  smiling,  each  mariner  knows, 

Who  the  perilous  tempest  oft  braves, 
That  the  loftiest  barque,  ere  the  day's  dreadful  close, 

May  float  a  mere  wreck  on  the  waves. 

So  on  life's  changeful  ocean,  with  souls  all  elate. 

And  with  prospects  all  placid  and  clear ; 
While  fortune's  soft  gales  on  our  efforts  await, 

For  wealth's  flattering  harbour  we  steer : 
When  lo !  disappointment's  dark  vapours  arise, 

And  the  winds  of  adversity  roar ; 
And  hope's  towering  canvas  in  tatters  soon  flies. 

And  sorrow's  wild  waves  whelm  us  o'er. 

Since  life's  brightest  azure  may  thus  be  o'ercast, 
And  soon  threatening  clouds  may  appear ; 

Oh !  'tis  wise  to  prepare  for  the  soul-piercing  blast, 
Ere  you  feel  its  destructive  career. 

*  This  song  has  never  before  been  published. 


320  MODERN  SONGS,  ETC. 

Yes,  ye  men  of  old  Lune,  to  the  surge  long  inured, 
Oh  !  'twas  wise  this  fair  harbour  to  form ; 

Where  your   dearest  connexions  may  one   day  be 
moor'd, 
Unexposed  to  the  pitiless  storm. 

At  eve^  when  the  little  ones  dimb  your  loved  knee, 

And  the  mother  looks  on  with  a  smile, 
When  they  prattle  around  you  all  frolic  and  glee. 

And  soften  the  day's  rugged  toil ; 
When  you  view  the  loved  group  with  affection's  strong 
glow, 

When  you  feel  sensibility's  tear ; 
Oh  !  reflect,  men  of  Lune,  that  should  deflth  lay  you 
low. 

Protectors  and  guardians  are  here. 

And  oft,  when  the  petrel  his  dark  wing  displays, 

In  the  trough  of  the  mountainous  wave ; 
When  the  craggy  lee-shore  is  perceived  thr9ugh  the 
haze. 

And  the  breakers  all  dreadfully  rave ; 
'Neath  the  vertical  sun,  when  contagions  arise. 

Or  when  battle  the  atmosphere  rends ; 
Oh !  with  comfort  reflect  that  your  soul's  dearest  ties 

Shall  here  find  protectors  and  friends. 


BaUantyne^  Roberts^  6f*  Company,  PrinterSy  Edinburgh, 


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