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LANCASHIRE  LYRICS. 


HARLAND'S  LANCASHIRE  LYRICS. 

HARLANDS  OLDER  LANCASHIRE  BALLADS. 

THE  BOOK  OF  FAMILIAR  QUOTATIONS. 

CHOICE  POEMS  AND  LYRICS. 

CHOICE  THOUGHTS  FROM  SHAKSPERE. 

GOLDEN  GLEANINGS  FROM  THE  POETS. 

WISE  SAYINGS  OF  THE  GREAT  AND  GOOD. 

THE  BOOK  OF  HUMOUR,  WIT,  AND  WISDOM. 

ROBIN  HOOD,  with  Illustrations. 

THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS'  ENTERTAINMENTS,  arranged 
by  the  Hon.  Mrs  Sugden. 


Printed  on  Toned  Paper,  price  5^.  each. 


LANCASHIRE  LYRICS: 

MODERN 

SONGS  AND  BALLADS 

OF  THE 

COUNTY  PALATINE. 


EDITED  BY 

JOHN    HARLAND.    F.S.A.. 

EDITOR  OF  "ballads  AND  SONGS  OF  LANCASHIRE,  CHIEFLY  OLDER  THAN 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 


._,,,  t» 


LONDON: 

WHIITAKER  &  CO.,  AVE  MARIA  LANE. 

1866. 


ONE    OF   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  Centuiy," 
a  promise  was  given—  should  that  book  find  favour^to  pub- 
lish another  of  the  "■Modern  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  rhythmical  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- 


8'lJi*>1  ^? 


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,  &c. ; 
and  Songs  of  Humour.  Many  of  these  are  in  the  Lancashire 
dialect,  and  have  the  stamp  of  that  diy  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  "Lan- 
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  Ihe 
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  iZ^s- 


*^*  In  songs  with  a  chorus,  refrain,  bourdon,  or  burden,  the  Editor 
has  either  wholly  omitted  the  repetition  after  the  first  verse,  or  indi- 
cated its  place  by  "&c."  In  songs  in  the  Lancashire  dialect,  he  has 
left  each  writer  to  his  own  mode  of  spelling,  to  convey  the  pronuncia- 
tion ;  only  marking  the  distinction  between  the  sound  of  all,  represented 
by  the  vowel  o  standing  alone,  and  the  elision  (in  speech)  of  the  words 
e'/and  on,  marked  by  o'  with  an  apostrophe,— as  in  "  o  maks  o'  things," 
—all  makes  of  things.  "  Hoc"  (Anglo-Saxon,  keo,  the  feminine  oi he) 
is  she.  Most  really  difficult  words  and  phrases  are  explained  in  the 
notes. 


CONTENTS. 


I— ROMANTIC  AND  LEGENDARY  BALLADS. 


Introduction, 

The  Last  Wolf, 

The  Eve  of  St  John, 

The  Wild  Rider,     . 

A  Legend  of  the  Heart, 

The  Carrion  Crow, 

Ballad — "Why  Leave  you 

thus," 
The  Maiden's  Fate, 
The  Mandrake, 
The  Hunter's  Song, 
Ballad  —  "Cast  the  gay 

Robes     from    off     thy 

Form," 
King  Frost,   . 
Clayton  ILm.l, 
The  Wanderer, 
The  Billmen  of  Bowland, 
Black  Bess,   . 
Gypsy  Ballad, 


AUTHOR. 

.  .  • 

"  Tristram,^'' 
Charles  Swain, 
Samuel  Bamford, 
yohn  Bolton  Rogerson, 
William  Harrison  Ains'iuoi-th, 


PAGE 

I 

2 

9 

12 
21 

24 


Charles  Swain,         .  .  25 

John  Bolton  Rogerson,  .  26 

William  Harrison  Ainsworth,  27 

Rev.  Richard Parki7ison,D.D.,  29 


John  Bolton  Rogerson,  .  32 

Charles  Swain,          .  .  33 

Elijah  Ridings,         .  -34 

Charles  Sivain,          .  .  36 

From  "  Ned  0/ the  Fell,"  .  39 

William  Harrison  Ainr.i'orth,  41 

Charter  Sivaiit,          .  .  44 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


AUTHOR.  PAGE 

Old  Grindrod's  Ghost,       .  VVilliam Harrison  Ainswoith,  45 

The  Young  CiD,       .  .  Robert  Rockliff,         .  .  49 

The  Keeper's  Son,    .  .  Richard  R.  Beaky,   .  .  52 

Ballad  of  James  and  Jane,  Henry  Kirk,  .  .  54 

Derwentwater's  Fate,       .  Anonymous,  ,  •  57 


II.— LOVE  SONGS  AND  PRAISES  OF  THE  FAIR. 


Introduction, 
Love's  Evil  Choice, 
The  Sprig  of  Thyme, 
Colin  and  Phebe,     . 
Songs — 

"  The  Moon  is  Bright," 
Margaret, 
"Remember  Me," 
The  Invitation, 
Kitty  and  Robin, 
The  Lover's  Call,    . 
Meg  or  Jenny  ? 
"  Oh,    Well    I    Love    my 

gentle  Maid," 
My  Wynder,  . 
Canzonette — "There  is  a 

Place,"        . 
Peggy  Dill,   . 
"She's  not  so  Fair," 
Bertha, 
My  Johnny,    . 
To  Mary, 
"Come,  Love,  and  Sing,"  . 


Airs  Habergham, 

From  the  Greaves  Collection 

John  Byrom,  M.A.,  F.R.S. 

William  Rowlinson, 


Author  of  '■^  Scarsdale" 
John  Critchley  Prince, 
Author  of  " Scarsdale" 

John  Bolton  Rogerson, 
Samuel  Bamford,     . 

John  Bolton  Rogerson, 
Henry  Kirk, 
Charles  Swain, 
Henry  Kirk, 
Richard  R.  Bealey,  . 
The  Editor, 
John  Bolton  Rogerson, 


62 
63 
65 
67 

71 

72 

73 

74 
75 
77 
78 

79 
81 

83 
84 

85 
86 

87 
89 
go 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


England's  Maidens, 
Deceived  !      . 
Serenade, 
Canzonette— '*  I    know    a 

Star," 
Mally, 
Lucy  Xeale,  . 
Love's  History, 
"  We  Met,"    .  .      '     . 

The  Maid  of  Diss,    . 
"  I  'll  tell  my  Mother,"    . 
Th'  Sweetheart  Gate, 
The  Loved  and  Lost, 
The  Farewell, 
Lovely  Susannah, 
Maggie, 

SULINA, 

Better  than  Beauty, 

Nothing  M.re, 

Nuptial  Lines, 

The  Faithless, 

Chirrup, 

"  I  Gazed  o'er  the   Blue 

Still  Waters," 
Minona, 

"But  I  am  Sad," 
To  Miss  M.  B., 
'  Poets'  Fictions, 
"Oh,  Mirk  and  Stormy," 
"In  a  Snug  Little  Nook," 
The  Ardent  Lover, 
The  Lancashire  Witch,     . 
"TiieDule's  i'tiiis  Bonnet 
o'  Mine,"    . 


AUTHOR. 

Henry  Kirk, 
Mrs  G.  LinncBHs  Banks, 
IVilUaDi  Mori, 

yohtt  CritcJdey  Prince, 

Richard  R.  Beaky,    . 

The  Editor,  . 

Charles  Sivain, 

Henry  Kirk, 

George  Richardson,    . 

John  Bolton  Rogersoit, 

Edwin  IVaiigh, 

Henry  Kirk, 

Rev.  Richard  Parkinson,  D. 

Thomas  Nicholson,   . 
Richard  R.  Bealey,  , 
Henry  Kirk, 
Charles  Swain, 
John  Bolton  Rogerson, 
George  Richardson,   . 
Henry  Kirk, 
Edwin  Watigh, 

yames  Horton  Groves, 
Henry  Kirk, 
Richard  R.  Bealey,  . 
Hejiry  Kirk, 
The  Editor,  . 
James  Horton  Groves, 
Thomas  Brier  ley, 
Edward  Riishton, 
John  Scholes, 


D 


Edzuin  IVaiigh, 


PAGE 

91 
92 

93 

94 

95 

1 02 

103 

104 

105 

106 

108 

109 

,  III 

1X2 

"3 

114 

115 
116 

lis 
119 
120 

1 22 
123 
124 

125 
127 
128 
130 
131 
133  • 

135 


CONTENTS. 


Th'  Heart  Brokken, 
The  Love-Draught, 
The  Dominie's  Courtship, 


John  Higson, 
Robert  Rockliff^ 


PAGE 

136 
138 
138 


III— SONGS  OF  HOME  AND  ITS  AFFECTIONS. 


Introduction,  and  Lines  by 

It  is  but  a  Cottage, 

The  Pleasures  o'  Whoam, 

"  Farewell  to  my  Cottage," 

Home, 

Early  Haunts  Visited, 

The  Music  in  our  Home,    . 

The  Old  Place, 

The  Songs  of  our  Fathers, 

Domestic  Melody,    . 

Home  and  Friends, 

Mine! 

The  Woodman's  Ballad,     . 

"  As  Welcome  as  Flowers 

in  May,"     . 
The  Poet  to  his  Wife, 
The  First-Born, 
"  Come     Whoam     to    thi 

Childer  an'  Me," 
The  Star  of  the  Household, 
"'Tis  Sweet  to  Meet," 
.  '*  Welcome,  Bonny  Brid  !  " 
The  Lost  Brother, 
Evening  Song, 


John  Critchley  Prince, 

Charles  Swain, 

Joseph  Ramshottom,  . 

Sanmel  Baniford, 

Charles  Swain, 

R.  W.  Procter, 

Mrs  Wm.  Hobson,   . 

Henry  Kirk, 

Mrs  Hemans, 

John  Ci'itchley  Prince, 

Charles  Sivain, 

Mrs  G.  Linnceiis  Banks, 

R.  W.  Procter, 

John  Critchley  Prince, 

William  Mart, 

Mrs  Trafford  Whitehead, 

Edwin  Wangh, 
John  Critchley  Prince, 
George  Richardson,    . 
Samnel  Laycock, 
William  Mort, 
John  Critchley  Prime, 


141 

142 

143 

145 

147 

148 

149 

151 

152 

154 

155 

156 

157 

158 
161 
162 

164 
166 
168 
169 
171 
173 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


Loved  and  Lost, 
Eawr  Bessy,  . 
The  Child  and  the  Dew- 
drops, 
Edith, 

"  Moi  OWD  MON,"     . 
To  Little  Angel  "  Charlie," 
The  last  Behest,     . 
Mi  Gronfeyther,     . 
The  Christmas  Tree, 
••  GodBless  these  poorWim- 

MEN  that  's  ChILDER  !  "     . 

The  Kiss  beneath  the  Holly, 
"Aw  coNNUT  Dry  my  Heen, 

Robin," 
Eawr  Folk,  . 
Lines  to  my  Wife, 
Angel  Annie, 
My  Ideal  Home, 


AUTHOR. 

PA(JK 

Mrs  Trafford  Whitehead,     , 

175 

Richard  R.  Bealey,    . 

177 

John  Critchley  Prince, 

182 

Richard  R.  Bealey,   . 

.    184 

Author  of  "  Scarsdah;  " 

.    18S 

Richard  R.  Bealey,   . 

186 

William  Mori, 

188 

Savmel  Laycock, 

190 

The  Editor,  . 

192 

Thomas  Brierley, 

194 

Mrs  Williain  Hobsoit, 

195 

John  Scholcs, 

.    196 

Edwin  Waiigh, 

200 

Samiul  Bamford, 

•    203 

Mrs  William  Hobson, 

206 

208 

IV.-SONGS  OF  LIFE  AND  BROTHERHOOD. 


Introduction, 

The  Songs  of  the  People, 

Festive  Strains, 

"  Why,  PRITHEE  now," 

Life,    .... 

The  Child,     . 

"There's  No  Chap  should 

EVER  Lose  Pluck," 
The  Hf.rmit, 


John  Critchley  Prince, 
George  Richardson,  . 
John  Byrom,  M.A.,  F.R.S., 
Charles  Suoain, 
John  Briggs, 


211 

212 

213 
213 
214 
215 


Richard  R.  Bealey,  .  .     217 

yohn  Byrom,  M.A.,  T.R.S.,     218 


xu 


CONTENTS. 


The  Garland  of  Life, 
The     Toper's     Plea     for 

Drinking,  . 
"  Heaw  Quareis  this  Loife  ! ' 
Human  Brotherhood, 
The  Good  Spirit, 
The  Sun  and  the  Flowers, 
Song  of  the  Exile, 
The  Bride,     . 
Avarice, 

Think  not  of  Failure, 
A  Welcome,  . 
Do  A  Good  Turn  when  you 

Can, 
Love,  Honour,  and  Death, 
Lines  Written  in  a  Boat, 
Hope  and  Perseverance,    . 
The  Weaver  of  Wellbrook, 
The  Lesson  of  the  Leaves, 
"  My  Piece  is  o  bu'  Woven 

Eawt," 
Our  Daily  Paths,     . 
Help  One  Another, 
Songs  of  the  People — 

The  Gathering,    . 
Bowton's  Yard, 
Welcome  Whitsuntide, 
Lowly  Worth, 
Stanzas  Written  to  Music, 
The  Song  of  Other  Days, 
To  Falsehood, 
Good  Neet,    . 
The  Friends  of  "  Auld  Lang 

Synf," 


AUTHOR. 

I'AGB 

John  Bolton  Roger  son, 

219 

Rev.  Thomas  Wilson, 

221 

'  Thomas  Brierley, 

222 

John  Critchley  Prince, 

224 

Mrs  G.  Linno'its  Banks, 

225 

James  Watson, 

226 

Rev. Richard  Farki7ison,D.D., 

227 

William  Mort, 

229 

Rev.  Thomas  Wilson,  B.D.,  ■ 

231 

Mrs  Williai7i  Hobson, 

232 

James  Dawson,  j'wt.. 

233 

Charles  Strain,  .  -235 

Henry  Kirk,  ,  .235 

Rev.  Richard  Parkinson,  D.D.,  236 
John  Critchley  Prince,  .     238 

Benjamin  Brio'ley,  .  -239 

Mrs  G.  Limicens  Banks,      .     240 


Richa7-d  R.  Bealey,  . 

.     241 

Mrs  Hemans, 

•     243 

Thomas  Brierley,     , 

.     246 

William  Mort, 

.     248 

Samuel  Lay  cock. 

•     251 

Mrs  William  Hobson, 

•     254 

The  Editor, 

•     256 

Rev.  Ricliai-d Parkinson,D.D.,  257 

Robert  Rockliff,  .  .  258 

John  Brings,  .  .  259 

James  Daivson,  pm.,  .  261 


Mrs  William  Hobson, 


262 


CONTENTS. 

xiii 

AUTHOR. 

PAf;E 

Fame,  .... 

Thomas  Brierley,.     , 

263 

"Be  Kind  to  Each  Othkr  !" 

C/iar/es  S^aahi, 

265 

Farewell, 

John  Jitst,  . 

266 

Kindly  Words, 

yohn  Critchley  Prince, 

268 

The  Song  of  Night, 

Mrs  Hemans, 

269 

Song  for  the  Brave, 

Samuel  Bamford,     . 

271 

Friends  do  not  Die, 

Richard  R.  Beaky, 

272 

"There  are  Moments   in 

Life," 

Charles  Swain, 

273 

England's  Dead, 

Mrs  Hemans, 

274 

The  Tried  and  the  True,  . 

Mrs  G.  I.innczus  Banks, 

276 

The  Pass  of  Death, 

Samuel  Bamford, 

277 

Finis,  .... 

Charles  Swain,         . 

280 

V.-LAYS  OF  THE  COTTON  FAMINE. 


Introduction, 
The  Mill-Hands'  Petition, 
The  Factory  Lass,  . 
"Short  Time,  Come  again 

NO  More,"  . 
Eawt  o'  Wark, 
The  Smokeless  Chimney,    . 
"Cheer  up  a  bit  longer," 
Philii'  Clough's  Tale, 
Tickle  Times, 
F  RETT  in', 

Th'  Shurat  Weaver's  Song, 
Coin'  t'  Schoo'. 
Skwin'-class  Song,   . 


•                     •                    • 

281 

From  a  Broadside,   . 

282 

Joseph  Ramsbottom, 

2S3 

From  a  Broadside,    . 

285 

Joseph  Rantsbottom, 

285 

Mrs  Bcllasis, 

2S9 

Samuel  Laycock, 

292 

Joseph  Ramsbottom, 

293 

Edwin  Waugh, 

■     295 

Joseph  Ramsbottom, 

297 

Samuel  Laycock, 

298 

Joseph  Ramsbottom, 

300 

Samuel  Laycock, 

302 

XIV 


CONTENTS. 


Hard     Times  ;      or,    The 

Weyvur  to  his  Wife,       .     James  Bowker, 
"God  bless  'em,  it  shows 

THEY  'n  some  Thowt  ! "     .     Saiiiiul  Laycock, 


FAGB 


VI.-SEA  SONGS. 


Introduction, 
Will  Clewline, 
The  Farewell, 
Absence, 

The  Neglected  Tar, 
The  Lass  of  Liverpool, 
"  When  the  Broad  Arci 
OF  Heaven," 


E(hi)ard  Riishtov, 


309 
309 
312 

314 
315 
317 

0^9 


"i^k^  • 


&-^'  ^ 

^"^ 


MODERN  SONGS  AND  BALLADS 
OF  LANCASHIRE. 


I. 


laomantfc  anti  ILeg:ent«iirp  Ballaticf* 

As  we  approach  the  present  time,  we  find  this  class 
of  ballads  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  "kw  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." 

{Ahrido;ed from  the  ^^ Lotisdale  Magazine  "  Feb.  1S21.) 

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. 
chides  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  the  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  modern  antiquary.  The  ballad 
varies  considerably  from  the  tradition. 

The  sun  hath  set  on  Wraysholme's  Tower, 
And  o'er  broad  Morecambe's  Bay, — 

The  moon  from  out  her  eastern  bower 
Pursues  the  path  of  day. 

Within  those  walls  may  now  be  seen 

The  festive  board  display'd  ; 
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 

'l'(j  hunt  the  country  side. 


MODERN  SONGS  AND 

A  Wolf,— the  last,  as  rumour  saith, 
In  England'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, 

Shall  have  his  fair  niece  for  a  bride, 
With  half  his  lands  as  well. 


But  two  there  are  who  httle  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  Edgar's  side, 
Sits  Layburne  at  the  board, 

Close  suitor  for  the  bonny  bride, 
But  from  her  soul  abhorr'd. 


With  morn  comes  the  great  chase — 

Full  threescore  riders  mount  with  speed  : 
Lo  !  Layburne  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  knight. 

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  all  that  goodly  companie. 

Rode  forth  at  break  of  day, 
But  two  bold  riders  now  are  nigh, 

Delisle  and  Layburne  they. 


MODERN  SONGS  AND 

And  left  of  all  the  gallant  pack 

That  swell'd  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  Layburne  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  Delisle  !  ah,  well  I  wot. 

Though  manfully  thou  strive. 
No  rider  may  explore  that  grot 

And  leave  its  shades  alive  ! 

Vain  care  !  he  crests  its  craggy  brow 

And,  spurring  down  amain. 
Cries,  "  Adela,  I  'II  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  ejes  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  slaughtcr'd  prey 
He  plucks  his  reeking  spear, 

And  cries,  "  O  beauteous  Adela  ! 
Behold  thy  true  love  here  ! 

"  Rcmcmberest  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." 


MODERN  SONGS  AND 

"  Now,  by  my  troth,"  Sir  Edgar  cried, 
"  Right  welcome  back,  my  son  ; 

Full  surely  shalt  thou  wed  the  bride 
Thou  hast  so  bravely  won." 

Even  as  the  sire  his  son  embraced, 

(By  chance  it  so  befell,) 
The  Prior  of  St  Mary's  pass'd 

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  play'd  his  part, 
And  tied  the  nuptial  knot. 

And  hence  that  cave  on  Humphrey  Hill, 
Where  these  fair  deeds  befell, 

Is  call'd  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  wolf's  head  might  be  traced. 

In  record  of  the  red-cross  knight 
Who  bore  it  for  a  crest. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 

In  Cartmel's  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 !  was't  the  haunted  stream  that  spoke? 

What  droning  sound  swept  there  ? 
She  listens  ! — Still  no  human  tone 

O'erhears  she  anywhere  ! 
Oh  !  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, 

//  seems  not  like  her  own  / 


lo  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

She  glanceth  o'er  her  shoulder  fair, 
The  moon  is  gleaming  wide  ; 

She  turneth — 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  !  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  dream  ! 
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  pass'd  the  wood,  it  cross'd  the  court, 

The  gate  flew  from  its  chain  ; 
The  gentle  ladye  knew  she  stood 

Within  her  own  domain  ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  ii 

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  scorn'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  turn'd  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  ; 


12  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

And  few  they  see  near  the  gibbet  tree, 

For  a  bleeding  form  ghdes  on, 
From  the  haunted  stream,  in  the  moon's  cold  beam 

On  the  eve  of  good  Saint  John  ! 


THE  WILD  RIDER, 
(a  legendary  tale.) 

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  her  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." 


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,  plumSd  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  ? 


Sweet  Mary,  twin  rose  of  the  Asshfeton  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  Bowlce  were  cross'd, 
Both  knight  and  fair  maid  to  the  hunters  were  lost. 


For  there,  while  the  chase  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  I'll  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, 
Close  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 ! 
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  stern  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 
MidJleton  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  ! 

E'en  such  was  the  music  one  gay  morning  time, 

Which  the  bells  of  St  Leonards  did  merrily  chime. 

And  why  rang  St  Leonards  that  merry-mad  tunc  ? 
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  'II  be  faithful  as  thou  ?" 


PART  THIRD. 

In  a  ruinous  cottage,  at  Cambeshirc  barn, 

An  old  wither'd  crone  sat  unravelling  yarn  ; 

A  few  heaped  embers  lay  dusty  and  white  ; 

A  lamp,  green  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  burn'd  pale,  and  the  lamp  it  burn'd  blue, 

And  fearfully  ghast  was  the  light  which  it  threw. 


i6  -MODERN  SONGS  AND 

"  And  who  cometh  here  ?"  said  the  mumbhng  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  wore  when  her  life  pass'd  away." 

A  knocking  was  heard  at  the  old  hovel  door, 

And  forth  stepp'd  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  ! 

"  But  warning  I  give  thee,  a  sign  from  afar — 
There's  a  cloud  on  thy  sun,  there's  a  spot  on  thy  star. 
Go,  chmb  the  wild  mountain,  or  toil  on  the  plain. 
Or  be  outcast  on  land,  or  be  wreck'd  on  the  main  ; 

*  Areawt  —out  of  donrs — 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  turn'd  it  towards  home ; 
The  gray  morning  broke,  and  the  battle-cock  crew, 
Ere  the  lorn-hearted  knight  to  his  chamber  withdrew. 

PART  FOURTH. 

And  who  hath  not  heard  how  the  knight,  from  that  day 
Was  alter'd  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  Ashton — 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'dwander'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,  Thornham,  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, 


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.  However  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  Ashton  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  Bull'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  Thornham.  After  mar- 
riage, the  lady  seldom  visited  the  hall  of  her  fathers, 
and  the  ancient  portion  of  it  was  levelled  witli  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  hne.    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  Thornham  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. 

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  unprcss'd. 

With  silent  footsteps  steals  the  maid, 
And  starteth  oft,  as  though  afraid 
The  beatings  of  her  heart  are  heard. 
That  flutters  hke  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-roofd  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  father'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  impassion'd  sighs, 
And  readeth  answers  in  her  eyes. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  23 

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  winged  dart, 
Which  cleaves  its  way  through  beating  heart, 
And  he  who  lately  blest  her  charms 
Lies  dead  within  the  lady's  arms  ! 

And  shall  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  tied. 

Though  by  her  kindred  guarded  well. 
When  shades  of  night  around  her  fell, 
She  ever  left  her  father's  hall, 
And  wander'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  ofifal,  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  ! 

Catv !  cawi 

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  hall, 

And  hie  to  the  gate  so  oft .? 
'Tis  only  to  watch  the  moonlight  fall 

O'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, 

JUit  oh  !  'twas  a  tear  of  bliss  ! 


26  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

THE  MAIDEN'S  FATE: 

A  LEGEND. 

By  John  Bolton  Rogerson, 

It  was  Sir  Hugh,  the  baron  bold, 

Rode  out  at  break  of  morn, 
With  hound,  as  though  to  chase  the  deer, 

And  ghttering  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  morn  was  fair,  the  sun  shone  forth, 

The  rivers  flash'd  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  brush  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.  27 

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 ! 

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  slain  by  me  ? 
Thou  wert  my  life,  my  hope,  my  all, 

And  I  have  murder'd  thee  !" 

The  baron  return'd  unto  his  hall 

A  changed  and  sorrowing  man  ; 
And  never  from  that  hour  a  smile 

Pass'd  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  sec ; 

*  The  supposed  malignant  influence  of  the  mandrake  is  frequently  al- 
hided  to  by  our  elder  dramatists  ;  and  with  one  of  the  greatest  of  them, 
Webster,  (as  might  be  expected  from  a  muhc  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  iable  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  Mandragora  ! 

Euthanasy  ! 

At  the  foot  of  the  gibbet  the  mandrake  springs, 

Just  where  the  creaking  carcase  swings  ; 

Some  have  thought  it  engendered 

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  charnel  leaf  doth  the  mandrake  wear, 

A  charnel  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  tliat  pull  it  up,  that  some 
evil  (.\\.^  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 ! 
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  day  ! 

From  the  terrible  death  of  Mandnigora  ! 
Euthanasy ! 


THE  HUNTER'S  SONG. 

(a  ballad   supposed  to  have  BEEN'  WRITTEN  ABOUT  TIIIC 
BEGINNING  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.) 

V 

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  Pcndlc'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  turn'd  him  east — the  Ribble  there 

In  waves  of  silver  roU'd, 
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  Clid'row's  Castle  gray. 


He  turn'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, 

Look'd  greener  to  the  eye, 
While  vistas,  opening  to  the  west, 

Display'd  a  crimson  sky. 

But  most  he  turn'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  've  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,t 
But  lovelier  far  than  elf  or  fay 

Is  Anna  of  the  dell ! 

"  And  still,  though  poor  and  lowly  born. 

To  me  she  's  kind  and  true  ; 
She  flies  the  Bowman's t  tassell'd  horn, 

She  shuns  the  bold  Bucclcugh.§ 
Old  Rose||  may  rule  by  word  and  sigh. 

By  magic  art  and  spell ; 
But  what  are  all  her  charms  to  thine, 

Sweet  Anna  of  the  dcll  ? " 

•  Now  corruptly  called  Fairoak.  t  The  Wliite  Well, 

t   Parker,  of  Browsholme.  §  Chief  Forester. 

II  A  noted  witch  of  the  time. 


32  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  morn  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  stay'd  the  lone,  deserted  one? 

She  slumber'd  with  the  dead  ! 


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  will, 
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  fetter'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 
Groan'd,  wither'd  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,  "  rny  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  Clayton  Ho  Boggart."      • 

The  bell  doth  call,  in  Clayton  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.  35 

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 

E'er  watch'd  thine  ancient  hall  ? 
Thine  olden  bovver  hath  seen  the  hour 

Of  royal  Charles's  fall ; 
O'er  thy  threshhold  hath  warrior  bold 

E'er  pass'd  with  manly  tread  ? 
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 ! 


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  feathcr'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  father's  transport  fills  his  sight, 
A  husband's  joy  o'erflows  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. 

*  Humplirey  Chetham,  Esq.,  founder  of  the  Hospital,  School,  and 
Library  in  Manchester  which  bear  his  name.  He  resided  at  Clayton 
Hall,  about  three  miles  cast  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  tlie  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  m  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  trembUng  arms  ; 

Why  seems  his  sinking  heart  so  cold  ? 

What  chokes  him  with  those  dread  alarms  ? 

Pale,  in  the  dreary  moonHght,  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  ! 

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  !" 

Morn  stepp'd  from  out  the  mists  of  heaven, 
And  coldly  lit  each  hallow'd  spot  ; 

Another  morn  to  him  was  given, 
Another  world  where  death  was  not ! 


THE  BILLMEN  OF  BOWLAND. 

FROM  "  NED  OF  THE  FELL  "—A  LANCASHIRE  ROMANCE. 

AGAIN.ST  tenfold  his  numbers  on  Agincourt's  plain. 
The  gallant  King  Ilcnry  the  fight  must  maintain  ; 
No  knight  like  young  Marry  had  England  e'er  known, 
A  pillar  of  fire  to  his  army  he  shone  ; 
His  troops  throng'd  around  him,  they  darken'd  the 

field, 
And  the  Billmcn  of  Bowland  swore  never  to  yield. 


40  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

His  red-hair'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  Bov/land  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  follow'd  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  undisfigurcd  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  wc  journey'd  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  B^ss  ! 

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  happen'd  in  Cheshire,  near  Dunham,  I  popp'd 
On  a  horseman  alone,  whom  I  suddenly  stopp'd  ; 
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,* 
Overshadow'd  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  river  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  plough'd  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  Time's  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  I 
For  the  sportsman  unborn  shall  the  memory  bless 
Of  the  horse  of  the  highwayman— bonny  Black  Bess  ! 


44  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

GYPSY  BALLAD. 

By  Charles  Swain. 

What  care  we  for  earth's  renown  ! 

We  to  greenwood  pleasures  born  : 
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 — a)id  iva'lk  ! 


&' 


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  '11  lay. 
That  before  it  strikes  one,  I  will  go  forth  alone, 

Old  Grindrod  a  visit  to  pay. 

"  To  the  gibbet  I  '11  go,  and  this  I  will  do, 

As  sure  as  I  stand  in  my  shoes  ; 
Some  address  I  '11  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  will  gain 
To  mv  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  grown. 

But  of  nothing  afraid,  and  by  nothing  delay'd, 
Plunging  onward  through  bog  and  through  wood. 

Wind  and  rain  in  his  face,  he  ne'er  slacken'd  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  patter'd,  the  hollow  bones  clatter'd. 
The  traveller's  teeth  chatter'd — with  cold— not  with 
fright ; 

The  wind  it  blew  lustily,  piercingly,  gustily  ; 
Certainly  not  an  agreeable  night  ! 

"  Ho  !  Grindrod,  old  fellow  !  "  thus  loudly  did  bellow 
The  traveller  mellow,—"  How  are  you,  my  blade  V 

"  I  'm  cold  and  I  'm  dreary  ;  I  'm  wet  and  I  'm  weary  ; 
But  soon  I  '11  be  near  ye  ! "  the  skeleton  said. 

The  grisly  bones  rattled,  and  with  the  chains  battled  ; 

The  gibbet  appallingly  shook  ; 
On  the  ground  something  stirrd,  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  hi 
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  annoy'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  Clitheroe."  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'tftait  un  lieu  ddsert,  qu'une  lande  bornait, 
Ou  le  frisson  vous  serre,  ou  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  a  tous  les  vents, 
D^vore  du  soleil,  ou  crible  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-a-bec, 
Grindrod,  le  vieux  Grindrod,  rccevra  ma  visite." 


THE  YOUNG  CID. 

(FROM   "ANXIENT  BALLADS  FROM  THE  SPANISH.") 

By  Robert  Rockliff,  of  Liverpool. 

The  Cid,  Rodrigo  Diaz  de  Bivar,  surnamed  El 
Campeador,  whose  exploits  are  so  prominent  in  Span- 
ish chronicle  and  romance,  is  supposed  to  have  been 
born  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. 


so  AfODERN  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  question'd  none,  he  answer'd  none, 

But  turn'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  summon'd  to  his  side  his  sons, 

Three  comely  youths,  and  tall ; 
And  one  by  one,  as  if  his  hands 

Were  clench'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  dropp'd  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  me  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  morn  with  faithful  "  Don"  he  went, 

('Twas  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  lie  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  I 

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  breathed  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  brighten'd  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  fear'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  summer  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  llic  richest  chann  of  song. 

*  Henry  IV.  of  England. 


MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Often  his  sweet  lay  pouring 

Through  the  twihght'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. 


BA  LLA  DS  OF  LA  NCA  SHIRE.  5  7 

Ever  while  love  and  song 

The  sons  of  Scotland  cherish, 
James  shall  be  first  among 

The  names  that  may  not  perish  ! 

Ever,  while  Windsor  s  towers 

A  pilgrim's  steps  detain. 
He  shall  seek  the  moated  bowers 

Of  the  stately  and  gentle  Jane  ! 


DERWENTWATER'S  FATE: 

A  BALLAD. 

In  the  CentlanmCs  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  Radcliffc,  Earl  of  Dervventwater,  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  mc 
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 


S8  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

once  affecting  and  interesting,  and  which  renders  it,  I 
think,  deserving  of  preservation." 

King  George  he  did  a  letter  write,    • 

And  seal'd  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  secoHd,  more  alanning  still. 
Made  tears  fall  from  his  eyes. 

He  called  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  '11  leave  to  thee,  my  younger  son. 

Ten  thousand  pounds  in  hand. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  59 

"  I  '11  leave  to  thee,  my  lady  gay, 

My  lawful  married  wife, 
A  third  part  of  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 ! 

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. 


o"- 


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,  thy  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  stroke  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  :he  Stuarts'  cause. 

His  weeping  widow's  drooping  heart 

With  sorrow  burst  in  twain  ; 
His  orphan  children,  outcast,  spurn'd, 

Deep  felt  th'  attainted  stain. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE. 


6i 


The  Derwent's  far-famed  lake  alone 

Its  noble  name  retains; 
And  of  the  title,  thence  extinct, 

Sole  monument  remains. 


II. 


%o\}t  »)ono:cf  anti  ^caigfecf  of  tl)e  fair. 


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  city's  hum  and  in  the  green  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  Whalley,  speaking  of  the  Ha- 
bcrgham  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  ^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  £'jooo  being  offered  for  this  very  estate  ;  and  the 

coal-mine  alone  now  bears  a  rent  of  1^300 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 
"  The  Loan  of  a  Loz'cr;"  and  copied  into  Bell's  ^'  Au- 
ciefit  Ballads,  Songs,  &=€.,  of  the  Peasantry  of  Eng- 
land" 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  willow-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  feel  the  smart, 
And  often  I  pluck'd  at  the  red  rose-bud  till  I  pierced 

it  to  the  heart. 

I  '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  gardener  standing  by,  proffer'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' d,  and  vow'd  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  twined 
among, 

That  all  the  world  may  know  I  falsehood  loved  too  long. 


THE  SPRICx  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  ofifer'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  Hly  is  the  virgin  flower, 

Alas  I  oft  cropp'd  too  soon. 


COLIN    AND    PHEBE. 

A  PASTORAL. 

By  John  Byrom,  M.A.,  F.R.S. 

This  pastoral  song  was  written  while  its  author  was 
a  student  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  It  was  first 
printed  in  1714  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  like  Colin  was  blest ! 
But  now  she  has  gone  and  has  left  me  behind, 
What  a  marvellous  change  on  a  sudden  I  find  ! 
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  he  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  pleased  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, 
Cry  "  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 ; 
'Twas  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  whisper'd,  flocks  by  us  did  bleat, 
And  "  chirp  "  went  the  grasshopper  under  our  feet. 
Now,  smce  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,  liiose  daisies,  why  do  they  not  smile .'' 

Ah !  rivals,  I  see  what  it  was,  that  you  drcst 

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  licr  bosom  to  die. 


70  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

How  shortly  time  creeps  !     Till  my  Phebe  return, 
Amid  the  soft  zephyr's  cool  breezes  I  burn  ! 
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  pitying  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  2 2d 
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 — ^' Ro7u  gently  hei-e,  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, 
Curl'd  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.  -]}, 

I  will  love  her  whilst  her  mind 
Is  pure  and  holy,  good,  refined, 
WTiilst  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  pray'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  wildlv  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,  Kilty  ?" 

"  Oi'n  nobbut  been  to  th'  well." 
"  Whear  didst  get  yon  posy,  Kilty  ?" 

"  Oi'n  met  wi'  Robin  Bell  ; 
He  wur  sittin'  top  o'  th'  stele, 

Reel  i'  th'  setting  sun  ; 
The  dazzlin'  glare  it  made  me  reel, 

01  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  help'd  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  fill'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  week 
He  says  he's  addled  fifty  pund, 

An'  bowt  a  kist  an'  clock  ; 
He 's  ta'en  a  farm  wi'  gradely  grund, 

His  feythcr  '11  foind  the  stock." 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  77 

THE  LOVER'S  CALL. 
(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  '11  roam, 

As  tho'  he  were  na'  reet  ; 
And  oft  he  '11  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  ovvd  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- 

BV  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  lovehness, 

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  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. 

Where  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,  usu- 
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  touch'd  a  thread  of  silk, 

Like  magic  it  was  folded. 
She  turn'd  her  wheel,  she  sang  her  song, 

And  sometimes  I  have join'd*  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  +  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  jined:  consequently  a  true  rhyme  to 
7vy7uier. 

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  wander'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  !  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  worldhng  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  !  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, 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  85 

I  bound  my  faith  with  Peggy  Dill 

Lone  list'ning  to  the  din 
Of  the  jogging  of  the  distant  mil], 

And  the  roaring  of -the  linn. 

I  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  '11  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  borrow'd  graces, 


86  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Eyes  blue  and  bright  with  heaven's  hght,. 

That  kindle  with  devotion  ; 
A  cheek  df  rose,  a  heart  that  glows 

With  every  sweet  emotion  ! 
She's  not  so  fair,  &c. 


BERTHA. 
By  Henry  Kirk,  of  Goosnargh. 

Low,  by  Kibble's  scaury  side, 

Swept  the  soft,  autumnal  breeze  ; 
Faint  its  whisp'ring  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'  larnt  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  weyvcr  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'cs  bread  taste  like  pic. 


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  have  a  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  o  my  hfe 

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  murmurings  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  sunny  grapes,  which  clust'ring  string 

Oporto's  vine-hung  bowers  ; — 

But  more  1  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.  Linn^us  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  wander'd  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  unrestrain'd  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  hallow'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  arc  quite  still,  and  the  winds  hold 
their  breath, 

Lest  a  leaflet  disturb  the  hush'd  quiet  beneath ! 

I  will  come. 

I  will  come  to  ihcc,  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  Critchley  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  ! 

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  li\e  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', 
r  Weshbruck-lone,  tort  Witches-neest, 

Wheere  th'  cloof  runs  deawn  below  : 
'Twur  summer  toime,  an'  th'  honey  bees 

Could  sing,  but  dar'  no'  play, 
An'  th'  breezes  mixt  a  theawsand  smells 

O'  fleaw'rs  an'  leaves  wi'  hay. 

Th'  corn  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  dcrted  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  by  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'  v/hen  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'  eend  o'  th'  lone 

Aw  turn'd  for  th'  "  Top  o'  Stond  ;" 
Aw  brasted  off  as  if  aw're  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. 
Aw  hung  my  yed  an'  welly  cried, 

An'  wur  so  gradely  mad. 
An'  bote  my  lips,  an'  knit  my  brees, 

An'  then  turn'd  soppin'  sad. 

Aw'd  getten  cleawds  insoide  0'  me, 

Ivly  day  wur  turn'd  to  neet ; 
Aw're  cromm'd  so  full  o'  derkness  then, 

There  wur  no  reawm  for  leet. 
O  th'  seawnds  aw  yard  wur  muffled  'uns, 

Just  loike  a  bcrryin'  bell ; 
Aw'd  sitch  a  nowt  and  dummy  feel, 

So  numb  aw  conno  tell. 

G 


98  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

My  mother  ax't  me  wot  wur  t'  do— 

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'  cleawted  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  turn'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  wurno  weel, 

For  th'  hert  wurtch  hadno  gone. 
O  th'  summer  past,  an'  autumn  toime, 

An'  some  0'  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  wurn't  no  ; 
Theaw  blusht  aboon  a  bit,  theaw  did, 

And  hung  thy  ycd  so  low. 


loo  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

We  perted,  an'  aw  sterted  whoani. 

But  aw'd  no  sleep  that  neet, 
Aw're  loikc  a  dug  lost  in  a  fair, 

No  soide  nor  place  wur  reet. 
Aw're  up  at  two  o'clock  i'  th'  morn 

An'  off  to  th'  Heeur-lone, 
An'  stood — a  silly  foo's  aw  wur — 

Beneath  thy  window  stone. 

Bo'  never  moind,  aw'U  say  no  mooar, 

'Twur  o  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, 

They'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  bond  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  mysel'  ; 

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  wcet  an'  cowd  an'  o  ; 
Sometoimes  beein'  melted  dcawn  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  ycd,  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  chill'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  ffrave  my  love  shall  seal ; 
Then  lay  me  in  the  grassy  tomb, 

Where  rests  my  Lucy  Neale. 
Oh,  my  Lucy  Neale  ;  my  poor  Lucy  Neale ; 

E'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. 
Forgot  that  love  may  look  too  high, 

And  sorrow  without  ending. 

By  casement  hid,  the  flowers  among, 
A  maiden  lean'd  and  listcn'd  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  check,  of  lily  hue. 

Amidst  the  twilight  falling. 


I04  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Slie  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 ! 


WE  MET. 
By   Henry   Kirk. 

We  met,  as  only  two  can  meet, 
Whose  eyes  flash  mutual  fire  ; 

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  guift  ; 
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  ! 


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  ! 

J>i--s,  a  lowji  ill  Norfolk. 


io6  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Fair  maid  of  Diss  !  from  whose  dear  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  bHss, 
And  pure  requited  love  be  thine — 

For  ever  thine,  fair  maid  of  Diss  ! 

Farewell,  sweet  maid  !  'tis  fate's  decree 

That  thou"itaust  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'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  touch'd  her,- 

"  Don't  !— I  'U  tell  mv  mother  ! " 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  107 

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  snatch'd  her  fingers, 

"  Don't !— I  '11  tell  my  mother !" 

When  the  love  I  bore  her 

Could  not  be  dissembled, 
And  our  lips  encounter'd. 

How  she  blush'd  and  trembled ! 
That  0716  kiss  she  forgave  me, 

But,  when  I  stole  another, 
She  cried  out,  yet  not  loudly, 

"  Oh  !— I  '11  tell  my  mother  !" 

Mine,  I  said,  she  must  be. 

Without  more  denying ; 
For  all  night  I  slept  not. 

And  all  day  was  sighing  ; 
She  must  answer  mc  with  "  Yes  !" 

That  out:  zuord,  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  Manchester  Angel." 

Oh,  there 's  mony  a  gate  eawt  ov  eawr  teavvn-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, 

Beawt  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  wlieer  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  sumuuit  i' th'  leet  o'  yon  two  blue  een 

That  plays  the  dule  wi'  me  ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  109 

When  th'  layrock's  finish'd  his  vvark  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  ncet  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  ! 

Oh,  better  far  the  love,  where  Death 
Hath  set  the  seal  no  time  destroys. 
Than  that,  which  on  some  wanton's  brcatli 
Hath  placed  its  joys  ! 


no  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  clear  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  bliss  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. 


t)^ 


Then  learn  to  live,  and  cultivate 

The  warmer  feelings  of  the  soul 
Fly  empty  follies,  ere  "  too  late  " 
Thy  reason  call ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  in 

THE  FAREWELL. 
By  the  Rev.  Richard  Parkinson,  D.D. 

Here  have  I  loitei'd  many  an  hour, 
Beneath  that  oak,  beside  yon  stream, 

And  oft  within  this  fragrant  bower 

I  've  shelter'd  from  the  noontide  beam  ; 

And  hsten'd  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  stray'd, 

For  all  its  charms  and  all  its  grace 
Were  borrow'd  from  thy  form,  sweet  maid  ! 

Where'er  tJiou  art,  the  stream  will  ilow, 

The  bower  will  bloom,  the  summer  glow  ! 


H2  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

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. 

'Twas  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  .^t  65  Berkeley  Street, 
Str.iiigew.iys,  Manchester,  says,  "  I  neither  make  a  boast  of  poverty 
nor  desire  riches." 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  ir 

M  AGGIE. 

By  Richard  R.  Bealey. 

Oh,  thou  bonny  rosc-lipp'd  lassie, 
More  than  roses  thou  must  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 


114  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

SULINA. 
By  Henry  Kirk. 

Ye  rude  cliffs  of  Abydos,  how  dear  to  my  soul ! 

How  sweet  thy  remembrance,   O  blue   stream  of 
Hell^ ! 
And  the  hills  crown'd  with  vineyards  and  cypresses  tall, 

Encircling  thy  low-seated  walls,  Charconelli. 

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  sermon,  impressive  and  solemn, 
To  the  daughters  and  sons  of  young  Greece  as  they 
pass ! 

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  born  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  siifh  for  the  son  of  the  West ! 


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  world  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  ! 
I  would  not  change  her  sweetness 

For  pearls  of  any  sea  ; 
For  better  far  than  beauty 

Is  one  kind  heart  to  me. 


NOTHING  MORE. 
By  John  Bolton  Rogerson. 

In  a  valley  fair  I  wander'd, 

O'er  its  meadow  pathways  gi'een, 
Where  a  singing  brook  was  flowing, 

Like  the  spirit  of  the  scene  ; 
And  I  saw  a  lovely  maiden, 

With  a  basket  brimming  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  ?  " 
But  I  said  that  all  I  wanted 

Was  a  smile,  and  nothing  more. 


BA LLA DS  OF  LANCA SHIRE.  1 1 ; 

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  impassion'd  words  I  answer'd, 

'Tvvas  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  white  bridal  dress  she  wore  ; 
Then  my  wife  I  proudly  made  her, 

And  I  ask  for  nothing  more  ! 


ii8  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


NUPTIAL  LINES. 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE 
HON.  LADY  ELIZABETH  GREY  DE  WILTON  WITH  THE 
HON.       CAPTAIN      DUDLEY      CHARLES       DE       ROS,       AT 

prestwich. 

By  George  Richardson, 

Author  of  ^'"Falrlotism,"  a^c,  6^^. 

CHORUS. 
Hark,  the  merry  bells  are  ringing! 
Festive  joy  and  homage  bringing  ; 
And  village-friends  keep  holiday — 
The  bridal-morn  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  ; 
Clad  like  vestals  in  pure  whiteness, 
Dropping  sunny  bloom  and  brightness. 

Hark,  &c. 

■'■  An  admissible  poetical  licence,  the  author  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  fill'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  summer  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  ! 


120  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

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  0'  th'  green, 

An'  trollin'  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, — 
Wi'  kisses  kind,  i'th'  woodlan'  shade. 

An'  whispers  soft  an'  low  ; 
r  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  morn  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, 

1  closed  my  eyes  in  sleep  ; 
And  I  thought  that  an  angel  clasp'd  me  round, 

And  kiss'd  me  as  I  mourn'd  ; 
I  awoke — and  myself  in  the  arms  I  found 

Of  my  sailor  true,  return'd  ! 

*  A  Mancliestei-  rhymester,  who  pubUshed,  some  years  ago,  by  sub- 
scriplioii,  a  thin  volume  of  Poems,  &c.,  inckidhig  a  Drama  in  three  acts, 
cilled,  "M'Alpine:  or,  The  Warlock  Chieftain." 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  iii 

MI  NONA. 
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  'ncath  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  fate — 
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; 

II  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  vi'atcher  undreaming ; 

The  undying  blossom  is — You  ! 


BUT    I    AM    SAD. 
By  R.  R.  Bealey. 

The  summer-time  is  full  of  flowers, 

The  gardens  all  are  gay, 
They  breathe  the  sunshine,  drink  the  showers, 

And  laugh  the  hours  away. 
The  trees  are  clad  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, 

The  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  'm  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  oi goldxSxG  brightest ; 

And  her  ruby  lips  below 
Are  teeth  oi pea}-ls  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  the  pearl-home's  lining, 
From  Oman's  sunny  sea  ; 

Her  arms  the  ivory  shining, 
Where  gay  lamps  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  think  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  ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  127 

P  O  E  T  S'    FICTIONS. 

By  the  Editor. 

I  PITY  the  poets  that  deck  the  loved  fair, 
In  cold,  lifeless  charms,  drawn  from  earth,  sea,  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  ?  * 
Were  her  eyes  real  "  brilliants^''  would  he  not  groan  ? 
Romantic  is  he,  who  can  deem  it  a  bliss. 
That  from  7nineral  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  uT^-braid 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  FLOVi^ERS  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  man. 


BALLADS  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  mair." 


"  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'  barn  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  barn." 

"  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 ! 

Come  ben,  an'  shelter  frae  the  storm  ; 
The  ragin'  blast  is  cauld  an'  chill ; 

Our  blcczin*  ingle's  chccrin'  warm. 

I 


I30  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

I  meant  na  what  I  said,  my  dear  ; 

So  doff  your  clothes,  I  'II  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  barn  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  ripphng  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  marlockt  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  httle  cot, 

Where  my  true  love  resides  ; 
May  it  contain  love's  rosy  chain, 
And  a  fountain  of  pleasure-tides  ! 

*  The  writer  is  a  ^^ilk-wcaver  at  Alkrington,  near  lM!dd!eton  ;   and 
author  of  "Th'  Silk-Wcavcr's  Fu<;t  r.eariii'-home,"  and  other  \ales,  &c. 
t  Play  \vit!i. 


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  glitt'ring  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  but  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  promoiion  of  every 


132  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

And  by  that  cheek's  dehcious  bloom, 
And  by  those  Hps  that  breathe  perfume, 
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  fill'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  1S14,  aged  fifty-three;  leaving  a  son,  Edward, 
barrister-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  his 
life  by  the  late  Rev.  Dr  Shepherd,  of  Gateacre. 


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  born. 
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  0  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  mc  ; 

"  Hie  thi  whoam  furst  an'  doff  thi,"  aw  sed,  "bonny  Jim  ! 
Or  thae  'II  spuyl  a  good  shutc,  docs-ta  see,  does-ta  sec, 
Thac'll  spuyl  a  good  shutc,  docs-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  um  a-be,  a-be, 
Sly  Dicky  may  let  um  a-be. 

Ned's  just  volunteer'd  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  tall  an'  he's  straight,  an'  his  curls  are  like  gowd. 
An'  there 's  summat  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  I'  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  honds  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 
Hcaw  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  rcet, — 
For  aw  thought  to  seem  forrud  wur  wrung  ; 

So  aw  towd  him  aw  'd  tell  him  to-neet ; 
But,  Mally,  thae  knows  very  weel, — 

Though  it  isn't  a  thing  one  should  own, — 
If  aw'd  th'  pikcin'  o'  th'  world  to  mysel', 

Aw'd  Gather  ha'  Jamie  or  noan. 


no 


MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Neaw,  Mally,  aw  've  towd  thae  my  mind  ; 

What  would  to  do  iv  'twur  thee  ? 
"  Aw'd  tak'  him  just  while  he 're  inclined, 

An'  a  farrantly  bargain  he  'd  be  ; 
For  Jamie 's  as  greadly  a  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 '11  do  ? — 
"  Be  off,  lass, — thae  looks  very  weel ; — 

He  wants  noan  o'  th'  bonnet,  thae  foo  ! " 


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  aihn'  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- 
scriptive 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  cawt ; 

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  \yuth  plenty  o'  braass, 

Hus  bin  bur  just  neaw  her  furt'  see. 

Iv  o'  Sunday  to't  chourch  theaw  wilt  gane, 
Ther  axins  tha'll  ycr  um  coed  o'er ; 

So  tha'st  no  cagcon  ston'  hanklin'  theere. 
Fur  Meary  'uU  sithi  no  moor." 

Os  he  slamm'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'  thc'r  jaw  un'  the'r  gam'. 

Aw  've  pur  up  wi'  mich  i'  this  wo'ld, 

Aw've  fou't  weel  it'  battle  o'  loife, 
Bur  aw  ne'er  wur  so  done  up  ofore, 

Os  c  lozin'  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  '11  run  mi  cunthri  un'  place, 
Un'  never  com  nar  'um  no  moor. 


138  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

THE    LOVE-DRAUGHT. 

(from  the  greek.) 
By  Robert  Rockliff. 

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  still  alive  in  me. 

And  fluttering  througli  my  frame. 


THE  DOMINIE'S  COURTSHIP. 
By  Robert  Rockliff. 

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  pour'd  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  i 
For  even  should  we  vucltiply. 

We'd  live  without  division. 


"  Thy  beauty  is  sjiperlative. 

So  matchless  in  degree., 
That  maids  of  every  form  and  class 

Must  3i\\  give  place  to  thee. 
The  finesty^«r^  of  them  all, 

If  scrutinised  with  rigour, 
Would  prove  a  cypher  at  thy  side, 

And  make,  in  fact,  no  Jigiire. 

"  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  ; 
\\\  fact,  thy  cliarms  are  such  that,  like 

The  ruler  of  the  nation, 
Thy  presence  everywhere  is  hail'd 

With  notes  0/ admiration  / 


I40  MODERN  SONGS,  ETC. 

"  I  have  not  much  to  offer  thee 

Beyond  my  heart  and  hand, 
But  every  article  I  have 

Shall  be  at  thy  command. 
Oh  !  pity,  then,  my  hapless  case. 

And  look  with  condescension, 
On  one  whose  passion  hath  endured 

For  years  without  declension." 

^How  could  an  artless  maid  resist 

A  Bachelor  of  Arts, 
Who  even  in  his  parts  of  speech 

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. 


^lonffcf  of  l3ome  and  ircf  ^ffcctioncf. 

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  quicken'd  and 
stirr'd 

By  the  founts  that  are  inwardly  springin*'-. 


*  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  shght  httle  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  JO.SEPH  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, 

r  this  breet  warld  o'  sun  an'  fleawrs, — 
If  this  wur'  o  poor  men  could  have. 

They'd  weary  soon  o'  tli'  bitter  heawrs. 


At  ih'  ecnd  o'  ih'  day,  mi  wark  0  done, 
An'  quite  content,  aw'm  sat  at  whoam, 

Mi  childhcr  brimmin'  o'er  wi'  fun, 
'L'U  singin'  rcawnd  abeawt  me  come. 

*  This  eliciting  dc.ith  that  we  call  liO.-. 


T44  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  m'ind  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  wander'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  pcep'd  coyly  from  under  the  thorn, 
And  blithe  look'd  my  cottage  on  that  happy  morn. 
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  earn'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  seemcth  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,  wcll-a-day  ! 

I  think  of  my  cottage  full  many  a  tunc, 

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  pleased  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,+  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 
"gTondad"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  faithful  dove. 

Sailing  'neath  the  heaven  above  us  ; 
Home  is  where  there 's  one  to  love  ; 

Home  is  where  there 's  one  to  love  us  ! 

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  ! 


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  gave  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  Reminiscences,"  "Our 
Turf,  our  Stage,  and  our  Ring,"  &c. 


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  mv  leisure  hours.") 

By  Mrs  VVm.  Hocson.* 

'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  Ftrmiid,  and  resides  at  Ashton-uiidur-Lync. 


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, 

Yxom.  the  home  of  my  youth  never  parted, 
I  might  never  have  wept  as  I  view'd  the  old  ground 

Half  forlorn,  spirit-broken,  sad-hcartcd  ! 


152  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

THE  SONGS  OF  OUR  FATHERS. 
By  Mrs  Hemans.* 


"  Sin^  aloud 
Old  songs,  the  precious  music  of  the  heart." 

Wordsworth. 

Sing  them  upon  the  sunny  hills, 

When  days  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  ! 

The  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  born  in  Liverpool,  on  the  25th  Sep- 
tember 1793.  Her  mother,  whose  family  name  was  Wagner,  although 
a  German  by  appellation,  was  of  Italian  descent.  Her  father  was  a 
merchant  of  considerable  eminence  ;  but  he  eventually  suffered  under 
those  reverses  incidental  to  a  commercial  life.  While  his  daughter 
was  still  vei-y  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  1808,  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 
Asaph,  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  burn  clear. 
And  in  the  fields  of  harvest  mirth, 

And  on  the  hills  of  deer. 
So  shall  each  unforgoltcn  word, 

When  far  those  loved  ones  roam, 
Call  back  the  hearts  which  once  it  stirr'd. 

To  childhood's  holy  home. 

five  sons.  Vox  their  belter  etlucaiion,  she  subsequently  (April  1828) 
fixed  her  residence  at  Wavcrtree,  near  Liverpool,  and  still  later,  (1831,) 
changed  her  abode  to  Dublin.  She  died  on  Saturday,  the  i6th  M.iy 
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  melodies, 

The  songs  your  fathers  loved. 


DOMESTIC  MELODY. 

(from  "  HOURS  W^ITH  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  design'd  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  afar  still  sweetest  arc, 

When  youth's  bright  spell  hath  bound  us  ; 
But  soon  we're  taught  that  earth  has  nought 

Like  Home  and  Friends  around  us  ! 


IS6  MODERN  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 

Oi friendship' s  altar  crown'd  us, 
'Twould  prove  the  bliss  of  earth  was  this- 

Our  Home  and  Friends  around  us  ! 


MINE! 

(a  wife's  song.) 

By  Mrs  G.  Linn^us  Banks.* 

I  LOVE  thee,  I  love  thee,  as  dearly  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  LANCASHLRE.  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  morn,  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-born  joys. 
If  bless'd  with  smiling  girls  and  boys  j 
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  fear'd  was  escaping  above  ; — 
A  smile  from  the  maid  undefiled, 

Who  hath  kindled  one's  soul  into  love  ; — 
The  sound  of  the  blithe  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  guide  ; 
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,  display'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  comcth  back  scatheless  and  free  ; 
The  music  of  brooks  and  of  birds. 

To  a  captive  just  loosen'd  from  thrall. 
And  the  love-lighted  looks  and  sweet  words 

Of  his  wife,  who  is  dearer  than  all ; — 


The  soul-touching  penitent  tears 

Of  those  who  have  stray'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  frank,  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  welcome  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 


I 


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  say, 
"  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 

fringed  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  fcar'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 


1 62  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Upon  thy  face   I   gazed  again,  nor  half  my  danger 

knew, 
Till  one  sweet  glance  of  thine  proclaim'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  ! — sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  163 

What  hath  the  future  'neath  those  dreaming  eyes  ? 

Childhood's  hght  joys,  and  babbhng  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  j 
The  stormy  wind,  guidmg  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  hurl'd. 

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 

Shall  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  trutli's  gordian  coil 

Perchance  lies  in  those  hands'  allotted  toil. 


1 64  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

I  would  not  ask  that  glory's  daiiovi  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'  o. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  165 

An'  Dick,  too,  aw  'd  sich  wark  vvi'  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  hkes  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  ly  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'11/^r/i'  my  pocket,  thae '11  see; 
An'  aw  've  bought  tho  a  new  cap  to-day,— 

But  aw  olez  bring  summat  for  thee  / 

"  God  bless  thee,  my  lass  ;  aw  '11  go  whoam, 
An'  aw '11  kiss  thee  an'  th'  childer  o  reawnd ; 

Thae  knows,  'at  wJicerevcr  aw  roam, 
Aw  'm  fain  to  get  back  to  th'  owd  greawnd  ; 


1 66  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Aw  can  do  \vi'  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  ! 

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  who,  when  sorrow  comes,  can  feel 

With  woman's  tenderness  of  heart ; 
And  yet  can  strive  with  quiet  zeal 

To  ease  another'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  foohsh  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  ! " 


1 68  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-embower'd  cot  of  thatch  ; 

My  gentle  wife  and  offspring  dear, 
With  none  but  friend  to  raise  my  latch. 

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  chequer'd  maze — 

To  love  and  live  endear'd  to  mine, 
And  pass  in  peacefulness  my  days  ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  169 

WELCOME,  BONNY  BRID  ! 

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  misel 

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  !  these  toimes  'ull  awter  soon  ; 
Aw  'm  beavvn  to  bcigh  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  loikc  thi  mother  to  a  tec, 
But  tha's  thi  feyther's  nose,  aw  sec, 

Well,  aw  'm  blow'd  ! 


170  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Come,  come,  tha  needn't  look  so  shy, 
Aw  am  no'  blackin'  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  lad — 

What 's  thi  name  ? 

Hush  !  hush  !  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'  then  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. 


BA  LLA  DS  OF  LA  NCA  SHIRE.  1 7 1 

Thi  feyther  's  noan  bin  wed  so  long, 
An'  yet  tha  see^  he 's  middlin'  throng 

\Vi'  yo'  o  : 
Besides  thi  httle  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  makcth  its  course  on  high  ; 
And  tell  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  7iot  thy  brother,  my  love  ! 

Look,  mother,  look  at  yon  twinkling  star, 
That  glows  like  a  light  on  the  sea, 

And  sccmcth  as  though  from  its  palace  afar 
It  were  steadfastly  gazing  on  ine. 


172  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Is  not  that  my  brother  who  fled  away 
From  his  home  hke  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  ! 
The  heaven  of  heavens  no  eye  can  see — 

Thy  brother,  thy  brother  is  there  ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  173 

EVENING  SONG. 
(from  "hours  with  the  muses.") 

By  J.  C.  Prince. 

'Tis  wearing  late  !  'tis  wearing  late  !  I  hear  the  vesper 

bell ! 
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  cfear. 

It  is  the  hour,  the  happy  hour,  when  I  was  wont  to  be 

Hush'd  to  a  calm  and  blessed  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  check  would  fall  affection's  holy 
tear, — • 

Young  mothers,  rocl<r,  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-winged  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?  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  ? 

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  am  pressing  thy  still  hand  : 
Thou  dost  but  linger  near  the  spirit-land. 
Can  we  not  wake  thee  ?     Thou  art  silent — thou — 
Can  there  be  death  for  me  on  that  bright  brow  1 

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  hero  at  mid-day,  hush'd  and  rtill, 

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 

Unwclcomcd  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  mourn'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. 

He  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  ! 

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  still  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  thy  grave  with  bowed  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  wcsh'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  com  in'  every  day. 


/78  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  inammy  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  0'  happiness, 

Had  little  Bess  an'  me. 


Aw  recollect,  one  afternoon, 

When  hoo  wur  sittin'  still, 
An'  readin'  in  hur  little  book, 

Bu'  fawor'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  fo'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  undcrstond, 

Her  face,  it  seem'd  to  me, 
Wur  loike  a  tune  upon  a  harp — 

A  moulded  melody. 


i8o  MODERN  SOA'GS  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  fell  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  sect 

As  e'er  a  mortal  seed  ; 
An'  of  a  bonnier,  why  aw  'm  sure, 

'Ut  th'  anf^els  ha'  no  need. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  i8i 

Aw  did  thank  God  he'd  g'en  me  th'  hiss, 

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  '11  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'  cawr  Bill ; 

And  bless  cawr  Sally  too  ;" 
An'  then  hoo  '11  goo  to  bed  an'  sleep. 

As  nobbut  good  folk  do. 


Aw've  lots  o'  trouble  day  hy  day, 

A  bit  aboon  my  share ; 
Bu'  little  Bessy  seems  to  say, 

"  Yo'n  joy  as  weel  as  care." 
All'  so  I  have,  I  know  it  weel, 

An'  if  I  met  but  choose, 
Aw  'd  stond  another  load  o'  care 

If  Bess  aw  slionldna'  lose. 


1 82  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

But  if  that  lass  wur  ta'en  away, 

Aw'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  talc'  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  rne,  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  pass'd  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. 


1 84  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  t 
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  ncars  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  iTioight  deawn  t'  Lune  an'  Ribble  roidc, 

An'  so  miss  hafe  the  blast ; 
Nur  whoilo  he  rcyched  the  Calder  soide, 

When  Derpley  mun  be  past. 
He'll  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  childcr's  wed. 

We  're  aged,  an'  wait  Thoi  will ; 
Sin'  we  were  bairns  together  bred, 

Wc'n  lived  through  well  an'  ill. 
And  if  the  Lord  would  grant  moi  prayer, 
He  would  this  ncet  moi  owd  mon  spare  ; 
That  oi  moiglit  cloiis  liis  eyes  myscl', 
And  then  lig  deawn  and  wi'  liim  dwell. 


l86  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

TO  LITTLE  ANGEL  "CHARLIE." 

(from  "after-business  jottings.") 

By  R.  R.  Bealey. 

Often  have  I  been  to  see  thee, 
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  1  question'd  thee  in  earnest 
Of  thy  life  in  days  of  yore. 
As  I  may  not  ask  thee  more. 


BA LLA  DS  OF  LA  NCA  SHIRE.  1 87 

Yet  I  cannot  think  thee  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  1  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  open'd, 

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. 


1 88  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

THE  LAST  BEHEST. 
By  William  Mort. 

"The  tongues  of  dying  men 
Enforce  attention,  like  deep  harmony." 

Shakspere. 

Come  hither,  wife  !  I  'd  speak  with  thee  a  while  before 

I  go, 
(-)nce  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  LANCASHLRE.  189 

My  son,  my  oldest  one,  approach,~to  thee  my  charge 
is  great, 

For  thou  alone  of  all  my  flock  hast  wrought  to  man'r 
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 

noii) ; 
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,  sliield  thy  sister 

well ! 

But  most,  oh,  most,  my  son,  support  thy  mother'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  s^rave  am 

laid ! 


igo  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Come  hither— closer — 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  '11  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-shapcd  windows  han  o  bin  pood  eawt, 

An'  they'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'  secch'd  for  't  i'  th'  nook. 
There's  th'  dog-kennel  yonder,  an'  th'  hencote  aw  see, 

An'  th'  clooas-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  newt  abeawt  him  'at  wur  shabby  or  mean  ; 

An'  he  wur  no'  beawt  brains  in  his  skull : 
He  wur  alius  streightforrud  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  scawer. 

Mi  gronfeyther — bless  him — reet  doated  o'  me — 

He'd  tell  me  aw  geet  a  foinc  lad  ; 
An'  mony  a  toime  say,  when  aw'rn  sit  on  his  knee, 

"  Eh,  bless  thee  ;  tha  favvers  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'rn  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  'neaih  the  old  roof-tree  : 
Each  child  delights  in  that  love-fruit  tree  ! 

Its  boughs  a  wondrous  burden  bear; 
Its  varied  blossoms  arc  rich  and  rare  ; 
Oh,  a  glorious  sight  for  children  to  see. 
Is  that  Winter-blooming  Christmas  tree  ! 

Would  we  were  more  like  that  gladsome  tree  ! 

Abounding  in  gifts  as  fair  to  see  ; 

With  joy-giving  fruit  as  full  and  free, 

As  the  dear  old  home  and  its  Christmas  tree  ! 


N 


194  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


«  GOD  BLESS  THESE  POOR  WIMMEN 
THAT'S  CHILDER!" 

By  Thomas  Brierley. 

God  bless  these  poor  wimmen  that 's  chtlder  ! 

Shuz  [choose]  whether  they're  rich  or  they're  poor, 
Thur  's  nob'dy  con  tell  whot  a  woman 

Wi'  little  uns  has  to  endure  ; 
The  times  that  hoo  's  wakken  i'  th'  neet-time, 

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  ! 
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  never  lose  seet  on 't  a  minute, 

For  fear  it  should  happen  to  dee, 

God  bless  these  poor  wimmen  that's  childer! 

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  '5  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  'kashun  to  chuckle, 

Men's  blemishes  are  not  so  short : 
Then  have  a  kind  word  for  these  wimmen, 

If  t'  maddest  un'  vilest  o'  men 
Wurn  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  'urn,  aw  say,  wi'  yo'r  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  burns  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  welcome  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  KEEN,  ROBIN." 
By  the  late  John  Scholes. 

"  Come,  woipe  thi  heen  ;  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  '11  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, 

Conies  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  'II  sell  up  stick  un'  stwon. 

"  Oh  !  it 's  weel  mi  heart  mey  break,  Robin  ! 

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  Gronny's, 

Un'  mi  drawers  so  breet  un  noice, 
Un'  th'  cradle,  it  wur  eawr  Johnny's, 

Fur  it 's  had  new  rockers  twoice. 

"  Thir  's  thi  Faythur's  rockin-chcer,  Robin, 

Wheer  Wesley  once  sat  deawn, 
Un'  th'  candlesticks  up  theer,  Robin, 

'Ut  cost  mi  hauve-a-creawn  ; 
Un'  eh  !  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  morn  he  left,  Robin, 

When  th'  neeburs  o  geet  reawnd — 
Aw'd  raythur  see  that  lad,  Robin, 

But,  oh  !  he  mun  bi  dreawn'd  ! 
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  comed  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." 
Muffl't  i'  shawls  un'  winter  cwots, 

The  stranger  stood  on  th'  floor, 
'Ut  seem'd  wi'  its  whoite  un  marbl't  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  Uve  hereby. 

And  if  you  '11  tell  me  where, 
I  '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  ovvd  mon  wur  soarly  sobbin. 

As  he  kneelt  him  deawn  0'  th'  floor. 
"  Aw  connut  hovvd— aw  connut  bide, 

It 's  him  !  It 's  him,  hisscl ! " 
Poor  Nancy  sobb'd,  un'  laugh'd  un'  cried, 

Un'  Willy's  muffler  fell. 


"  Aw  'm  fit  to  dec  wi'  joy,  Robin  ! 

Though  aw  couldn't  kneel  nur  pray, 
Un'  th'  One  that  yerd  mi  greet,  Robin  ! 

Browt  him  fro'  Omerika." 


200  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

"  O  Ailse,  thae  's  cause  to  bless 
'Ut  we'er  na  moar  distress'd  : 

Lord,  fill  us  o  wi'  thankfulness  ; 
Thoi  ways  are  olez  best." 

'Twur  on  a  Monday  morn  i'  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  mechanickin', 

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  foe  ; — 


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  cock'd  a  lip  ! 


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-fuU  o'  ancientry, 

An'  Roman  haw-pennies  ! 

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  gcttin'  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  ! 

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  weel. 
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' 

Er  t'other  lads  an'  o  ; 
An'  thee,  too,  owd  musicianer, 

Aw  wish  lung  life  to  thee, — 
A  mon  that  plays  the  fiddle  weel 

Should  never  awse  to  dee  ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  203 

LINES  TO  MY  WIFE 

DURING  HER  I}.ECOVERY  FROM  A  LONG  ILLNESS. 

By  Samuel  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  stream'd  so  wild  and  free  ; 
But  oh  !  thy  tresses  still  are  fair 

And  beautiful  to  me  ! 

Yes,  Time  hath  ta'en  thy  lily  hand, 

And  chill'd  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  ; 
i  hough  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-beclouded  brow, 

And  bless  thy  dimmed  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  wander'd  far  away. 

We  ranged  the  bowers,  we  cull'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  trustfuUv  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  ! 


Oh,  light  of  love  !  oh,  early  bom  ! 

Love-born  and  lost  too  soon  ! 
Oh,  love  !  we  often  thought  it  morn. 

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  ling'ring  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  flowers- 

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. 


'Twas  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.  207 

Death  came,  and  found  upon  her  face 

Strange,  wondrous  beauty  there  ; 
A  h'ght  shone  round  her  baby  brow. 

And  rippled  in  her  hair  ; 
She  turn'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  flutter'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  ! 


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  Httle  hand 

That  lovingly  sought  ours, 
Would  never  more  be  clasp'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  !  'twas  grief,  deep  grief,  to  watch 

Beside  the  httle  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." — Keats. 

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  ^gean  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  roll  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  fruitage  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  living  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,  briglit  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, 

Clustcr'd  around,  in  fairy  groups  should  be. 

o 


2IO    MODERN  SONGS  AND  BALLADS. 

I  'd  have  the  antique  book  with  gleanings  old, 

The  master-minds  of  every  land  and  age  ; 
Deep  science,  with  her  wealth  of  sterling  gold, 

Scatter'd  like  pearls  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  along. 

The  broken-hearted  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  ? 


IV. 


^0110:0  of  HiTe  anti  BrotljccljooD* 


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  all,  its  responsibilities  and  duties  ;  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  a  glowing 
incentive  to  do  the  work  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  !  the  songs  of  the  people  are  voices  of  power, 

That  echo  in  many  a  land  ; 
They  lighten  the  heart  in  t'le  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  feel — 

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  all  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  George  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  tell ! 
Kindred  then,  as  now,  in  feeling, 

So  to  each  "  Good  night.    All 's  well ! " 


"WHY,  PRITHEE  NOW." 
By  John  Byrom,  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  clothed  in  ermine  or  clout. 
Come,  come,  and  maintain  thy  discretion  ; 

Let  it  act  a  more  generous  part ; 
For  I  find,  by  thy  honest  confession, 

That  tlic  world  has  too  much  of  thy  heart. 

*  This  piece,  written  for  an  anniversary  celebraliun,  has  been  set  to 
mu^ic  and  arranged  as  a  full-choir  glee,  by  Mr  E.  J.  Loder,  the  com- 
poser of  the  opera  of  "  The  Night  Dancers,"  &c. 


214  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Beware  that  its  fatal  ascendancy 

Do  not  tempt  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  beUeves  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. 

Love'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  Tvne  'j  of  unconstant  feather, 

Love  and  Hope  should  still  agree  : — 

Life  is  lost  hetiveen  the  three  I — 
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&d,  soon  appeased, 

Laughing,  crying,  waking,  sleeping  ; 

Chid  and  grieved— kiss'd  and  pleased  ; 
All  its  cares  cxprcss'd  by  weeping. 

On  the  flowcr'd  carpet  playing, 
Sitting,  creeping,  rolling,  lying,— 

Now  a  sunny  cheek  displaying,— 

Now  o'erspread  with  clouds,  'tis  crying  ! 

*  Mr  Briggs  resided  at  Cartmcl,  and  edited  the  Lonsdale  Magazine. 
He  published,  in  1818,  a  vohime  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  rush-cap,  or  as  awkward  ? 

What 's  a  carriage,  when  obtain'd  ? 
Nothing  but  a  splendid ^^  cart! 

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  "tire  elfin  of  the  Muses." 


BALLADS  OF  LANCA SHIRE.         2 1 ; 


"THERE'S  NO  CHAP  SHOULD  EVER  LOSE 
PLUCK." 

(from  "after-business  jottings.") 

By  Richard  R.  Bealey. 

Aw  'll  try  to  be  merry,  aw  will, 

Aw  '11  mak'  up  my  mind  on't  to-day  ; 

Though  care  is  a  rum  'un  to  kill, 

Aw'U  feight,  bu'  aw '11  have  him  away. 

It's  no  use  to  simper  an'  sob. 

An'  fret,  because  all  isna'  square, 
It'll  nobbut  mak'  worse  a  bad  job. 

An'  drive  one  reet  into  despair. 

Then  aw  '11  try  to  be  merry,  aw  will, 

Aw  '11  laugh,  an'  aw '11  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  '11  smash  that  owd  dule  they  co'  th'  dumps, 

An'  gi'e  him  a  saltlin'  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  '11  slither  deawn  th'  hill  loike  a  truck 

'Ut's  gotten  no  break,  in  a  frost. 

There 's  nowt  loike  a  will  to  foind  th'  way, 
Aii'  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'll  write  it  down  for  me  as  plain  as  you  can." 


BALLADS  OF  LA NCA SHIRE.  2 1 9 

Upon  this  the  old  hermit  soon  took  up  his  pen, 

And  he  brought  me  these  lines  when  he  came  back 

again : — 
"  It  is  being,  and  doing,  and  having,  that  make 
All  the  pleasures  and  pains  of  which  mortals  partake  : 
Now  to  be  what  God  pleases,  to  do  a  man's  best, 
And  to  have  a  good  heart,  is  the  way  to  be  blest." 


THE    GARLAND    OF   LIFE* 
By  the  late  J.  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  flowers,  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  ;  Vio- 
let, modesty;  Tulip,  declaration  of  love;  Lilac,  first  emotions  of  love; 
Rose,  love;  Pink,  pure  love;  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  ;  Wecpinjj 
Willow,  mourning;  Amaranth,  immortality. — J.  Ti.  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  tuhp  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  wither'd  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  crarland  fair. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  221 

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,  B.D.* 

If  life,  like  a  bubble,  evaporates  fast, 
We  must  take  off  our  wine,  and  the  bubble  will  last  ; 
For  a  bubble  may  soon  be  destroy'd  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  they  will  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  born  at  the  vilagc  of  Priest  Hutton,  near  Lan- 
caster, on  the  3cl  December  1747.  He  died  3d  March  1813,  .-iged  sixty- 
five.  He  was  rector  of  Claughlon,  incumbent  of  the  parochial  churches 
of  Clitheroe  and  Downham,  head  master  for  thirty-eight  years  (.f  the 
Free  Grammar  School  of  Clitheroe,  and  a  justice  of  peace  fni  ihc  uoun-y. 


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  assign'd  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  !     Could  we  live  upo'  love, 
Time,  winged  wi'  lilies,  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  elate, 
The  stomach  will  whisper  it  wanteth  some  meight. 

*  Mr  Thomas  Brierley  is  .1  silk-weaver  at  Alkrington,  near  Middleton. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  223 

By  a  dell,  where  the  sangsters  are  werblin'  above, 
An'  every  rich  hawthorn  is  braided  wi'  love, 
By  a  fountain,  the  clearest  that  naytur  con  make, 
Yoar  teeth,  oh,  yoar  teeth  in  a  second  con  ache. 

Yoa  may  walk  wi'  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  ; 
That/jicjid  'j  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  claim, 
That  for  once  i'  yoar  loife  yoa '11  indulge  in  a  dream  ; 
I'  th'  midst  o'  yoar  castles— oh  dear,  not  a  bliss, 
This  toime  'tis  yoar  little  un  wantin'  a  kiss. 

Yoa  may  tawk  uv  the  future,  wi'  seigh  i'  yoar  hert, 
Yoa  may  think  that  the  world  connut  gi'e  yoa  a  smart, 
Yoa  may  love  yoar  dear  childcr,  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  ailments,  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  clanc^our  and  f'loom. 


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,  born  of  one  Power, 

Each  claiming  humanity's  thought — 
We  should  let  our  best  sympathies  flow  hke  a  dower, 

And  give  and  receive  as  we  ought. 


THE  GOOD  SPIRIT. 
By  Mrs  G.  Linn^us  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  Sullenncss  reign, 

To  trample  on  hearts  that  were  glad  ; 

1' 


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  stern — 
Should  wilfully  chase  fair  Good  Temper  away, 

Her  favours  indignantly  spurn  ; 
For  with  her  there  is  pleasure,  and  gladness,  and  light ; 
With  SuUenness,  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  morn  doth  greet ; 

The  dew  begems  the  ground  ; 
The  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  hamis  ; 
Pleasure  her  wily  path  displays, 

And  lures  him  by  her  charms. 

The  sun  pursues  his  eager  flight, 

The  dewdrops  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  tlie  Portico,  usher  in  a  school  at 
Altrincham,  &c.,  and  was  drowned  in  the  Mersey,  near  Didsbury,  on 
the  24th  June  1820.  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  1820,  to  which  he  prefixed  a  memoir  of  the  poet, 
and  entitled  the  book  "The  Spirit  of  the  Doctor." 


228  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  will  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,  whate'er  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  plain 

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- 
joy'd ; 

And  every  night  his  glowing  cheek  was  pillow'd  on  the 
breast 

Of  her  whose  happy  heart  alone  his  fervent  love  pos- 
ses s'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  frighten'd  bird,  from  out  its  cage  had 

rush'd.  I 

And  in  his  native  valley  he  interr'd  his  English  wife— 
That  bitter  hour  reveal'd  to  him  how  frail  a  thing  is 

life! 
He  mourn'd  as  mourn  the  desolate  when  all  their  hope 

hath  died. 
And  again  he  cross'd  the  ocean— but  where  was  now 

his  pride  ? 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.         231 
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  hfe  to  secure, 

And  for  ever  neglecting  to  live  ! 

Environ'd  from  morning  to  night  in  a  crowd, 

Not  a  moment  unbent  or  alone  ; 
Constrain'd  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  still ; 
With  the  means  of  enjoying  such  wish  in  his  power. 

But  accursed  in  wanting  the  will 


'o 


For  a  year  must  be  pass'd,  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  '11  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  favvert,  then,  a  feightin'  cock. 

Bo'  neaw  thae  'rt  loike  a  mopin'  hen  ; 
An'  next,  thae  '11  be  like  some  owd  clock 

'At 's  stopt,  an'  winno  go  agcn  ; 
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  deawl  ; 

Come,  sit  thee  deawn  an  tell  mc  o. 


234  ■    MODERN  SONGS  AND 

This  mornin',  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  moori'  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  yarn  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  written  in  1864.     The  writer  is  a  working  man,  at 
Hartshead,  near  Ashtoii-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  wiUing,  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  I 
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, 
Shovver'd  on  them  its  rich  store  of  blessing. 

While  the  soldier  bent  over  his  fond,  blushing  fair. 
Her  soft  hand  in  his  own  still  caressing  ! 

When  the  brown,  wither'd  leaves,  as  the  autumn  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 ^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 
morn, 

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  ! 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  A  BOAT. 
By  the  late  Rev.  Richard  Parkinson,  D.D. 

Pull  !  pull !  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.  2},y 

Our  course  is  rough,  the  way  is  long, 

The  Hght  is  sinking  fast, 
Pull !  pull !  my  boys,  your  oars  are  strong, 

And  favouring  is  the  blast. 

How  bounds  the  boat  beneath  each  stroke 

The  labouring  arm  applies ! 
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  ! 

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  jutting  point — and  now — 

The  beam  is  gone  for  ever  ! 

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  will  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  ! 

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  hnderins,  shuttle,  and  yealdhook  ; — 
]\Ii  treddles  an'  sticks, 
Mi  weight-ropes  an'  bricks  ; — 
What  a  life  !— said  the  wayver  o'  Wellbrook. 

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  t'  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  wrif.r  in  dialect  of  "  Daisy  Nook."  the  "  Chronicles 
of  Waverlow,"  (from  which  this  song  is  taken,)  "  The  Lay  rock  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  thatowd  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  ^o  aw  did— id. — &c. 


THE  LESSON  OF  THE  LEAVES. 
By  Mrs  G.  Linn^us  Banks, 

Glancing  in  the  sunlight, 

Dancing  in  the  breeze, 
See  the  new-born  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 

Close  upon  the  hill. 
Casting  loving  glances 

On  the  answering  rill : 
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  ; 
Rusthng — 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  before  us — but  our  work  is  done  !  " 


"MY  PIECE  LS  O  BU'  WOVEN  EAWT." 

(FROM  "after-business  JOTTINGS.") 

By  Richard  R.  Bealey. 

My  "piece"  is  o  bu'  woven  eawt, 

My  wark  is  welly  done  : 
Aw  've  "  trcddled  "  at  it  day  by  day. 

Sin'  th'  toimc  'ut  aw  begun. 

O 


242  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  marr'd  enough  ; 
Bu'  th'  warp  wern't  made  o'  th'  best  o'  yarn, 

An'  th'  weft  were  nobbut  rough. 
Aw  've  been  some  bother'd  neaw  an'  then 

Wi'  knots,  an'  breakin's  too  ; 
They'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'  yarn  were  none  so  good  ; 
He  winna'  "bate"  me  when  He  sees 

Aw've  done  as  weel's  aw  could. 
Aw  'se  get  my  wage — aw  'm  sure  o'  that ; 

He'll  gi'e  me  o  'ut's  due, 
An',  mebbe,  in  His  t'other  place, 

Some  better  wark  to  do. 


Bu'  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'  skill  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'  M  ester  '11  say  : 
An'  if  aw  nobbut  ycr  His  voice 

Pronounce  my  wark  "  weel  done," 
Aw  '11  straight  forget  o  th'  trouble  past 

r  th'  pleasure  'ut's  begun. 


OUR  DAILY  PATHS* 
Bv  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  gener.lly 
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  Hcmnns  sent  lo 


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  pencill'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  dwells  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-colour'd 

wings. 

With  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  tha 
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 !  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  river'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  tell  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  trickhng  deawn, 
For  th'  ice  will  impair  in  its  strength, 

Un'  theawsands  are  sartain  to  dreawn. 

But  recollect  weel  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. 

NO.   I. — THE  GATHERING.  * 

By  William  Mort. 

Hark  !  to  the  hurried  trampUng 

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  I 
And  who,  among  created  men, 

The  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  bow'd  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  1S34,  and  appeared  thirty  years  ago  m 

Tail's  Magazine. 


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  !  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  hollow  tread. 
As  vacantly  he  stalks  along. 

And  feebly  mutters,  "  Bread  ! " 
And  o'er  his  bony  shoulder  peers 

Dark  Famine's  sunken  eye. 
As  with  a  mocking  shout  he  lifts 

The  gaudy  flag  on  high  ! 


Behold  !  they  gain  the  platform — 

Their  haggard  chairman  speaks  ; 
Alas !  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 
Mis  proud  success  proclaim  ! 


250  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

And  lo  !  a  third— well-favour'd  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  their  feeble  cries  avail 

Beneath  the  fuU-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  vien  are  free  I 


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  Burns — hooweshes  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  ; 

*  Polls,  cuts  hair. 


252  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

He 's  badly  off,  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  leet,  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'  close  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  hersel ! 

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  they'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  noiccr  folk  nor  these  i'  o  my 

loife  ; 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  253 

Vo  '11  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,  he'll  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  Bowton  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-colour'd,  an'  he's 

pale; 


254  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

But  aw  ne'er  touch  it,  for  aw  know  it 's  ruin'd  mony  a 
bard, — 

Aw  'm  th'  only  chap  as  doesn't  drink  'at  Uves  i'  Bow- 
ton's  yard. 

An'  neaw  aw've  done  aw'll  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 — 

Jewell'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. 


'a^ 


Welcome,  with  thy  life-breeze  springing, 
Wafting  round  us  health  and  joy  ; 

To  each  care-worn  spirit  bringing 
Pleasures  bearing  no  alloy — 

Freshening  Whitsuntide. 


"o 


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  gladden'd  wild-wood, 
Startling  feather'd  songsters  nigh — 

Youthful  Whitsuntide. 

Welcome,  with  thy  holy  teaching, 
Weighty  truths  of  nature's  gold. 

Bringing  to  our  minds  the  preaching 
Of  the  patriarchs  of  old — 

Hallow'd  Whitsuntide. 


2S6  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Welcome,  with  thy  simple  treasures, 

Violet  and  azure  bell, 
Coming  to  the  heart  as  pleasures 

With  a  holy,  heaven-wrought  spell — 
Happy  Whitsuntide. 

Welcome,  with  thy  youthful  voices, 
Gaily  singing  from  each  glen  : 

How  the  inmost  soul  rejoices, 
Listening  to  thy  strains  again — 

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  LAXCASHIRE.  257 

Is  the  flower  of  a  richly-expanding  mind 
To  be  spurn'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  radiajit  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  close. 
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 


25 8  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 — 

Oime  ! 

For  every  note  recalls  the  time 
When  first  I  listen'd  to  its  chime, 
And  life  and  love  were  in  their  prime — 

Oim^! 

I  heard  it  on  my  bridal  day, 
And  felt  the  happier  for  a  lay 
At  once  so  tender  and  so  gay — 

Oim^! 

But  death  has  taken  from  my  side 
The  fondly  loved  and  loving  bride. 
Who  sang  it  in  that  hour  of  pride — 

Oim^  ! 

And  now  the  sweetest  songs  appear 

Unto  my  disenchanted  ear 

A  discord,  which  I  loathe  to  hear — 

Oimd! 

And  even  in  this  simple  air, 
Though  sung  by  one  so  young  and  fair. 
There  breathes  no  feeling  save  despair — 

Oimd ! 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  259 

TO  FALSEHOOD. 

By  the  late  John  Briggs. 

Hail,  Falsehood  !  jaundiced  gossip,  hail ! 
Thy  squint-eyed  leer  can  oft  prevail 

O'er  truth  itself,  victorious  ! 
Thy  empire 's  large  and  unconfincd, 
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 — 

\^\\\fade—\.o  say  the  least  on  't. 

Thy  power  is  great,  we  must  confess. 
And  all  must  own  thy  usefulness, 

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  maintain' d, 

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  clothier's  face- 

Thou  'rt  really  queen  of  witches. 
In  honesty  thou  veil'st  a  knave  ; 
Thou  mak'st  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 'It  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— <\.xz  all  thy  pupils. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  261 

That,  but  for  thee,  the  poet  'j  quill 
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 — "  \  jested'' 


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  sunsr 
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,  throu,i,'h  weal  or  woe, 

By  thy  dear  spousie's  tung  ; 
For  then,  though  foo's  deny,  aw  know 

Thac  never  con  be  wrung. 


2(52  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,  ovvd  mon  ! 

Look  where  thae  will,  some  vice  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  cheer'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  syiie." 


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  clasp  their  hand, 

Yet  deep  in  affection's  shrine, 
We  have  'graven  there,  on  an  altar  fai 

"  To  the  Friends  of  '  Auld  lang  syne.' 


FAME. 
Bv  Thomas  Brierley. 

There  is  a  simple  thing  on  earth. 

That  pleases  nearly  every  one  : 
Its  spring,  or  rise,  or  growth,  or  birth. 

Was  never  yet  dctcrmmed  on. 
And  men  of  sense  and  learning  too. 

Philosophers  and  poets  warm, 
Great  warriors  stern  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  while. 

But  not  a  mortal  all  his  days. 

What  is  this  tasteless,  honey  food, 

This  brilHant  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!" 

By  Charles  Swain. 

Be  kind  to  each  other  ! 

The  night 's  coming  on, 
When  friend  and  when  brother 

Perchance  may  be  gone  ! 
Then  'midst  our  dejection, 

How  sweet  to  have  earn'd 
The  blest  recollection 

Of  kindness— r^/«r«V/ 
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  love  ! 
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 


266  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. 

Youth  with  all  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  eyehds  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  Just,  though  a  native  of  Natland,  near  Kendal,  spent  the  best 
and  most  valuable  part  of  his  life  at  Bury  and  the  neighbourhood.  He 
was  second  master  of  the  Bury  Grammar  School  from  1832  till  his  death, 
on  the  14th  October  1852,  in  the  fifty-fifth  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  I  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 's  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  ; 
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  I 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  269 

THE  SONG  OF  NIGHT/ 
By  Mrs  Hemans. 

"O  night, 
And  storm,  and  darkness  !  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength  ! " 

BVROl*. 

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  b.-is-rclief  of  Nii;ht,  rcpresciilcJ 
under  the  form  of  a  winged  female  figure,  with  two  infants  .islccp  in 
her  arms. 


270  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

I  come  with  mightier  things  ! 
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  cru sh'd  affections,  which,  though  long  o'erborne, 

Make  their  tones  heard  at  last. 

I  bring  them  from  the  tomb  : 
O'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  !— fiU'd  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 ! 


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  Ufe  unto  freedom  he  gave. 

And  free  men  behold  him  no  more. 

*  This  song  is  most  respectfully  inscribed  by  the  .luthor  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  wise  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  the  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   "  AFTER-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 

O'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  deem'd  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'  Swatn. 

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  hallo w'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,  \i3.vQ  for- 
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  glory'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'ersway'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  tloods  rush  on  ! 

Let  the  arrow's  flight  be  sped  ! 
Why  should  they  reck  whose  task  is  done  ? — 

There  slumber  England's  dead  ! 


The  mountain  storms  rise  high 

In  the  snowy  Pyrenees, 
And  toss  the  pine  bo'ughs  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-clouds  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  Linnaeus  Banks. 

I  PASS  unregarded  the  selfish  and  vain, 
Who  proffer  a  favour  and  make  it  a  debt ; 

For  service  so  render'd  comes  loaded  with  pain, 
But  true-hearted  kindness  I  never  forget. 

From  the  butterfly  friends  who  when   summer  M-as 
bright 

Flutter'd  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  turn'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  jiei'er  forget. 


THE  PASS  OF  DEATH.' 

(WRITTEN  SHORTLY  AFTER  THE  DECEASE  OF  THE  RIGHT 
HON.  GEORGE  CANNING.) 

By  Samuel  Bam  ford. 

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  wriUcn  long  before  the  "  King  Dcalh  "  of  Barry 
Cornwall,  which  resembles  it.— Ea 


278  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

The  sons  of  men  did  raise  their  voice, 

And  crifed  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  still  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  turn'd  pale  ! 
And  some  were  hurried  from  the  ball, 

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  di^d  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  closed  ere  the  morn  ! 


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,  ETC. 

Another 's  gone,  and  who  comes  next, 
Of  all  the  sons  of  pride  ? 

And  is  humanity  perplex'd, 
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  crowned  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  out — a  spirit  fled — 

A  funeral  hour ! 

Then  let  us  show  a  tranquil  brow, 

Whate'er  befalls, — 
That  we  upon  Life's  latest  brink 
May  look  on  Death's  dark  face,  and  think 

An  angel  calls  I 


^ii^^^P^pl^^^^^i^' 


1lap0  of  tljc  Cotton  f  am  inc. 


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  're  needy  and  falling, 
And  God  will  return  it  again. 

•  ••••• 

War'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.") 

By  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.t 

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  tit'e,  edited  by  "John  Whittaker,  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  qualities  requisite  to  enable  him  to  do  this  successfully.  He  is 
as  fami'iar  with  the  various  features  of  their  everyday  .ife  as  any  one 
can  be  His  knowledge  is  not  that  of  an  outsider,  who  simply  looks  ou 
at  a  new  phase  of  life,  and  describes  wh.-it  he  sees  ;-it  is  the  knowledge 
possessed  by  one  who  !s  closely  related  to  the  people  themselves,  and 
who  has  himself  shared  their  wants,  their  struggles,  and  their  plea- 
sures ■•  The  editor  speaks  of  his  friendship  with  the  author-"  a  friend- 
ship which  has  lasted  from  the  time  when  we  were  both  lads,  toihng  m 
the  same  dye-house  "-to  the  present  day.  Most  of  the  pieces  in  R.ims- 
bottom's  volume  are  too  long  to  present  entire.  We  have  therefore 
selected  what  we  think  the  be^t  and  most  graphic  verses  in  each.  1  he 
Factory  Lass  is  supposed  to  be  addressing  a  lady  in  the  street. 

t  In  the  Lancashire  dialect  too  is  almost  invariably  pronounced  to, 
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  vveel  ; 
So  when  they're  clemmin'  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  'uU  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-thieo,  i.e.,  two  or  three.  t  Pledged,  pawned. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  285 

"SHORT  TIME,  COME  AGAIN  NO  MORE." 

(from  a  street  broadside.) 

Of  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  of  distress  :  lancashire  rhymes.") 

By  Joseph  Ramsdottom. 

Brother  Jim, — 

It's  bo'  sad  news  aw  send. 
An'  aw  dun'  know  heaw  to  write  it,  aw  'm  sure  ; 
For  to  tell  folk  0'  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  i'  th'  grate, 

An'  o  th'  childher  gone  hongry  to  bed  ; 
To  their  stbraw,  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, 

hxC  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  0'  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  t  their  httle  tongues  ran  ; 

Bo'  sich  prattlin'  o  went  agcn  th'  grain  ; 
When  misfortins  arc  bad  o'  thirsels, 

Frettin'  childher  'uU  lessen  no  pain. 
Heaw  we  look  back  to  th'  past  wi'  regret, 

Wi'  a  present  so  bleak  and  so  dhrear ; 
An'  a  future  so  dhreadfully  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. 

♦  Playing,  larking.  tin  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'  childher  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'  clein  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 

O'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  popiil.ir  name  fur  the  new  Poor-law  Union  Workhouse. 


BALLADS  OF  LA  NCA  SHIRE.  289 

THE  SMOKELESS  CHIMNEY. 
By  a  Lancashire  Lady  *  (E.  J.  B.) 


Traveller  on  the  Northern  Railway  ! 

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  ! 
Stop  !  and  starve  the  child — the  wife. 


*  TTiese  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  liave  realised 
the  sum  of  £,\(xi.  Their  authoress  is  the  wife  of  Mr  Serjeant  Bellasis, 
and  the  only  daughter  of  the  late  William  Garnctt,  Esq.  of  Qucrnmorc 
Park  and  Bleasdale,  Lancashire. 

T 


290  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Ah  !  to  them  each  smokeless  chimney 

Is  a  signal  of  despair  ; 
They  see  hunger,  sickness,  ruin, 

Written  in  that  pure,  bright  air. 

"  Mother  !  mother  !  see  !  'twas  truly 
Said  last  week  the  mill  would  stop  ; 

Mark  yon  chimney,  nought  is  going, 
There's  no  smoke  from  out  o'  th'  top  ! 

"  Father  !  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  tearful  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,  earn'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  ; 
Clock  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  !  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'll  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,  bad. 


BALLADS  OF  LANCASHIRE.  293 

God  bless  yo,  mi  brothers,  \vc  '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  '11  soon  awter,  yo  'II  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'  suffer'd  so  long, 

It's  no  use  o'  givin'  up  neaw. 


PHILIP  CLOUGH'S  TALE. 

(from  "phases  of  distress — LANCASHIRE  RHYMES.") 

By  Joseph  Ramsbottom. 

Eh  !  dear,  what  weary  toimcs  arc  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 't,  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 't, 

Aw  'd  starve  until  aw  sunk  to  th'  floore  ; 
Bo'  th'  little  childher  bring  me  to 't — 

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  follow'd,  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. 

(from     "LANCASHIRE    SONGS.") 

By  Edwin  Waugh. 

Here's  Robin  looks  fyerfuUy  gloomy, 

An'  Jamie  keeps  starin'  at  th'  greawnd, 
An'  thinkin'  o'  th'  table  'at's  empty, 

An'  th'  little  things  yammerin'  reavvnd  ; 
It's  true,  it  looks  dark  just  afore  us, — 

But,  keep  your  hearts  eawt  o'  your  shoon, — 
Though  clouds  may  be  thickenin'  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  clemmin'  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'  arcawnd, 
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't, 

There 's  trouble  i'  every  heart ; 
An'  thoose  that  'n  th'  biggest  o'  th'  pride  on 't, 

Oft  leeten  o'  th'  keenest  o'  th'  smart. 
Whatever  may  chance  to  come  to  us, 

Let's  patiently  hondle  er  share, — 
For  there 's  mony  a  fine  suit  o'  clooas 

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. 

Fro'  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  ! 

Aw  want  to  see  thoose  days  agcn, 

To  see  folks  earn  whate'er  they  need  ; 
O  God  I  to  think  'ut  wortchin'  men 

Should  be  poor  things  to  pet  'un  feed ! 
Ther  's  some  to  th'  Bastile  han  to  goo, 

To  live  o'  th'  rates  they  'n  hclp'd  to  pay  ; 
An'  some  get  dovv  *  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  ecnd  mi  care  an'  pain  ! 
An'  why  noa  do  't  ? — for  weel  aw  know 

Aw  lose  bo'  ills,  if  nowt  aw  gain. 

♦  Dole,  relief  from  charily. 


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  mysel', 

An'  wrong  to  lyev'  mi  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'More. 

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  has  been  well  named  "The  Cotton  Famine,"  amongst 
the  imports  of  cotton  from  India,  perhaps  the  worst  was  that  denomi- 
nated "  Surat,"  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  weavers'  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  Kolcs  and  Queries  of  June  3,  1865,  (3d  series,  vol.  vii.,  p.  432,)  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  shillin'  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  ! 

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,"  [Anf^lice,  "  The  Larks  of  Dean,"  in  the  forest  of  Rossendale,) 
"who  sing  it  to  one  of  the  easy-going  psalm-tunes  with  much  £yisio." 
One  verse  runs  thus — 

"  I  look  at  th'  yealds,  and  there  they  stick ; 
I  ne'er  seen  the  like  sin  I  wur  wick  ! 
What  pity  could  bcfal  a  heart, 
To  think  about  these  hard-sized  warps  !" 

Another  song,  called  "  The  Sural  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  Sural." 

But  they  had  been  compelled  to  weave  it,  though 

"  Stransportashun  's  not  as  ill 
As  weyvin  rotten  Su." 

This  song  concUides  with  the  emphatic  execration — 
"To  hell  wi'o  t'  Sural." 


300  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

Oh  dear!  if  yond'  Yankees  could  only  just  see 

Heaw  they  're  clammin'  an'  starvin'  poor  weavers  loike 

me, 
Aw  think  they  'd  soon  settle  their  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  plainly  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  cloas  are  o  on  'em  "  up  th'  speawt." 

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'  T'  SCHOO'. 

(from  "  PHASES  OF  DISTRESS— LANCASHIRE  RHYMES.") 

By  Joseph  Ramsbottom. 

Heaw  slow  these  weary  weeks  drag  on  ! 

Th'  hard  toimes  'uU  ne'er  be  o'er,  aw  'm  sure  ; 
Eavvr  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  clooas  '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'  preawdcst  mon. 
We  know  'n  it 's  not  eawr  bread  we  ate  ; 

We  know 'n  they're  not  eawr  clooas  we  wear ; 
We  want  agen  eawr  former  state, 

Eawr  former  dhrudein'  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  grum'Ie  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  clem. 

Their  help  has  bin  great  help  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  Icugh  among  therscl'. 
•  ...•• 

*  Labouring  niul  living  hardly. 


302  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

On  lots  o'  things  aw  get  new  leet, 

Mi  idle  toime  's  noan  badly  spent ; 
To  the  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'  ill  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  '11  mak  eawr  sewin'-schoo'  to  ring,  and  stitch  away 
loike  mad  ; 

We'll  try  an'  mak'  th'  best  job  we  con,  o'  owt  we  hari 
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  got  a  sevvin'- 

class  ; 
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  us 

o  this  stuff ; 
We  conno'  tell  'em  o  we  feel,  nor  thank  'em  hawve 

enuff ; 
They  help  to  find  us  meyt  an'  clooas,  an'  eddicashun 

too. 
An'  what  creawns  o,  they  gi'en  us  wage  for  gooin'  to 

th'  sewin'-schoo'. 


There  '11  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,  will  hae  no 
need  to  come. 

For,  sooner  than  wed  sich  as  these,  we  'd  better  stop  a- 
whoam. 


304     .  MODERN  SONGS  AND 


HARD  TIMES;  OR,  TH'  WEYVUR  TO  HIS 
WIFE. 

By  "  A  Lancashire  Lad,"  (James  Bowker.) 

Draw  up  thy  cheer,  ovvd  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  a  quare  thowt  as  thae  mon  sometimes 

rue  o'  me. 

I  'm  mad  at  them  America  foos,  as  never  hes  enuff 
O'  quarrehn'  an'  strugglin',  and  sich  unnat'rel  stuff, 
An'  its  ter'ble  hard,  owd  wife,  to  ceawer  bi'  th'  chimley 

jam. 
An'  think  if  they  keep  on  feightin',  as  thee  an'  me  mun 

clam  ; 
An'  not  aar  faut,  its  like  breykin'  wer  shins  o'er  th' 

neighbours'  stoos. 
An'  it  shows  us  for  one  woise  mon,  thcr  '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  w  i'  nowt  to 

hcyt 
Con't  luk  as  nice  an'  weel  as  them  as  plenty  hes  o' 

meyt. 


Ther's  lots  o'  hooams  areavvnd  us  whear  wot  they 

waste  i'  th'  day, 
'Ud  sarve  for  thee  an'  th'  choilt  an'  mc,  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'  tcears  dim  mi 

sect  ; 
For  if  I  'd  lots  o'  brass,  thae  shud  be  difif'rent,  never 

fear, 
For  th  'art  nooan  so  feaw,  yet,  wench,  if  thae  'd  gradely 

clooas  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  heawr  i'  th' 
day. 

As  I  shud  loike  her  to  be  sin,  if  luv  mud  hcve  its  way ; 

And  if  what 's  i'  this  heart  o'  moinc  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   gum   whistlin'    thro'    the   fields   to   yoar    owd 

woman's  place. 


Thea  loved  me  then,  an'  as  wimmen  's  soft  enufif  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  pappcr  to  read, 

Aw  can  sec  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 ! 
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  han  sent  us  some  gowd, 

To'rt  feedin'  an'  clothin'  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  grateful  for  th'  past, 
So  they  '11  give  us  a  bit  ov  a  lift, 

For  helpin'  the?n  eawt,  when  they  'rn  fast. 

We  'n  clogs  an'  we  'n  clooas  gan  us  neaw. 

There 's  boath  second-honded  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, 

^w'// thank  'em,  iv  nob'dy  else  will. 


VI. 


^ea  »)0iia;5* 


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. 

By  the  late  Edward  Rushton. 

From  Jamaica's  hot  clime  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  papc  13'. 


3IO  MODERN  SONGS  AND 

From  fever,  storm,  famine,  and  all  the  sad  store 

Of  hardships  by  seamen  endured, 
Behold,  poor  Will  Clewline  escaped,  and  once  more 

With  his  wife  and  his  children  safe  moor'd. 

View  the  rapture  that  beams  in  his  sun  embrown'ci 
face. 

While  he  folds  his  loved  Kate  to  his  breast- 
While  his  httle  ones,  trooping  to  share  his  embrace, 

Contend  who  shall  first  be  caress'd ! 
View  them  climb  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  floor — 
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 !  his  loved  Kate 

Sinks  pale  and  convulsed  to  the  ground. 


BA  LLA  DS  OF  LANCA  SHIRE.  3 1 1 

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  car : 

He  broods  on  his  Kate's  poignant  pain  ; 
He  hears  the  cat  hauling — his  pangs  are  severe  ; 

He  feels,  but  he  scorns  to  complain. 

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, 
Ah  I    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  sever'd  from  all  that  is  dear  ; 
If  their  sufferings  and  wrongs  be  a  national  stain, 

Oh,  let  the  foul  slain  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  repealed, 

And  Mary  sighs  at  every  sound. 
The  yellow  fever,  scattering  ruin  ; 

The  shipwreck'd  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,  distress'd  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  rolHng, 

And  now  aloft  the  sea-boy  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. 


BA  LLA  DS  OF  LA  AC  A  SHIRE.  3 '  3 

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  v.-ait  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  arc  hauling, 

Yet  Will  must  see  his  love  away. 
Now  at  the  side,  expression  ceases : 

She  gains  the  skiff— she  makes  for  land, 
And  'twixl  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  viev/  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. 

When  on  my  watch,  the  dawn  full  oft 
Has  shown  those  tints,  so  mild  and  soft, 
That  mark  the  lip  and  cheek  of  her 
Whom  I  'bove  all  the  world  prefer. 
And  thus,  where'er  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  , 
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  ; 


BALL  A  DS  OF  LA  JVC  A  SHIRE,  3 1 7 

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  !  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 ! 


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  stern  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  !  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. 


BA LLADS  OF  LANCA SHIRE.         3 1 9 


"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  morn  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  iiublished. 


320  MODERN  SONGS,  ETC. 

Yes,  yc  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  climb  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  death  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  through  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. 


Ballaiityne,  Roberts,  dr=  Company,  Printers,  Edinburgh. 


Cleffflut  (]5iTt  Booli, 


Just  published,  price  5s.;  or  Large  Paper  Edition,  price  2is., 

LANCASHIRE   LYRICS: 

MODERN  SONGS  AND  BALLADS  OF  THE 
COUNTY  PALATINE. 

Edited  by  JOHN  HARLAND,  F.S.A. 


This  selection  from  the  recent  and  living  poets  and  song-^vl^ters  of 
Lancashire  will,  it  is  hoped,  prove  the  affluence  of  the  county  in  this 
branch  of  literature  ;  and  tend  to  refute  the  notion,  too  much  the  fashion 
at  a  distance,  that  the  mental  and  moral  soil  of  the  County  Palatine  is 
too  hard  and  cold  to  give  birth  or  nourishment  to  poetic  genius. 

The  two  companion  volumes,  the  old  and  the  ncd)  "  Songs  and  Bal- 
lads of  Lancashire,"  would  form  an  elegant  present  to  a  young  friend  of 
either  sex,  as  a  Birth-day  or  New  Year's  Gift,  Keepsake,  or  Sotivenir. 


WHITTAKER  &  CO.,  LONDON. 


Just  published,  price  is.,  cloth, 

THE  SONGS  OF  THE  WILSONS; 

WitJi  a  Memoir  of  the  Family, 

AND  SEVERAL  ADDITIONAL  SONGS,  NEVER  BEFORE 

PUBLISHED. 

Compiled  and  Edited  by  JOHN  HARLAND,  F.S.A. 


The  deceased  song-writers  of  the  Wilson  family,  a  father  (Michael) 
and  two  sons,  (Thomas  and  Alexander,)  all  of  Manchester,  were  re- 
markable for  their  graphic  power  of  humorous  delineation  in  song,  of 
the  most  striking  events  and  celebrated  places  and  institutions  of  that 
city.  Their  songs  there,  and  in  the  surrounding  district,  have  a  wide  and 
lasting  popularity.  The  humours  of  "  Kcrsal  Moor  Races,"  "Smithy 
Door  Market,"  "Salford  Fair,"  "Tinkers' Gardens,"  &c.,  will  long  excite 
the  smiles,  or  provoke  the  laughter  of  thousands. 

A  limited  number  printed  on  large  paper,  price  5s. 

WHITTAKER  &  CO.,  LONDON. 


Price  5s.,  printed  on  the  finest  toned  paper,  and  bound  in  extra  cloth. 
A  limited  number  on  large  paper,  crown  4to,  price  2 is. 

THE 

Ballads  and  So7tgs  of  Lancashire, 

CHIEFLY  OLDER  THAN  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 

COLLECTED,  COMPILED,  AND  EDITED,  WITH  NOTES, 

BY  JOHN  HARLAND,  F.S.A. 


NOTICES  OF  THE  PRESS. 

"  Many  of  them  [the  Ballads]  are  rich  in  idiomatic  force,  and  throw 
much  light,  not  only  upon  local  customs,  but  upon  the  feelings  of  the 
masses  at  various  periods." — Athenaum. 

"  This  handsomely-printed  little  volume  will  be  welcome  to  all  who 
take  an  interest  in  the  County  Palatine." — ISiotes  and  Queries. 

"This  is  the  kind  of  volume  we  want  for  every  county  in  England." 
— Literary  Gazette. 

"  An  elegant  and  interesting  book." — Theolof^cal  Revieiu. 

"  An  interescmg  and  unexpected  contribution  to  the  ballad  literature 
oi  England." — Edinburgh  Evening  Courant. 

"  For  the  first  time  literature  is  enriched  with  reliable  specimens  of 
modern  ballads  still  in  use  in  these  districts." — Manchester  Guardian. 

"  Probably  the  very  best  sjecimens  of  the  Lancashire  ballad  are  here 
given." — Manchester  Examiner  and  Times. 

"This  book  deserves  to  be,  and  doubtless  will  be,  popular."— J^>7«- 
chester  Courier. 

"  It  will  be  looked  upon  as  a  treasure  by  every  one  interested  in  the 
literary  history  of  the  county." — Liverpool  Mercury. 

"  The  book  is  a  most  interesting  publication,  and  it  will  long  be 
appreciated  as  a  monument  of  Mr  Harland's  taste,  learning,  and  research. 
The  work  is  J^eautifully  printed,  and  excellently  got  out." — Preston 
Chronicle. 


LONDON:  WIIITTAKER  &  CO.,  AVE  MARIA  LANE. 


■<^ W  z^ 


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