William Billington: 'The Blackburn Poet' (1)

DEDICATORY SONNET.

TO MY TWO BROTHERS,

JOSEPH AND JAMES BILLINGTON.
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To whom shall I with such a perfect grace
And pure delight, enthroned above all others
In my proud heart, this fitting tribute trace
In dedication, as to those twain brothers
Whose sweet companionship hath filled life's race
With peace and hope and happiness, nor place
For doubt or discord left; but when a mother's
Lone life was darkened, bravely battling for
Her orphaned children's welfare, shielded her
From dearth and danger's menace when grim want
Was grown familiar, labour scarce, and scant
Our pittance. O! twas then, those golden chains,
The filial and fraternal fused, and there
The two were forged in one, which evermore remains.

W. B.

List of Subscribers
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ABBOTT, Henry Abbott, John Abram, Councillor Ainsworth, T., M. Ainsworth, J. Almond, John Almond, J. Almond, James Anthony, Morris Arthur, T. E. Ashton, Joseph Ashworth, Joseph Ashworth, Wm .......Accrington Ashworth, J. H. Aspin, W. T. Aspin, D. Aspin, C. Aspin, W, Aspin, J. Aspin, J. Astley, F. W. Atkinson, F. BAINES, T. Baldwin, John Baldwin, John Ballard, H. BaIIard, Wm. Bannister, John Bannister, Duke Barker, George Baron, J. J. Baron, T. Barton, William Battersby, C.	Baxendale, Oliver Beardsworth, R. Beardsworth, J. Beck, Archibald Beckett, R. Beet, W. Bentley, John Billington, W. J. Billington, Joseph Billington, J., junr. Billington, John Billington, Thos. Billington, John Billington, John Billington, John Billington, James Billington, James Billington, James Birtwistle, Thos. ........Accrington Birtwistle, M. Birtwistle, Joseph Bispham, W. Blackburn, Layton Blackburn Free Library Blackshaw, A. Blackshaw, James —Blezard, Liverpool Bolton, W. Bolton, John Bolton, Jas. Bolton, T. Bolton, Wm. Bolton, Cornelius Bond, John	Boothman, J. W. Boston, F. S. Boyle, Councillor Boyle, Wm. Bradley, D, Bradley, T. Bragg, H. Braithwaite, J. Brandwood, John Brandwood, Thos. Branson, Jonathan, ....Barrow-in-Furness. Briggs, J., J.P. Briggs, W. E., M.P. Briggs, J. Briggs, J. H. Brindle, James Hy. Brooks, W, Brook; W., Clitheroe Brooks, T. Brooks, Jonathan, ....Barrow-in-Furness. Brown, John Bulcock, W, Bryan, B. Bulcock, T. Burke, Wm. Burke, Father Bury, T. E. Bury, Robert Bury, Edward Butterworth, J. Butterworth, J. J. Butterworth, Wm., ....Padiham B. T.
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CAIRNS, John Calvert, Wm. Carr, John Cartmell, Wm. Catterall, John Chambers, Joseph Charnley, Edward Charrock, Thos. ....Oswaldtwistle Chatburn, Richard Chippendale, Thos. Christopherson, W. Clark, Wm. Clegg, R., ....Accrington Clegg, Jas., ....Heywood Clegg, Jas., ....Rishton Cliffe, Enoch Cockshoot, W. H. Cocking, Richard Coddington, W., M. P. Coddington, A. E. Collier, Wm., ....Burnley Wood Cooper, E. Cooper, John Fort Corbridge, L. T. Cotterill, R. W. Counsell, John Cowburn, T. L. Cowell, William Crampton, Jos. Crampton, Thos. Crampton, R. Craven, James Crook, Robert Crook, Geo. Cronshaw, Councillor Crossland, R. DAVIS, Birkett Dawson, Thos. Dean, James, ....Oswaldtwistle	Dewhurst, John Dilworth, W., ....Rawtenstall Dobson, Wm. Duckett, Robert, ....Rishton Duckworth, Peter Duckworth, Geo., ....Oswaldtwistle Duckworth, Joshua Duckworth, Jacob Duckworth, James Ducrow, H., ....Heywood Duerden, Thos. Dugdale, Felix Dugdale, Thos. Dunderdale, Father Duxbury, Thos. Duxbury, Wm., ....Barrow-in-Furness EASTHAM, Alfred Eastwood, Robert T. Eastwood, — .... Manchester Eatough, Wm. Eccles, James Eccles, Wm. Eccleston, James Edgar, Wm., ....Preston Edmundson, E., Edmundson, C., Edmundson, M., Edmundson, R., Edmundson, T., Edmundson, Wm, Eglin, E. Ellison, Thomas FAIRCLOUGH, John Farrell, James Fecitt, John Fecitt, James Fenton, Thos. Ferguson, William	Ferguson, Thomas Fielden, Alfred Firth, Jos., ....Accrington Fish, John Knowles ....Over Darwen Fletcher, Stephen Fletcher, Thos. Forrest, Thomas Fowler, Frank Fox, W. H. Frankland, Councillor GAINE, W. E. L. Garratt, Fred. Garstang, W., M.D. Geddes, J. D. Gillespie, Thomas Gillibrand. Thos. Gillibrand, Jas. Gilmore, Samuel Gledhill, Mrs. ....Halliwell Gledhill, Councillor, ....Bacup Graham, Henry Graham, H. G. Greenwood, Thos. Greenwood, James Green, James Green, S. ....Clitheroe Green, Henry ~~ Green, Joseph ~~ Green, Wm. ~~ Gregson, Wm. Gregson, Councillor Gregson, George Gribben, Corporal, ....92nd Highlanders Grime, Timothy Grime, John Grimshaw, Timothy Grimshaw, Joseph Grosart, A. B., LL.D. Grunshaw, Jos.
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HACKING, R. H. Hairsnape, John Halliday, John Halliday, Thos. ....Oswaldtwistle Halliday, — ....Halifax Hall, Edward Halton, Samuel Hand, Thomas Hanson, J. Hargreaves, John Hargreaves, E. Hargreaves, Jas. Hargreaves, John ....Accrington Harrison, Jabez Harrison, Alderman Harrison, Geo. Harrison, Wm. Harrison, S. J., ....Accrington Hartley, G. P. Hartley, Robert Hartley, Wm. Hart, P. W. Harwood, Robert Harwood, Ralph Haworth, John Haydock, James, Haydock, William Hayhurst, James Hayhurst, W. Haythornethwaite, W., ....Cherry Tree Heath, Ellis Heaton, J. Hetherington, E. Hewton, J. Heys, John Heyworth, Eli, J.P, Higham, John Higham, Wm., ....Accrington Higson, Jas., M. D. Hill, J., ....Darwen Hilton, Charles	Hindle, Councillor Hindle, John (junior) Hindle, Isaac Hindle, Jas. Hindle, Shep. Hindle, W. Hindle, C. Hindle, W. Hodgkinson, A. Hodkinson, H. Hodkinson, W, H. Hodkinson, J., ....Clitheroe Holden, John Holden, Israel Holden, Ellen Holden, Thomas Holgate, J. W., ....Bradford Holker, George Holmes, George Hopper, John Hopwood, Edward Houghton, James Hough, W. P. Howarth, Wm. Howarth, Robert Howarth, Thos., ....Oswaldtwistle Howarth, Mr. ....Clitheroe Hubbersty, John Hulme, H. N. Hulme, W. Hull, George IANSON, John Ibbotson, C. Ireland, J, JACKSON, Edward Jackson, Samuel Jackson, Thos. Jackson, Edwin, ....Clayton-le-Moors Jardine, Joseph	Jepson, J. R., ....Darwen Jennings, R. Johnston, James Jones, Robinson Jones, George Jones, Joseph KAY, Wm., junr. Keighley, Mrs. J. Kenealey, Caleb Kenyon, Thomas Kenyon, Albert Kenyon, West Kenyon, William Kenyon, William Kilshaw, Rd. King, Wm. Knowles, J. C. Knowles, W. Knowles, Jacob LANG, John Lawler, J. H. Lawson, Thos. Leach, T. Leach, H. Leach, James. Leaver, Ben. Leaver, J. Lee, Edwin Paxton Lee, Thos. Lee, Thos. Leonard, John Livesey, W. E. Livesey, John Livesey, James Livesey, T. H. Livesey, Wm. Libbie, H. Littlewood, H. B. Literary Club Lodge, Henry Lucas, Thomas MADEN, Edward Margerison, E. A,
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Walker, Gregory Walmsley, L. S. Walmsley, Enoch Walsh, John Walsh, Jabez Walsh, R. Walsh, S. D. Walsh, Joseph Waring, Benjamin Watson, James Watson, Paul Weall, Arthur	Wells, T. J., ....Accrington West, K. W. Westwell, R. Whalley, G., Rev. Whalley, James Whalley, John Whewell, T. Whittaker, W. White, D. S Whitehead, James, ....Oswaldtwistle	Whittle, Thos. Wigglesworth, G. Wilcock, Joseph Wilson, Wm. Wilson. R., M.D. Wilson, John, ....Manchester Winkle, Thos Wolstenholme, W Woodburn, Francis Worden, P. Kaye Wright, George

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PROEM.

    The true Poet is never duly appraised or understood by his neighbours or his contemporaries. He may be loved for amiable qualities, prized for his virtues, and praised for his talents, but the world refuses still to let him pass for his full worth till time shall have purged his thoughts of their mortality and thus purified and hallowed his memory. The exaggeration of this fact has led to the rude remark that "poets are half-idiots." This shallow truth is often in the mouths of worldly-minded men, who find it as impossible to appreciate the poet as it would be for them to compose his poetry. The bard's devotion to his art is thus secured, by his spiritual insularity—the obtuseness of mankind is his defence.

    'Tis well the poet passes for a fool, for did he seem a Saviour among men, then, Judas friends and Jewish foes might bid him bear the cross, while Persecution placed a crown of thorns upon his brow. The same conditions that depreciate the Poet disqualify the people for becoming each his own interpreter. The Bard is Nature's priest and needs must preach, and peal her glorious gospel in the world's dull ear. It may be deaf but he must not be dumb, but keep the fire upon her altar fed, if not with cheaper fuel, then, with his own heart's blood—his life.    Nature is a most exacting mistress, and jealous of her gifts, but yields the most to those that love her most, and as that love increases, forevermore doth she unfold her graces and her glories and enhance her beauty and her bloom. The eye of beauty brightest burns when looking at her lover. All men are lovers of Nature. The men of means and lesiure live with her, and all their parks and sporting grounds, and farms and country seats, and castellated halls are voiceless poems—the poetry of deeds. But this is not art. Art is the doorway of Heaven through which the angels pass to minister to mankind.

    True genius, like the morning sun which turns the night to day, the mist to golden fleece, the clouds to purple palls, the dew drops into diamonds, and illumines heaven and earth—still hallows every object of its touch.

    Poetry lives in all things, but latent, like flame in flint, and requires to be brought into contact with genius, as stone does with steel, before its hidden flames flash out and flood the air with beauty.

    It shouts in the winter's storm and sighs in the summer's gale. It glows in the lightning's flash and rattles in the thunder's roar.    'Tis seen in the sacred stillness of the starstudded midnight heavens, and heard in the music of the blue and boundless deep. Rocks, woods and hills, trees, floods and flowers, the rainbow and the cataract, the rose and the lily, the rough stubble and the rude hut, the modern mansion and the velvet mead, the ruined castle and the barren moor are equally instinct with the omnipresent spirit of poesy. The bard whose faith is equal to his gift can see God burn in every bush. And though the Muse is no Magdalen, yet is it true that no sincere suitor, with singleness of purpose and simplicity of heart, ever sought her favours finally in vain.

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LANCASHIRE SONGS.

FRIENDS ARE FEW WHEN FOOAK ARE POOR.

When aw hed wark, an' brass to spend,
Aw never wanted for a friend;
Fooak coom a campin every neet,
An mooved when meetin me i'th' street;
Mi company wor cooarted then
Bi business chaps, an' gentlemen—
Aw ceawnted comrades then bi t' scoor,
Bud neaw aw've noan, becose aw'm poor.

Aw'd invitations every day,
To dine, or sup, or teck mi tay,
Or caw an' hev a friendly chat
Wi Mr. This and Mrs. That;
An' Squire Consequence, to boot,
Ud ax me o'er to fish—or shoot
Wi dog an' gun, o'er fell an' moor—
Bud that's knockt off, becose aw'm poor.

Then Scotchmen bothered me wi' goods,
An' tongues as smooth as soft-sooap suds,
For patronage; an' strove to ged it
Wi' yerds o' cloth, an' years o' credit!
Bud neaw they'n torned ther tune, bi th' mass;
Some's hawkin tay—for reddy brass!
Some kornd si th' number o' mi door, '
They'n groon so blind, sin' aw grew poor.

An' wod mecks matters look moor feaw,
Mi kinsfooak doesn't know mi neaw;
Puffed up wi' pride to sitch a pitch,
They'n no relations—bud wot's rich!
An' even my own brother Jim,
He ses aw'm nowt akin to him-
"Bi gum!" thowt aw, "bud that's a througher,
A mon's a boggart when he's poor."

Aw know there's t' Warkheawse when o's done,
Bud whooa likes gooin to th' Union?
Aw'd liefer lay mo deawn an' dee
Nor live on public charity!
On parish pay, or teawn's relief
One's looked on next door to a thief;
An wonst inside o' th' Warkheawse door,
They'll keep yo alive, bud nod mich moor!

Sooa th' world wags on, fro day to day,
An' still id ses, or seems to say,
"This poverty's a deadly sin
Wod banishes booath friends an' kin,
An' stinks in every noble nooas."
Sooa yo, who've nether meyt nor clooas,
Mun live o'th' air, an lie o'th' floor,
An serve yo reet—becose yo're poor.

1861.

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HEAW TO GED RICH.

Aw've just neaw bin puttin mi studdyin cap on,
An' tryin to find eawt a way, iv aw con,
To tell heaw id is as aw've toyl'd like a slave,
Ever sin' aw could crawl, tell aw've one foot i'th' grave;
Fro week end to week end, fro mornin to neet,
Aw've moythered an slaved like a chap uts nooan reet;
An' yet after doin and sufferin so mich,
Though my yure's torned to silver, aw've nod getten rich.

An' yet, i' mi lifetime, aw've known one or two
As never wod wark when they hed wark to do,
But awlus contrived to be at a loce end
Noather wantin for bacco nor money to spend,
Nor carin a cos wod torned up or mut drop,
Iv they could bud wriggle into a snug shop;
When they dud id meant brass witheawt warkin a stitch,
For a chap as likes warkin ull never ged rich.

Aw feel it's a fact, and aw know it's a trewth,
A bit o' God's gospel aw learnt i' mi yewth,
Men should win their bread bi the sweat o' their broo;
Bud them as sweats th' hardest is awlus t' bigg'st foo!
The reason is this, an' it's yesy to tell,
Two drops for their maister, bud one for theirsel
Iv yo wodn't be durted, keep eawt o' the ditch;
Watch other fooak wark, iv yo want to ged rich.

Put th' screw-key i'th' cubbert, fling t' reedhook away,
Ged a stick, an' a pack, an' hawk coffee an' tay;
Keep a shop, be religious, yo'll drive a good trade
Bi cant an' hypocrisy, join some brigade—
Join t' cowd-wayter army, an' bray like an ass,
There's foos as ull soon fill yo'r pockuts wi' brass
Bud ged yo'r exchequer as full as a fitch,
Ony way bonny, yo're reet iv yo're rich!

Or beawnce into business, ged goods uppo strap,
Place yo'r paw upo o yo con rend or con rap '
Play th' fast an' loce game in a underhand way,
Be th' fost mon to porchase, but th' last mon to pay;
Iv there's a schoo-meetin, be sure to be th' cheermon,
An' jingle yo'r "tin" at a charity sermon;
An' should yo at last ged yo'r streng among th' pitch,
Ged a friend, an' ged whiteweshed, an' still yo'll be rich.

When th' 'lecktion time comes, wear a tornable cooat,
An' wheer ther's t' mooast money—torn thad way to vooat!
Tell lies bi the legion, an' swear they're o true,
Then help yo'r employer to put on the screw,
Kick up rows, batter yeds, an' when browt afoor th' cooart
Teck an ooath an' bring proof as yo'n done nowt o' t'
sooart.
No matter, though conscience may give an odd twitch,
Fooak parts wi' ther conscience when they getten rich.

Wod yo keep a conscience an' loise by id?—pshaw!
Honour is everything! Honesty—bah!
Find a mon iv yo con, bud then wheer is ther one
As ull stick to sich stuff tell his livin is gone;
Sooa button yo'r pockuts, an' look to yo'rsels,
Dorn'd care a button for nobudy else;
Be as mild as a chilt, bud as foce as a witch,
Oily-tongued an' two-faced, an' yo'r sure to ged rich!

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NOBUDY KNOWS BUD MYSEL.

When nobut a bit ov a lad,
    A boy abeawt th' height o' mi knee,
Aw lived wi mi mam an' mi dad,
    An' aw yuse to climb th' owd appo-tree
To shake id big looad a bit less,
    An' heaw mi heart lept when they fell—
When red uns leet thump among t' gress—
    There's nobudy knows bud mysel!

Wey'd a orchut, a pump, an' two wells,
    An' a heawse as worn'd builded o' breek;
Wey'd a clooas-hedge an' fowd to eawrsels,
    An' o for a shillin a week!
A snug little countrified cot,
    Where peace, health, an' happiness dwell,
An' heaw happy aw lived i' thad spot
    There's nobudy knows bud mysel!

Aw'd bobbins to wind an' noss t' child.
    Bud nowt wor no trouble to me
Aw rolluckt an' run welly wild,
    An' rowled on an' throave like a tree;
At last eawr fooak sent me to t' skoo,
    Where they learnt me to read, write an'
        spell,
An' heaw aw waxt wiser an' grew
    There's nobudy knows bud mysel.

Mi yed grew as heigh as mi dad's,
    Bud mi sense dudn'd grow quite so fast;
So, like other gred fellow-lads,
    Aw started o' courtin' at last;
Aw buckt up to t' bonniest lass
    As lived within t' ring o' t' church bell;
An' which way aw won her, bi t' mass,
    There's nobudy knows bud mysel.

Aw wed her, an' childer coom thick,
    An' weyving went wos an' still wos,
An' which way aw kept us o wick,
    Aw could'nd tell iv aw're to oss
Wey scrat on all' dud as we could—
    Bad luck followed after pell-mell,
An' heaw aw poo'd through as aw dud
    There's nobudy knows bud mysel.

Bud, t' childer grew up, an' geet wed,
    An' started o' storrin their shoon
Tort where there wur wark to be hed,
    An' they sattled i' th' factory, soon;
They progg'd on, an' prospered o reet,
    An' neaw it's a pleasure to tell—
An' heaw id rejoyst mo to see 't
    There's nobudy knows bud mysel!

Aw started o' keeping a shop;
    Eawr Tummy geet tacklin, an' then
Eawr Peter just happened to pop
    On a snug shop o' managin, when
This 'Merica bother begun—
    This world o' misfortunes befel,
An' wod loss an' wod lumber it's done,
    Let Lancashire speyk for id sel.

1862.

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LOOK UNDER T' LEEOVES IF YO' WANT ONY NUTS.

TUNE—"HEAW TO GED RICH."

This world is a wood, an' it's plain to be sin,
An' fooak are o foresters, dwellin theerin,
An' whether they leeod or they han to be led
Depends upo heaw mony nuts they con ged:
Be good or be bad, or be gumshus, or green,
That's newt to dot wi't iv yo'n t' yewse o' yo'r eeu—
They poo 'em o'er t' booard to find floats i' yo'r cuts,—
Look under t' leeoves iv yo want ony nuts.

There's mony a cleawn in a fine suit o' clooas,
An' teetotal advocate wi' a red nooas,
An' sanctified sinner, on Sunday at church,
Wod owes his uprightness to buckram an' starch:
There's mony a blackguard rigged eawt i' the best,
An' mony a gentlemon shabbily drest;
Brooad clooath an' brocade may screen slovens an' sluts,—
Look un der t leeoves iv yo want ony nuts.

Teck stock ov o t' bees in eawr labourin hives,
Whether single or wed, whether husbands or wives,
Heaw they toyle an' they tew, heaw they wark an' they slave,
It's a race for a crust, an' fro t' cradle t' grave!
An' yet fro their number there neaw and then springs
An Arkwright, or Stephenson—Labour's thowt-kings—
An' they've lifted t' front wheels o' this world eawt o't' ruts,—
Look under t' leeovs iv yo want ony nuts.

An appo's as yesy to pluck as a crab,
Yet lads, when yo wed, never ride in a cab,
But pick eawt a partner—a sweet-tempered lass,
As ull walk, an' ull wark, an' teck care o' yo'r brass
There's nowt in a flantin an' dashin young dame,
For a hen as ull lay is booath modest an' tame:
It's a peacock, or turkey, wod stretches or struts,—
Look under t' leeoves iv yo want ony nuts.

Thoose ladies an' lords ut are caw'd "th' Upper Ten,"
Theer wonderful beins, hoaf gods au' hoaf men,
Are no wiser nor better, nor nobler than uz—
Their blood is noan blue, mon, it's nobud a buzz!
We'll admit their superior endowments an' peawers,
When they torn eawt a Shakespere or Burns to lick eawrs;
Iv there's diamonds i' t' palace there's hearts into th' huts,—
Look under t' leeoves iv yo want ony nuts.

The cuckoo lays eggs in another bird's nest;
There's mony a gowd cheeon on a guilty men's breast,
An' mony a foo iv the truth were bud known,
Feythers other fooaks' fauts an' he thinks they're his own;
They fancy they're foce, do these family men,
An' their wives up to t' "nines," bud they're often misten,
For, her secret's dame Natur still eawt o' t' way puts,
Look under t' leeoves iv yo want ony nuts.

An oystershell is bud a reyther rough dish,
Bud we find id oft filled wi' a varra fine fish;
A seck may be rotten an' t' barley be seawnd,
For gowd is still gowd, though it's dug eawt o't' greawnd:
The wost lookin fiddle's the best one to play—
There's mony a foormon lives up a back way,
An' wheeot is no wos wod contains a few smuts,—
Look under t' leeoves iv yo want ony nuts.

We know nowt o' th' egg tell we'n brocken through t' shell,
Wod's in a mon's noddle there's nobry can tell,
Nor whether his brainbox is empty or full
Bi fingerin t' bumps o'th' eawtside ov his skull;
We korn'd sum a fish tell we'n pood it to t' side,
Nor a knife, nor a wife, tell their temper's bin tried;
We teck friends to be foes, tell their coffin lid shuts,—
Look under t' leeoves iv yo want ony nuts.

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TAKE CARE O' NUMBER ONE.

TUNE—"BOWTON YARD."

A regular owd stager, wot's
    Sin summut in his time,
Thus rakes up his experience
    An' puts id into rhyme;
An' o the lesson he hes learnt,
    Through life while joggin on,
Is, "Look yo to yo'rsels, mi lads—
    Take care o' number one."

Chorus—
    Lay howd at once an every chance,
        An' stick to wod yo con;
    The law o' life is push ahead,
        An' look to number one.

Take care o' number one, for that's
    A lesson that the rich
Hev loved, an' learnt, an' lived upon,
    An' practiced—ill to mich!
We ape their foolish fashions, bud
    Aw fancy that, anon,
We's learn their favourite lesson, an'
    Take care o' number one.

Take care o' number one, for would
    Yo better yo'r estate,
Yo'll learn to live beawt warkin, iv
    Yo nobbut ged agate!
Trade, buy an' sell, an' cut a swell,
    An' finger o yo con,
As t' law ull let yo stick to—that's
    The rule o' number one.

Take care o' number one, lads, spooart
    Yo'r cloth, an' brush abeawt,
An' fooak ull o say, "Dash mi buttons—
    Yon mon's comin eawt!"
Yo owe an odd five hundred—howd
    Yo'r heyd up like a mon!
Awlus keep booath heyd an' heart tip, an'
    Take care o' number one.

Take care o' number one, boys; use
    A little moor soft sooap;
Just mind which way yo'r money gooas,
    An' grasp t' reet end o' th' rooap;
An' when yo'n poo'd a fortune through,
    An' built a heawse up yon,
Sit deawn an' sing, "Aw owe nothing
    To nowt bud number one."

Take care o' number one, for iv
    A bachelor yo are,
There's lots o' bonny lasses, bud
    Then marry—iv yo dar!
Be cute abeawt yo'r choosin, or
    The gowd o' life is gone;
When yo wed a thriftless hussy, wod
    Becomes o' number one?

Take care o' number one, yo dowters
    Dear ov ancient Eve,
Nor heed thad nowty nonsense wod
    Young chaps ma's yo believe;
Yo'r nod quite angels, bud hoo comes
    The nearest that hoo con
To thoose angelic beins, wod
    Ta's care o' number one.

Take care o' number one, neaw,
    Every husband, every wife,
Feyther, mother, sister, brother,
    Every rank an' grade i' life;
As yo'n oft read or yerd id sed
    Ut "Life is bud a spon,"
T' best way to mek id sweet an' breet
    Is see to number one.

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COWD WINTER IS COMIN ONCE MOOR.

It's wearin tort t' back end o' t' year
    And t' times doesen't offer to mend,
Bud wossen o' t' two, an' aw fear
    My warp's welly woven to th' end;
For aw've noather money nor meyt,
    Nor meons to keep want fro my door—
Thin clooas an' nowt gradely to heyt,
    An' winter is comin once moor

A warkin mon's whoam is bud bare
    Iv his wark or his health chance to fail,
For a kite connod keep up i' th' air
    When id loises id streng or id tail;
A twelmon sin' aw wor unshopp'd,
    An' wey were hard howden afoor,
Bud neaw, when o t' bedclooas is popp'd,
    Cowd winter is comin once moor.

My heart jumps for joy ov a neet
    When aw stor eawt or step across t' way,
To see sich o childer i' th' street,
    So full o' their frollicks an' play;
God bless 'em!   Aw know they dornd know
    Heaw parents are pinch'd an' heaw poor—
An' it's weel as they dornd do, for, O!
Cowd winter is comin once moor.

"God never sends meawths witheawt meyt,"
    A proverb as owd as it's true,
An' iv fooak dudend fo eawt an' feight
    Hands an' meawths ud ha' plenty to do.
It's o lung o' t' 'Merica war
    Ut cotton's bin kept fro eawr shore,
While want still keeps nippin us nar
    As winter is comin once moor.

There's chaps wod hes plenty o' brass
    As con heyt an' see honest men clam,
Bud changes may yet come to pass,
    Their cake isn't etten to th' hem,
For Fortune's a whirligig witch
    Wod sometimes will torn up the poor,
An' deawn into t' dust wi' the rich,
    An' let them feel winter once moor.

It's nonsense to bother an' fratch,
    An' blame one for makin a song,
For we'n o run eawr tether to t' ratch
    Or shall hev afoor id be long;
There's theawsands besides me an' yo
    As once hed life's blessins i' stoor,
Neaw shiverin like sheep among snow
    When winter is comin once moor.

O t' grave is a refuge o' rest
    For us o when we'n finished life's race,
Bud id daunts booath the bravest an' best
    To peep i' Deoth's terrible face!
So let us keep potterin on,
    Let us live though we lie upo' th' floor,
Let us howd up eawr yeds while we con
    An' face this cowd winter once moor.

OCTOBER, 1863.

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WHERE WILL T GOOSE COME FRO?

"Where shall we ged a goose this time?"
    Sed Mally unto John,
"For beawt a goose aw see no yuse
    O' Kesmus comin on."
"Will to howd ti tongue, theaw skitter-wit;
    Awst ged a goose aw know;
Aw hev done an' aw shall."   Ses Mall-
    "Bud where will t' ged id fro?

"Aw've thowt abeawt one monny a time,
    Aw've pray'd for't neet an' noon;
For weel aw know there's nowt below
    Unposs' to Him aboon;
Sin' meyt's so mooast enormous dear,
    An' brass so sca'ce an' o,
Unless one comes bi Providence,
    John, where will t' goose come fro?

"Mi mother awlus bowt a goose
    For Kesmus—awlus brew'd;
Wod coom or went, thad day were spent
    I' joy an' jollitude;
Bud t' world's gwon welly t' rang side up;
    Aw wod Time's tit ud sto
Afoor id drags owd Kesmus in,
    When we'n no goose at o.

"Theaw tokes abeawt proggreshunin,
    When theaw's bin readin t' news;
Heaw t' march o' mind's improv'd monkind,
    An' hoaf converted t' Jews;
Bud aw see nowt to change my thowt
    That Time's scythe is a saw
Wed severs friends an' hearts an' hopes-
    Then where will t' goose come fro?"

Sed John then, feelin rayther hort
    While harkenin this discooas,
"Moor glents o' God i'th' world theaw wod
    See if theaw'd look moor clooase—
New churches, chapels, institutions"-
    "Warkheawses an' o,
An' prisons too;" owd Mally sed—
    "Bud where will t' goose come fro?"

"True," John replied, "aw ne'er deny'd,
    I' this unperfect state,
As summat wrong mun still belong
    To owt wot's good an' great;
There's splotches upo' th' Sun's breet face,
    An' soot-drops onto t' snow;
An' tell doomsday there'll be some to say—
    Where will t' fat goose come fro?

"Aw once agreed wi t' drunkard's creed,
    Bud neaw id's come to pass,
Owd Temperance hes learnt mo sense
    To teck care o' mi brass;"
Then, fro a cleawt, he pottered eawt
    Three "waggon wheels" to show
He practiced wod he preyched, then crowed-"
    "Eh! where will t' goose come fro?"

Then Mally look'd enough to swoon,
    Distrustin booath her een,
So wonderfied, they multiplied
    Three creawns into thirteen;
Bud fro her swoon, recovered soon,
    Hoo pickt up wod hoo saw,
Sayin', "These three chaps o' hossback ull
    Soon fetch a goose, aw know!"

1852.

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WOD CON A WEYVER DO?

Booath careful and sober aw am,
    An' moor patient nor mony a scoor;
Bud it's hard to booath wark hard an' clam,
    An' be bothered wi' duns at yo'r door.
Aw've tried o mi life to ged on,
    An neaw, when aw'm welly worn through,
Aw think as id stans me upon
    To sing "Wod con a weyver lad do?"

Aw've hardly a shirt to mi back,
    An' aw've scarcely a shoe to mi foot;
Mi goods, they are o gwon to rack,
    Aw've a wife an' five chilther to boot:
When they're wed, yo known, young un's will
        come!
    An' mi wife gwoes to t' factory too—
Hoo wants mo to keep her a-whoam!
    Bud wod con a poor weyver lad do?

If a chap is as strong as a hoss,
    An' con carry a thumpin big beom,
An's as ill as a devil, an' wos,
    Tho' he noather con reason nor scheom,
He gets med in a tackler at once!
    Tho' he's nobbut a big-boddied foo;
While there's scoors wi moor wit i' their sconce,
    Singin "Wod con a weyver lad do?"

Sometimes when a blockheod's bin grumbling,
    As iv aw'd committed some blunder,
Aw find mysel foast to be humblin
    When he should, by good-reet, knock under;
This sets me a-thinking as heaw,
    When a lad, iv aw'd gwon moor to t' schoo,
Aw might ha' bin managin neaw—
    Bud weyvin'—wod con a mon do?

When aw into company go,
    Aw hardly dar utter a word,
Lest somebody wi' their slack jaw
    Co eawt "Sowdger, hes teaw browt thi sword?"
"He's a Knight of the Reed-hook!" sed one,
    While his bullet een riddlt mo through,
Tell mi blood boilt like broth in a pon—
    Bud wod could a poor weyver lad do?

When aw're young aw knew some'at o' this,
    Though aw couldn't grasp howd of id o,
But aw seed id, an' heaw could aw miss
    Feelin hort to hear weyvers let low:
Sed a lass '— Neaw aw'st look a nice tuttle
    If aw were sin cooarting wi you,
A chap wod con cuss newt but t' shuttle!
    Wod else con a weyver lad do?"

Aw dar say yo known owd Soft Breod,
    Or happen yo'n heerd on't afoor,
He ses "when a weyver's gwon deod"
    As there's "nobury bud donkeys ull rooar."
He wears o his wages i' meyl-
    Thick porridge—an' korn'd ged enow!
An', except yo would hev him to steyl,
    Wod con a poor weyver lad do?

It's no yuse o' shufflin an' shirkin,
    Wi' hints abeawt t' bottle an' glass:
For, untel there's moor money for warkin,
    Unless he geds howd o' moor brass,
He'll noather be wiser nor better,
    Tho Wisdom an' Virtue may woo;
While fasn'd bi Poverty's fetter
    Wod con a poor weyver lad do?

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_______________________

GOO IN TO WIN.

TUNE—" IRISH WASHERWOMAN."

We're rattlin along at a wonderful rate
Tort deoth, as iv freetund o' being too late,
An' pushin an' crushin like fooak ut's nooan reet,
Tell there's good un's gi's up when they connud
        compete;
It's diamond cut diamond an' o do yo'r best,
Be t' fost mon yor'sel, and the devil teck t' rest,
Goo in for a win or at t' wost for a 'place'—
There's newt in a boss as is t' last in a race !

Iv a chap hes no conscience bud plenty o' cheek
He con net a month's profit i' less nor a week;
Iv he's young, strong, an' plucky, an' gwos a good
        speed
Id's twenty to nothin thad mon ull suck seed;
Iv his mate at his elbow should happen to fo
He con sprint off his body,—let t' weak go to t' wo!
Sooa goo in for a win or at t' wost for a place
For ther's newt in a hoss running t' last in a race.

Iv yo start an establishment, sellin cheeop stuff,
Yo con meck id fost class wi' palavour an' puff,
Australian mutton, or 'Merica beef,
Or a stock bowt for newt when a friend's come to grief;
An' iv t' public be blind, yo con oppen their eyes,
They'll bring yo their brass iv yo'll bod advertise!
Goo in for a win or at wost for a place,
Thad hoss is the "boss" as is t' fost in a race.

Meawnt a stump or a stage, be professor or quack,
An' yo'll fathom t' percentage o' foos in a crack,
A daub ov a picture, a cast ov a skull
Petched wi' pieces o' papper ull help yo to gull;
Speawt bumkum an' dress like a second-hand swell,
Spatter words knockin deawn one another pell-mell,
But thrutch in an' win, meck yo'r mark, there's a place,
For t' wost often wins in a jackasses' race.

Iv yo'r weyvin (wod odds?) yo con keep shovin up,
An' be sure as yo'r tackler geds som'at to sup,
O t' tips an' o' t' tales yo con tattle an' tell
To yo'r maister, an' soon be a tackler yo'rsel;
When weary wi' t' factory, t' reet rooad abeawt
Is to goo further in iv yo want to ged eawt,
To goo in for a win or at t' wost for a place,
For ther's newt in a hoss as runs last in a race.

Toke slowterheawse slang, ged a meersham an' smook,
Play billiards an' bet, start a meckin a 'book',
When yo'n fleeced o yo'r friends yo con then liquidate,
Pay a penny i'th' peawnd, an' at last emigrate;
Self-banished by fraud upo somebody else—
It's a new fashioned rooad o' transpooartin thirsels,
So goo in for a win or to find a fresh place,
When yo'r savin yo'r skin ther's some sense in a race.

Bud fooak wod want yesy heygh-sallaried jobs
Should look for 'em under t' Municipal 'nobs,'
They con wark for thersel wal they're warkin for t'
        teawn,
An' their wage ull goo up when id owt to go deawn;
They'n double wod number o' warkmen they need,
An' they wark as they woke, at a snail-gallop speed,
So goo in for the 'tin,' they'll consider yo'r case,
When id comes eawt o t' rates they con grant id wi'
        grace.

We're spinnin sooa fast, an' sooa mich opo' t' spec,
Tell one's freetened ut t' world ull be breighkin id
        neck,
An' we's o go to smash at some unlucky strooak
Iv t' Mon up aboon doesn't put in a spooak;
Wi' t' rich geddin richer an' t' poor grooin poorer,
Wal th' army ov idlers keeps still grooin moor,
Goo in for a win, sell yo'r soul for a place,
Oather do or he done, it's a neck an' neck race.

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_______________________

OWD BASS DICK.

TUNE—" JAMIE RILEY."

Aw was browt up, an orphan boy, without a parent's care,
Was lodged i'th' parish workhouse, an' was fed on pauper's
        fare,
Nor stayed there long, when grown up strong, but, free in
        life, began
To try my skill in a cotton mill; I then became a man.

Aw felt mi independence—hev maintained it ever since—
'Mid dust an' boom i'th' "blowing room" as happy as a
        prince,
My heart did bound to t' "beater's" sound, fro daylight unto
        dark;
For joy I cried, an' could hev died, so sweet seemed honest
        wark!

Wi' manhood's full possession, then, just in the prime o' life,
'Twas thowt no indiscretion, when aw sowt myself a wife;
Aw took a mate, improved my state, the years hev rolled on
        quick,
Time speeds along—aw sing a song—they call me "Owd Bass
        Dick!"

Bass Dick is fond o' music, an' is well up to the mark,
He plays no second fiddle to t' best mon i' Grimshaw Park,
He pays his way—hes nowt to say, but likes a bit o' life—
A reg'lar brick is owd Bass Dick, God bless booath him an t'
        wife!

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ROOAS O' T' RIVER SIDE.

TUNE—" WHEN MOLLY AN ME GETS WED."

Bi yon bonk side at t' nook o' t' wood
    There runs a river clear,
An' theer a little, sweet rooasbud—
    A bonny lass lives theer;
Hoo's th' owd mon's boast an' t' young
        men's toast—
    Her mother's pet an' pride!
Her name's a slip o' poesy,
    It's t' Rooas o' t' river side.

Her feyther swears an' carries on—
    Aw monnud hev his lass!
For Rooasy owt to wed a mon
    Ut's wo'th a bit o' brass;
Bud aw could wark an' bring her brass,
    An' som'at else beside—
A loyal heart brimful o' love
    To bless mi bonny bride.

Wheer t' sun-forsaken alley lies—
    I'th' factory among th' looms—
True love con meck a Paradise
    O' wheer id buds an' blooms;
Nod dasies, pinks, nor daffodils—
    Nod pansies prankt an' pied,—
Nor lilies fair con aw compare
    To t' Rooas ut river side.

Aw've awlus Rooasy i' my thowts,
    I'th' morning ; an' at neet,
Aw'm like to wander theerabeawts
    For th' air's so fresh an' sweet!
Theer t' gress is greener—t' skies moor
        blue—
    An' t' fleawers moor deeply dyed;
Bud nooan so deeply dints this heart
    As t' Rooas o' t' river side.

When crossin o'er bi th' hillock crest
    Aw've skent at t' cottage dur;
Mi heart played skittles i' mi breast
    To ged a glint o' hur;
An' when within thad lattice porch
    Mi bonny lass aw spied,
Aw thowt o' wings—then wedding rings
    An' Rooas o' t' river side!

Her een's like yon blue lift aboon,
    Her locks are cleawdy gowd;
Mi pulse played music—beat a tune—
    When fost mi love aw towd;
An' then when Rooasy smiled on me,
    For joy aw could ha cried,
An' blessed the Peawer as formed thad
        fleawer,
    Sweet Rooas o' t' river side.

Aw praised her name as t' prattiest name
    As ever aw hed known,
Hoo hinted iv aw pressed mi claim
    Hoo'd swap id for my own;
Sooa Rooas an' me ull soon be one,
    As streoms together glide,
Then buds ull spreawt and branch abeawt
    This Rooas o't river side.

When care shall come, an' life look glum,
    An' trouble's billows roll,
Her smile hes peawer to sheed a sheawer
    O' sunshine i' my soul!
So neaw for better or for wos,
    Let weal or wo betide,
Aw'll buckle too an' link mi lot
    Wi' Rooas o' t' river side.

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ME AN' MYSEL.

Aw've seldom bin deawn hearted,
    Though put to mony a shift;
Aw've sin' this panic started
    Gi'n monny a mate a lift;
Aw'm preawd to think ut hitherto
Aw've done beawt parish pay or dow,
    Or ony gred mon's gift;
Bud, beawt booath wark an' brass an' o,
One neet aw leet mi sperits fo.

Aw seet mo deawn dejected
    To mourn mi rueful case,
Aw pondthered an' reflected
    Tell tears rowld deawn mi face;
Bud moor aw moythered, moor aw thowt,
The moor id seemed aw could do nowt,
    To win dame Fortune's grace!
Sooa, fooast to give id up at last,
Aw rooared as iv mi heart ud brast!

When aw geet sto'd o' sobbin
    Aw sed this to Mysel:
"Whey, theaw gred goamless gobbin,
    To snifter sooa, an' bell!
Isted o frettin like a foo
Pluck up, an' do as others do,
    For whooa the deuce con tell
Bud in another twelvemon theaw
May gaff o'er them theaw envies neaw?"

Mysel sed to mo:—"Willy,
    Theaw favvours bein' a gaff (?)"
Th' idea seemed so silly,
    Aw couldn't help bud laugh;
To spreyde brooad clooath, like windmill sails,
Wi' white shirt-neck, cleyn finger-nails—
    Sooa Billy bawled eawt "Chaff!"
Bud whispered—"Things ud bi no wos,
Iv he'd some shiners in his poss!"

Wey booath at wonst said "theigher!"
    When to this point we coom,
"Let's wark wur way up heigher
    I'th world—there's lots o' room!
An' fooak, wod neaw aboon us stand,
Ud happen lend a helpin hand
    To lift us eawt o'th' gloom
O' poverty, where poets dwell,
Iv we'd bud awse to help wursel."

Sooa this confabulation
    Between me an' mysel,
Coom to a termination,
    As yo'n just yerd mo tell;
An' tho' mi prospect's varra dark,
Aw's nod goo up to Grimshaw Park*—
    Aw'd sooner go to——well,
No matter wheer, aw'st potter on,
Yo known, there's awlus some way done.

*Union Workhouse.

1863.

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_______________________

THE ANTI-MALTHUSIAN'S SONG.

At twenty an' one aw geet married,
    An' t' lass wod aw took for mi wife
Wor to me sich a love, as witheawt her
    Aw couldn't ha' pottered thro' life.
Every year added one to eawr number,
    An' twins altered t' reckonin twice,
Tell mi looaf wor at t' bottom i' no time
    When every one hed a slice.

Wi' nowt bud mi health to depend on,
    Aw're careful and quait as a meawse;
Nobbud one pair o' hands to uphowd us—
    One prop to support a whole heawse!
Oh! wedlock is wonderful happy,
    Fro th' altar to th' edge of a grave
Wi' a wife as is newt but a wet-noss,
    A husband is nobbud a slave.

It's feeoful to think upo th' future,
    When a pair o' true hearts hev bin joined,
Heaw ill a poor mon's to be hampered—
    Heaw badly his wife's to be hoyn'd!
A spoon an' a can, an' some porridge,
    Clogs an' stockins, an' schoo-wage to boot,
When a chap hes a heawse full o' childer,
    Wheer is ther a mon as con do't?

Ther's rich fooak as hardly hes ony,
    Wi' plenty o' money an' meyt,
Wal poor fooak are blest wi' too mony
    As kornd find 'em summat to heyt.
T'other day when wod should ha' bin t' breakfast
    Wor sided wi' little a-do,
After threopin an' thrawlin wi' t' childer,
    Eawr Sally hed sent 'em to t' schoo.

Little Joedy torned, snifterin an' whimperin,
    "Si tho, Mamy—aw've lost mi tooacleawt."
"Tha're to lat—tha'll ged lickt—does to yer me?
    Ne'er heed id—be off witho beawt!"
Yore squires an' yo're pa'sons an' sich like,
    Wod never knew stint to their meals,
Hev no notion an' connud imagine
    Wod pinch-belly'd poverty feels.

Fine fooak wod we meet upo' th' market,
    Wi guts to prop eawt their gowd cheons,
Ud feel puzzled, iv one were to ax em,
    Wod gradely poverty meons.
Booath willin' an' able to work, mon,
    Aw've sowt id, an' kornd ged a strooak;
Wi eawr Sal upo' th' rooad for another,
    Aw'm towd as ther's too mony fooak.

Wi only so mony fooak werkin,
    An' so mony walkin abeawt,
They say'n it's o-long o big families,
    Wod leoves sich a lot o' fooak eawt.
We're towd to "increase an' be fruitful,
    Multiply an' replenish the earth;"
As if a chap bettered a "keaw price"
    Every time as his wife hed a birth.

Neaw aw've awlus kept up thad commandment,
    An' aw'm looath to relinquish id yet;
Though id's browt me to t' threshold o'th'
        Warkheawse,
    An' plunged me o'er th' yed into debt.
Mi treawsers are o torn to tatters,
    Mi cooat hes lost one ov id tails,
An' aw hardly dar pass by a rag shop
    For fear they should throw me on t' scales.

Aw know kings are like to hev sowdgers,
    An' sowdgers' blood owt to be spilled,
Bud aw kornd see mich yuse i' fooak livin
    O' porpus to nowt but be killed.
Fooak's bodies wornd med to stop bullets,
    Let kings say they wor iv they dar;
T' best way to do beawt ony sowdgers
    Is fost to do beawt ony war.

Sooa t' world, like a gred looad o' lumber,
    Keeps rowlin, as Time hurries past,
Increosin' poor fooak beyond number,
    Tell statesmen an, o are quite fast.
Let us keep upo' th' reyt rooad to ruin,
    Philosophy's Fruit's nooan for us,
An' let War, Plague, and Dearth keep undoin
    Ah' marrin' God's wark, as id does.

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TH' SURAT WEYVER'S SONG.

We're warkin lads frae Lankysheer,
    An' gradely daycent fooak;
We'n hunted weyvin far an' near,
    An' couldn't ged a strook;
We'n sowd booath table, clock, an' cheer,
    An' popt booath shoon an' hat,
An' borne wod mortal man could bear,
    Affoor we'd weyve Surat!

It's neaw aboon a twelmon gone
    Sin't "crisis" coom abeawt,
An' t' poor's tried hard to potter on
    Tell t' rich ud potter eawt;
We'n left no stooan unturn'd, nod one,
    Sin' t' trade becoom so flat,
Bud neaw they'n browt us too id, mon,
    They'n med us weyve Surat!

Aw've yerd fooak talk o' t' treydin mill,
    Un pickin oakum too;
Bud transpooartation's nod as ill
    As weyvin rotten Su!
It's been too monny for eawr Bill,
    Un aw'm as thin as a latt,
Bud iv wey wi' t' Yankees hed eawr will,
    We'd hang 'em i' t' Surat!

It's just like rowlin stooans up t' broo,
    Or twisting rooaps o' sand;
Yo piece yo'r twist, id comes i' two,
    Like cobwebs i' yor hand;
Aw've wark'd an' woven like a foo!
    Tell aw'm as weak as a cat,
Yet after o as aw could do,
    Aw'm konkurd bi t' Surat!

Eawr Mally's i' t' twist fever yon—
    Mi feyther's getten bagg'd;
Strange tacklers winnod teck him on,
    Becose his cooat's so ragg'd!
Mi mother ses it's welly done—
    Hoo'l petch id wi' her brat,
An' meck id fit for ony mon
    Wod roots among t' Surat.

Aw wonst imagined Deeoth's a very
    Dark un dismal face;
Bud neaw aw fancy t' cemetery
    Is quite a pleasant place!
Bud sin' wey took eawr Bill to bury,
    Aw've often wish'd Owd Scrat
Ud fetch o t' bag-o-tricks, an lorry
    To hell wi o t' Surat!

1862.

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AW WOD THIS WAR WUR ENDED.

There's nobuddy knows wod we'n gooan
        through
    Sin' th' factories stopt at fost,
An' heaw mitch life's bin wasted too,
    An heaw mitch brass we'n lost;
Aw trys sometimes to reckon up,
    Bud keawntin connud mend id;
When aw sit deawn wi nowt to sup—
    Aw wod this war wur ended.

A boddy's lifetime's nod so lung—
    Nod them as lives to th' lungust;
Sooa dusend id seem sadly wrung
    For th' healthiest an' strungust
To give three wul years' pith an' pride
    To rust an' ruin blended,
An ravin up o'th' loss beside?—
    Aw wod this war wur ended!

A dacent chap ull do his best,
    An' eawt o' wod he's earnin
Ged th' owdest son a trade, an' th' rest
    O' th' lads a bit o' learnin;
Bud iv he's eawt o' wark; wey then,
    Unschollard, unbefriended,
His childer grow up into men—
    Aw wod this war wur ended!

As times hes bin, aw owt some "tin"
    For shop stuff ut Lung Nailey's,
An' case aw cuddent pay 't, yo sin,
    He's gooan an' sent th' bum bailies ;
They'n sowd us up, booath pot an' pooak,
    An' paid th' owd scoor off splendid;
They just dun wod they will wi fooak.—
    Aw wod this war wur ended!

Neaw aw feer noather dun nor bum,
    Wi o their kith an' kin'—
They'll fetch nowt eawt o' th' heawse, by
        gum!
    Becose there's nowt left in.
Aw'm welly weary o mi life,
    An' cuddend, if aw'd spend id,
Ged scran for th' kids, mysel, an' th' wife.—
    Aw wod this war wur ended!

Some forrud foos ull rant reet hard,
    An' toke a deal o' nonsense;
Bud let um gabble tell theyr terd,
    Id's reet enuff i' one sense;
They waste their brass an' rack their brains,
    Yet, be nod yo offended,
They'll ged their labour for their pains,
    Bud th' war's nod theerby ended!

Some factory maisters tokes for t' Seawth
    Wi' a smooth an' oily tongue,
Bud iv they'd sense they'd shut their
        meawth,
    Or sing another song;
Let liberty nod slavery
    Be fostered an' extended—
Four million slaves mun yet be free,
    An' then t' war will be ended.

1863.

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BLEGBURN BILL AT PRESTON GILL.

On programmes one Kornd olus build,
Bud t' wife an' me being thad way willed,
Aw geet mi bit o' t' garden tilled,
An' off wey went to Preston Guild.

When t' puffin Billy's whistle shrilled,
My dobbin wur knockt o'er an' spilled,
Wi' t' guards an' pooarters gerrin gilled,
To find fooak reawm for Preston Guild.

Sooa' like a jaded tit unthilled,
When aw geet theer, hoaf broiled an' grilled,
An' empty as a peighswad shilled,
Aw'd summut to sup at Preston Guild!

Sich stuff sure nowhere else is filled,
Or brewed, decocted, or distilled,
Or bowt or sowd, or supt or swilled,
As gies fooaks t' gripes at Preston Guild!

Teetotallers too were welly killed
Wi' pop an' rubbish, rammed an' rilled;
They wor sooa "fizzick'd," purged an' pilled,
Some brooak their pledge at Preston Guild.

By art an' craft, an' labour skilled,
Wal bricks were made, an' corn wor milled,
O' t' top o' th' lurries, booath plain an' twilled
Were warped an' woven at Preston Guild.

Like sowdgers rank'd an' march'd an' drilled,
Like angels noather winged nor quilled,
Bud bonnetted an' fleawnced an' frilled,
Young lasses woked at Preston Guild.

In motley garb, wal music thrilled,
"A pantomine," said Pat, was "hilld,"
Wal Arab an' Zulu trolled an' trilled,
Bi tooarchleet, endin Preston Guild.

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