m mi i y :lOSANGElfj> ^UlBRARY-0^ %3WS0V^ "^AINfHW^ ^fOJIlVD-JO^ .53AE-UNIVERS/A ^lOSANGEL£j> ^Aavaain^ ^Aavas ^UIBRARYtf/ ^UIBRARYQ^ ^WE-UNIVERty %oi iiv> jo^ %m nv3- jo 5 ^ '^Aavaaitt^ ^Aavaain^ ^laoNvsoi^ S3 ^WEUNIVERS/a vvlOS-ANCELfju o "^UONVSO^ %a3AIM3WV ^EUNIVER^ o - ^lOSANGELfj> Z3JV1 £3 \WEUNIVERto ;lOSANCELfj> "%3AIN[)3\\V vvlOS-ANGELfrx ■%a3AINfl-3\\V SA: «e C 1 ^/OJIIVD •JO^ 3^ \$ ^Aavaainv^ ^ -,*■* ^ w % BALLADS AND SONGS OF LANCASHIRE ' BALLADS & SONGS OF LANCASHIRE Ancient anti JHotrmt COLLECTED, COMPILED, AND EDITED, WITH NOTES, By JOHN HARLAND, F.SA. SECOND EDITION CORRECTED, REVISED, AND ENLARGED By T. T. WILKINSON, F.R.A.S. LONDON GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS AND L. C. GENT 1875 Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh. TO THE PRESIDENT AND MEMBERS OF THE MANCHESTER LITERARY CLUB THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THEIR COLLEAGUE T. T. WILKINSON. . £80566 INTRODUCTION. " ff a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation.''' — Andrew Fletcher of Saltoun. "The rude poetry of Song and Ballad," says Mr. Harland in his preface to the first edition of this work, " has been in all countries the earliest record of acts and events. The Song in praise of heroes, inciting living warriors to emulate the deeds of their ancestors ; " — the Ballad to commemorate successive acts of national or family prowess. " Ballads (says Tacitus) were the only annals known among the ancient Germans. The Scandi- navian scalds in their sagas celebrated the warlike achievements of their ancestors. Britain, Wales, and Ireland, had of old their bards and minstrels; and, even as late as the reign of Elizabeth, Welsh harpers on their hill-sides sang to crowds of their countrymen the deeds of their forefathers. With the refinement of manners, the ballad by degrees viii INTRODUCTION. included a wider range of subjects, — the marvel- lous tale, the wild adventure, love's sentiment and passion, mad revenge, and stealthy murder, were amongst its favourite themes. Then came the satirical song ; the humorous and burlesque ballad ; which have remained in favour with the people, especially in rural districts, to this day." Very many of these have been sung in the halls of the great by the minstrels of the " north countrie ; " and they have also formed the fireside melodies of our peasantry for many generations. Almost every ancient mansion possessed its gallery for the " musycianers," and those families who could not afford to keep their own performers paid con- siderable sums for the hire of some more wealthy neighbour's " cumpanie " when celebrating annual or family festivities. Ballad, interlude, song, and dance, followed each other on these occasions in quick succession; and these were imitated at public festivals and fairs by more humble profes- sionals, but not on that account the less acceptable to the crowds who witnessed their performances. In later times the narrative of every striking event was woven into rude verse by the ballad-monger, who either sung his own compositions when he visited the houses of the wealthy, or committed them to the charge of the itinerant pedlar, of whom Shakspeare has immortalised a specimen in his Winters Tale, where we have, "painted for all INTRODUCTION. ix time a lively portrait of the English ballad singer and seller of his own day." Of these older ballads "very few exist of an earlier date than the reign of James I., when [some remnants] were first collected in [small chap-books] termed Garlands, of which many are preserved in the Pepysian Library." In Percy's Reliques we find a kw more of these compositions, and Mr. Halliwell has included some others, both in his Palat'me Anthology, in his Palatine Garland, and in the thirty-two folio volumes of sheet-songs, ballads, etc., presented by him to the Chetham Library, Manchester. Previously to the interest recently excited in this species of literature, the olden ballads and songs were fast dying out — many have been lost for ever, and some of the more modern are merely parodies or burlesques. They do not always, or even frequently, contain the best poetry; an extra syllable or two in a line proving no serious obstacle to the singer or reciter. Most of them, however, are intensely national — "racy of the soil" — and will live in our local literature for all time to come. Like much of our early poetry they are mostly monosyllabic, strong and expres- sive ; the lines are, in general, short ; the tunes simple ; the choruses jovial and boisterous, suited to the occasions and the times. There are also certain peculiar turns of expression, and even of x INTRODUCTION. pronunciation, which are evidently intended 'to help the memory and produce effect. All or most of these characteristic traits have been re- tained in our best modern imitations — the frame- work of the ancient ballad, or song, havmg been re-habilitated to suit the circumstances of the case. It might seem that irregularity in metre and in melody were at an early period one of the acknow- ledged characteristics of ballad poetry : for Richard Sheale, a Lancashire man, the author of the earlier and irregular " Chevy Chase," is also the composer of the almost faultless " Love Song " in the present volume. Ballads and songs written in pure grammatical English are somewhat rare in the north of England. Many of these owe their origin to turmoil and crime, and are frequently strongly tinged with the peculiar dialect of the locality in which they were written. This is not to be regretted ; for by this means the places where the events happened are thereby fixed, and lasting popularity is also secured, because they contain the every-day lan- guage of the peasantry. Such compositions are cherished and preserved in remote villages long after they have ceased to interest the middle and upper classes, since they generally contain records of party strife, local usages, customs, and super- stitions, which are ever interesting to the lower orders. Hence the religious rhapsody — the INTRODUCTION. xi mournful moral poem — the legendary narrative — and the details of domestic tragedy, preserve their vitality for generations after more laboured and correct compositions have ceased to be re- membered. "Amidst great social mutations, and the pro- gress of education and civilisation, there are," says Mr. Harland, "some broad features of English ballad literature, especially in the subjects which most largely hold the popular affections and re- gard, which, in all essentials, will ever remain alike, however their outward garb may change with the transitory tastes and fleeting fashions of the age. The [four] favourite themes, alike of the oldest ballads and the most modern songs, are war, love, murder," [and wine]. Lancashire ballads and songs are no exception to the general rule. We have prowess in war — family feuds — success or failure in love — domestic tragedies — the praise of good liquor, etc., constantly furnishing themes on which our local poets have exercised their powers; and of these not a few of their efforts are couched in the strong vernacular of the county. In the following volume the oldest ballad in the Lanca- shire dialect is that entitled "Warrikin Fair." This is considered to have been written about a.d. 1 5 50; and although a glossary has been added for the sake of the general reader, there is not a word used by the writer that would be unintelligible xii INTRODUCTION. to the Lancashire peasant of to-day. There is a quaint, ironical severity in the " Balade of Mary- age," rescued from the Browsholme papers, which is much • intensified by the careless ease of the extra syllable in each alternate line. This peculi- arity has not found many imitators ; and hence the regret that both the name of the author and the rest of the ballad appear to have been irre- coverably lost. Our earlier poets, in general, either did not understand, or did not care to cultivate the Lanca- shire dialect ; although, as in the case of Burns, it would have given them a far wider choice of rhymes. The publication of Collier's " Tummus and Meary," however, gave fixedness and increased vitality to our folk -speech, and under the hands of Bamford, Brierley, Staton, Waugh, and others, it has now acquired a copious literature of its own. The forthcoming Glossary of the Manchester Literary Club will form a permanent record of its peculiarities, origin, and power. In the following collection will be found the rugged, uncouth, measures of the older ballad-writers ; the more polished verses of later authors follow, until we reach the true modern ballad in the pathetic stanzas of Shenstone. The easy flowing verse of Byrom cannot but be admired. He was an author who knew how to inspire happy and inde- pendent thoughts in others, and his genial senti- INTRODUCTION. xiii ments prove that he was equally at ease both with the world and himself. The modern selections contain many specimens of the calm, philosophic thought of Swain, forcibly reminding us of Words- worth. His language is always elegant and chaste, whether in ballad, song, or longer poem. He has recently gone to his rest, but his fine composition on the " Mind," together with his collective works, have secured him a lasting reputation. Bamford's peculiar style is forcibly shown in his legend of the " Wild Rider," and in " The Pass of Death." His lines are lengthy, his words massive, his thoughts manly in tone, and expressed in forcible, vigorous verse. His most striking ballad records an imaginary visit to " Tim Bobbin Grave ; " and his " God help the Poor," was sung and recited during the " Cotton Famine " with all the fervour peculiar to a suffering population. Critchley Prince very nearly approaches Swain in the style of many of his poems. Several of his songs are exceedingly forcible, and very happily expressed. His "Songs of the People for me," forms a good example of one of his happiest efforts, and was written almost impromptu, at the request of the late Mr. Harland, for Mr. Gent to incorpo- rate in the volume of modern songs and ballads. Of those who have written in our dialect the first place is undoubtedly due to Waugh. He is a master of the art of song-writing, and many of xiv INTRODUCTION. them are more popular than those of any other Lancashire author. His " Come Whoam to the Childer an Me," has found its way to every hearth, and its popularity suffers no decrease. Each of his songs causes some homely, heartfelt chord to vibrate, and his pictures of Lancashire home life are faithful and graphic. Touches of genuine poetry meet us in almost every verse ; and his prose works are not the less racy, poetical, and characteristic. Laycock, next to Waugh, is our most popular song-writer in the dialect. His " Bowton Yard " and " Welcome Bonny Brid " are known and recited throughout this and the neigh- bouring counties. The truly poetical is not want- ing; his style is simple and unlaboured, but his unexpected witty turns of thought, his telling homethrusts, native humour, and quaint allusions, are peculiarly his own. Brierley has cultivated prose much more extensively than poetry, and yet he has added some choice songs to our Lancashire literature. Some of these, however, require aciifig as well as singitig in order to bring out their proper effect. The "Weyvour o' Wellbruck " is inimitable, when given with all the gravity, the grunts, and grimaces of the grumbling old "weyvour." The chorus compels us to hear his looms rattling as he proclaims his independent spirit, and also fully illustrates the boisterousness required in a really popular Lancashire song. INTRODUCTION. xv In making the modern collection Mr. Harland exhibited his usual sound judgment and good taste. The best of every writer was selected and arranged under the following heads : — " I. Romantic and Legendary Ballads. II. Songs of Love and Praises of the Fair. III. Songs of Home and its Affec- tions. IV. Songs of Life and Brotherhood. V. Songs of the Cotton Famine. VI. Sea Songs." A miscellaneous chapter (VII.) is now added, containing several pieces worthy of preservation. The additions to the ancient ballads are also considerable. The pleasurable duty remains of thanking all those to whom this volume owes its existence. We have merely gathered the flowers of Lancashire ballad and song into a garland. Theirs is the fragrance of these poetic blossoms; theirs the rich and varied tints that delight the eye and cheer the heart. To thank each individually by name would be simply to repeat a portion of the table of contents, and we can therefore only tender to one and all our most grateful thanks for the courteous and ready kindness with which they have acceded to our requests. To the surviving representatives of deceased writers, and to various publishing firms holding copyrights, we must take leave, in like manner, to tender our sincere thanks and acknowledgments. xvi INTRODUCTION. The portrait of the late Charles Swain, from a photograph by Mr. John Eastham of Manchester, which has been adopted as the frontispiece to the present edition, will no doubt be very acceptable to the numerous friends of one of Lancashire's most gifted poets. T. T. W. CONTENTS. Those marked with an asterisk are additions to this edition. ANCIENT SONGS AND BALLADS. * Introduction .... Contents ..... Fragment of an Ancient Ballad of a Tyrannical Husband .... The Old Man and his Wife A TrafTord and Byron Feud The Bewsey Tragedy and its Legend The Lancashire Heroes The Scottish Field, or Flodden Field The Famous History or Song called Flodden Field A Love Song, by Richard Sheale . A Balade of Maryage The Blessed Conscience The Radcliffe Tragedy of Fair Ellen James I. and the Loin of Beef Warrikin Fair .... Brigadier Macintosh's Escape and Farewell Long Preston Peggy Jemmy Dawson .... The Preston Prisoners to the Ladies b PAGE vii xvii I 7 9 10 17 20 25 29 SO 32 44 5i 52 55 61 63 7i CONTENTS. Townley's Ghost The Three Sisters . The Miller and the King's Daughte Lancashire May Songs Old May Song— I. New May Song — II. Stretford and Northen May Son Songs of the Mayers The Mayers' Call May Eve Song . Mayers' May-Day Song Wassail Song The Liverpool Tragedy Stonyhurst Buck-Hunt The Unfortunate Love of a Lancashire Gentleman Careless Content The Frog and the Crow Dick o' Stanley Green *Blakeley Courtship . The Lancashire Miller Contentment : the Happy Workman's Son Sir Gualter .... *The Hermit of Kersall Cell Warrington Ale Droylsden Wakes Song Radcliffe Otter-Hunt *The Owdham Recruit *The Cockey Moor Snake . Jone o' Grinfilt's Ramble — the Original Song Jone o' Grinfilt's Return Jone o' Grinfilt Junior Tone o' Grinfilt's Ramble in Search of th' Green Jone o' Grinfilt going to th' Rooshan War June o' Grinfilt's Visit to Mr. Fielden The Burnley Haymakers CONTENTS. XIX PAGE The Praise of Lancashire Men 179 Will, the Ferryman 182 The Lover's Leap .... I84 Death of an Old Huntsman 1 86 Hand-loom v. Power-loom . 1 88 Gorton Town .... 19/J The Hand-loom Weavers' Lament . 193 The Middleton Overseer and the Madman . 196 Mary Melvin of the Mersey Side 200 Grimshaw's Factory Fire 202 The Bonny Gray .... 204 The Lancashire Witches 205 MODERN SONGS AND BALLADS. 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 Hall .... The Wanderer .... The Billmen of Bowland Black Bess ..... Gypsy Ballad .... 209 210 217 220 229 23^ 2 33 234 235 237 240 241 242 244 247 249 252 xx CONTENTS. PAGE Old Grindrod's Ghost 253 The Young Cid 257 The Keeper's Son 260 Ballad of James and Jane 262 Derwentwater's Fate 265 II.— LOVE SONGS AND PRAISES OF THE FAIR. Introduction ...... 270 Love's Evil Choice . 271 The Sprig of Thyme . 273 Colin and Phebe 275 Songs — ' ' The Moon is Bright " . 279 Margaret .... 280 "Remember Me" 281 The Invitation .... 282 Kitty an' Robin .... 283 The Lover's Call .... 285 Meg or Jenny ? 2S6 " Oh, Well I Love my gentle Maid" 287 My Wynder ..... 289 Canzonette — " There is a place " 291 Peggy Dill ..... 292 " She's not so Fair " . 293 Bertha ..... 294 My Johnny .... 295 To Mary 297 "Come, Love, and Sing" 298 England's Maidens . 299 Deceived ! . 300 Serenade .... 301 Canzonette — " I know a Star" 302 Mally ..... 303 Lucy Neale ..... 310 CONTENTS. xxi PAGE Love's History . . . . .311 "We Met" . 312 The Maid of Diss . 313 "I'll tell my Mother" 314 Th' Sweetheart Gate 316 The Loved and Lost . 317 The Farewell 3 J 9 Lovely Susannah 320 Maggie 321 Sulina 322 Better than Beauty . 323 Nothing More 324 Nuptial Lines 326 The Faithless 327 Chirrup .... 328 " I gazed o'er the Blue Still Waters' 330 Minona . 33i "But I am Sad" . 332 To Miss M. B. 333 Poets' Fictions 335 " Oh, Mirk and Stormy " . 336 " In a Snug Little Nook" . 338 The Ardent Lover . 339 The Lancashire Witch 34i "The Dule's i' this Bonnet 0' Mine' 343 Th' Heart-Brokken . 344 The Love-Draught . 346 The Dominie's Courtship 346 III.— SONGS OF HOME AND ITS AFFECTIONS. Introduction, and Lines by Critchley Prince , It is but a Cottage . The Pleasures o' Whoam " Farewell to my Cottage " . 349 3SO 35i 353 CONTENTS. 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 Loved and Lost Eawr Bessy . The Child and the Dewdrops Edith "MoiOwdMon" . To Little Angel " Charlie" . The Last Behest Mi Gronfeyther The Christmas Tree . " God Bless these poor Wimmen 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 CONTENTS. IV.— SONGS OF LIFE AND BROTHERHOOD. Introduction . The Songs of the People for me Festive Strains "Why, Prithee now " Life .... The Child . " There's no Chap should ever Lose The Hermit . The Garland of Life . The Toper's Plea for Drinking " Heaw Quare is 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 Yard Welcome Whitsuntide Lowly Worth Pluck PAGE 419 420 421 421 422 423 425 426 427 429 430 432 433 434 435 437 439 440 441 443 443 444 446 447 448 449 451 454 456 459 462 464 CONTENTS. Stanzas Written to Music The Song of Other Days To Falsehood Good Neet . The Friends of " Auld Lang Syne" Fame " Be Kind to Each Other ! ' Farewell Kindly Words The Song of Night . Song for the Brave . Friends do not Die . "There are Moments in Life England's Dead The Tried and True . The Pass of Death . Finis . 465 466 467 469 470 471 473 474 476 477 479 480 481 482 484 485 488 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" Philip Clough's Tale . Tickle Times Frettin' Th' Shurat Weyvur's Song Gooin' t' Schoo' Sewin'-Class Song . Hard Times ; or, Th' Weyvur to his Wife " God Bless 'em, it shows they'n some Thowt ! 489 490 491 493 493 497 500 501 5°3 505 506 508 5io 512 515 CONTENTS. VI.— SEA SONGS. Introduction . Will Clewline The Farewell Absence The Neglected Tar . The Lass of Liverpool "When the Broad Arch of Heaven" PAGE 517 517 520 522 523 525 527 VII.— MISCELLANEOUS SONGS AND BALLADS. ■"Introduction •Waiy's Grave *The Old Man's Reverie *Healey Height *Th' Boggart o' Gorton Chapelyord *The Snowdrop's Melody *0'er Again . *When I return from Sea *A\vay from Thee *Th' Owd Bellman . *Ode to th' Sun *In Memoriam.— Charles Swain 529 529 534 535 536 540 542 545 546 547 55o 552 Ancient Ballads and Songs of Lancashire. FRAGMENT OF AN ANCIENT BALLAD OF A TYRANNICAL HUSBAND. A folio MS. volume in the Chetham Library, Man- chester (No. 8009), is described at some length by Mr. J. O. Halliwell, F.R.S., as "an extremely valuable MS., chiefly consisting of early English poetry, written in the fifteenth century." He enumerates fourteen dif- ferent articles or subjects in the volume, the last of which he calls "A Ballad of a Tyrannical Husband" (fol. 366). It was written, he says, in the reign of Edward IV. It is in twenty-eight quatrains or stanzas, covering five pages of the folio volume, but it appears to have been left unfinished by the transcriber, for only the " First Fitte," or part, is copied. The rest is wanting. Many of its words and phrases are pure Lancashire, but since this work is intended for the general reader, we modernise the spelling. 2 ANCIENT BALLADS AND THOU that art gentle, for joy of thy dame, As thou wrought this wide world, in heav'n is thy hame : Save all this company, and shield them from shame, That will listen to me, and 'tend to this game. God keep all women that to this town 'long, Maidens, and widows, and eke wives among, For much they are blamed, and sometimes with wrong 1 take witness of all folk that heareth this song. Listen, good sirs, both young and old ; Of a good husband this tale shall be told : He wedded a woman that was fair and bold, 1 And had goods enow to wend as they wold. 2 She was a good housewife, courteous and kind, And he was an angry man, and soon would be tined, 3 Chiding and brawling, and fared like a fiend, As one that oft will be wroth with his best friend. Till it befel upon a day — short talk to make — The goodman to the plough his horse 'gan he take ; He call'd forth his oxen, the white and the blake, And he said, " Dame, dight 4 our dinner betimes, for God's sake." The goodman and his lad to the plough be gone ; The goodwife had much to do ; servant had she none ; Many small children to keep, beside herself alone, She did more than she might within her own wone. 5 1 ? Fair to behold. 2 To go or live as they would. 3 Kindled, enraged. 4 Dress. s Dwelling. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 3 ♦ Home came the goodman by time of the day, To look that all things were according to his say. " Dame ! " he said, " is our dinner dight ? " " Sir," she said, "nay, How would you have me do more than I may ? " Then he began to chide, and said, " Evil mote l thou be! I would thou shouldst all day go to plough with me ; To walk in the clods, that be wet and mere [miry], Then shouldst thou wit 2 what it were a ploughman to be." Then sware the goodwife, and thus 'gan she say, " I have more to do, than do I may, An 3 you should follow me fully one day, You'd be weary of your part, my head dare I lay." "Weary ! in the devil's name ! " said the goodman : " What hast thou to do, but sit here at home ? Thou coyst 4 to thy neighbour's house, by on and by eine, 5 And sittest there jangling 6 with Jack and with Joan." Then said the goodwife, " Fair may you fall ; I have more to do, whoso wist all ; When I lie in my bed, my sleep is but small ; Yet early in the morning ye will me up call. " When I lie all night waking, with our dear child, I rise up at morrow and find our house wild ; 1 May, must. 2 Know. s If. * Goest. 5 Halliwell has this expression in the form " On-o-nena" as Lancashire for "always." ? Ever and anon ; alone or in company ; by odd and by even. 6 Prating, quarrelling. 4 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Then I milk our kine, turn them into the field, While you sleep full still, as Christ shall me shield ! " Then make I butter, for cheer in the day, After make I cheese. This hold you a play ? Then will our children weep, and upmost they ; Yet will you blame me, an any be away. " When I have so done, yet there comes more e'en, I give our chickens meat, or else they be lean ; Our hens, our capons, and our ducks be dene, 1 Yet tend I to our goslings that go on the green. " I bake and I brew ; it will not else be well, I beat and swengle flax, as ever I have heyll ; 2 I heckle the tow, I kabe, 3 and I reel ; I tease wool and card it, and spin it on the wheel." " Dame ! " said the goodman, " the devil have thy bones ! Thou need'st not bake nor brew in fortnight past once ; I see no good thou dost within this wide wones, 4 But ever thou excusest thee with groaches 5 and groans ! " " Eke a piece of linen and woollen I make once a year For to clothe ourselves and our children in fere, 6 Else we should go to market and buy it full dear ; I am as busy as I may, in every [gear]. " When I have so done, I look on the scone ; 7 I ordene meat for our beasts, again that you come home, 1 Done. 2 Heald. 8 Separate. 4 Dwelling. 5 Grumblings. 6 Together. 7 The barley cakes baking. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 5 And meat for ourselves, again that it be noon, Yet I have not a fair word, when that I have done. " So I look to our good without and within, That there be none away, neither more nor min, 1 Glad to please you to pay, lest any bats 2 begin, And for to chide thus with me, i' faith you be in sin. ; ' Then said the goodman in a sorry time, " All this would a good housewife do long ere it were prime, 3 And sene [since] the good we have is half deal 4 thine, Thou shalt labour for thy part as I do for mine. " Therefore, dame, make thee ready, I warn thee anon, To-morrow with my lads to the plough thou shalt gone ; And I will be housewife, and keep our house at home, And take mine ease as thou hast done, by God and St. John ! " " Ay, grant," 5 quoth the goodwife, " as I understand, To-morrow in the morning I will be walkande, Yet will I rise, while ye be sleepand, 6 And see that all things be ready laid to your hand." So it pass'd all to the morrow that it was daylight, The goodwife thought over her deed 7 and up she rose right. " Dame ! " said the goodman, " I swear by God's might, I will fette home our beasts, and help that they were dight." 1 Less. 2 Blows. 3 Six o'clock i.m. * Half share of. * Yes, agreed ; or, I agree. 6 Sleeping. 7 What she would do. 6 ANCIENT BALLADS AND The goodman to the field hied him full yarne ; x The goodwife made butter, her deed were full derne ; 2 She took again the butter-milk and put it in the churn, And said, " Yet of one point our Sire shall be to learn." Home came the goodman and took good keep How the wife had laid her flesh for to steep. She said, " Sir, all this day, ye need not to sleep, -Keep well our children, and let them not weep. " If you go to the kiln, malt for to make, Put small fire underneath, Sir, for God his sake. The kiln is low and dry, good tend 3 that ye take, For an it fasten on a fire, it will be evil to slake. " Here sit two geese abroad ; keep them well from woo,^ And they may come to good, or you'll work sorrow enow." " Dame," said the goodman, "hie thee to the plough, Teach me no more housewifery, for I con 5 enow." Forth went the goodwife, courteous and hend, 6 She call'd to her lad, and to the plough they wend ; 7 They were busy all day, — A fytte here I find, An I have drunk once, ye shall hear the best behind. 1 Early. 2 Secret. 8 Care, attention. 4 Woe. 5 Ken, know. 6 Gentle, polite. 7 Go. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. A FYTTE. Here beginneth another fytte, the sooth 1 for to say, [The rest is wanting]. The subject of the above ballad has been a favourite one for ages on both sides the Scottish border. As a more modern version, and to elucidate the labours of man and wife in their changed spheres of action, we append the following entitled : — THE OLD MAN AND HIS WIFE. From Mr. J. O. Halliwell's Nursery Rhymes. There was an old man who liv'd in a wood, As you may plainly see ; He said he could do as much work in a day As his wife could do in three. " With all my heart," the old woman said, " If that you will allow To-morrow you'll stay at home in my stead, And I'll go drive the plough. " But you must milk Tidy the cow, For fear that she go dry ; And you must feed the little pigs, That are within the sty ; And you must mind the speckled hen, For fear she lay away ; And you must reel the spool of yarn, That I spun yesterday." 1 Truth. ANCIENT BALLADS AND The old woman took a staff in her hand, And went to drive the plough ; The old man took a pail in his hand, And went to milk the cow. But Tidy hinched and Tidy flinched, And Tidy broke his nose ; And Tidy gave him such a blow, That the blood ran down to his toes. " High, Tidy ! ho, Tidy ! high, Tidy ! stand thou still ; If ever I milk you, Tidy, again, 'Twill be sore against my will." He went to feed the little pigs, That were within the sty ; He hit his head against the beam, And he made tne blood to fly. He went to mind the speckled hen, For fear she'd lay astray ; And he forgot the spool of yarn, His wife spun yesterday. So he swore by the sun, the moon, and the stars, And the green leaves on the tree, If his wife didn't do a day's work in her life, ^ She should ne'er be ruled by he. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 9 A TRAFFORD AND BYRON FEUD. By Thomas Barritt. In our Fourth Edward's fickle days A serious quarrel, story says, Took place near Rochdale, we are told, 'Twixt Trafford and a Byron bold. The cause was this, we understand, About some privilege of land. Oliver Chadwick, from Chadwick Hall, On Byron's part that day did fall ; But afterwards it came to pass, Lord Stanley arbitrator was, Who fixed it upon this ground, Trafford should pay full sixty pound, In holy church at Manchester ; And from this contract not to err, To Chadwick's heirs, to keep them quiet, And never more to move a riot : Ten marks at birth-day of St. John, And ten at Martin's day upon, Each year until the whole was paid ; And to be friends again, he said. The authority for the facts in these rhymes was a curious deed in the possession of the late Colonel Chadwick, of the Lancashire Militia, shown to Barritt. Oliver Chadwick, of Chadwick Hall, in the parish of Rochdale, was the son of Henry Chadwick, who died about 1482. Oliver was living 28th June 1489, but the family pedigree does not give the date of his death. He left two sons, Roger and Oliver. Ten marks amount to £6 113:4. St. John's day is June 24, and io ANCIENT BALLADS AND that of St. Martin the Bishop, November 1 1. In those times payments of importance were usually required to be made either in the porch, on the font, or before the high altar of the parish church. On September 29, 1560, the sum of ,£20 was paid, "upon the fonte of Brunley Churche," to Simon and Johanna Haydock, as compensation for manorial rights which had been the subject of a trial at law. THE BEWSEY TRAGEDY AND ITS LEGEND. The Botelers, Botilers, or Butlers (i.e. Bottlers), of Bewsey, near Warrington, derived their name from their office, Robert le Pincerna having discharged the duties of that station under Randle Earl of Chester, in 1 158 ; hence taking the surname. Almeric Butler, his descendant, having married Beatrice, daughter and co- heir of Matthew Villiers, Lord of Warrington, became possessed of the barony. A MS. in the Bodleian Library gives the following statement, which is mani- festly incorrect in respect of names and parties, though corroborated by tradition, which still preserves the memory of this horrible event: — "Sir John Butler, knight, was slaine in his bedde by the procurement of the Lord Stanley, Sir Piers Legh and Mister William Savage joining with him in that action (corrupting his servants,) his porter setting a light in a window to give light upon the water that was about his house at Bewsey (where your way to Bold comes). They came over the moate in lether boats, and so to his chamber, where one of his servants, named Houlcrofte, was slaine, SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. n being his chamberlaine : the other basely betrayed his master ; they paid him a great reward, and so coming away with him, they hanged him at a tree in Bewsey Parke ; — long after this Sir John Butler's lady pursued those that slew her husband, and obtayned 20 men for that saute ; but on being married to Lord Grey, he made her suites voyde, for which reason she parted from her husband, and came into Lancashire, saying, ' If my lord will not let me have my will of my husband's enemies, yet shall my body be buried by him ; ' and she caused a tomb of alabaster to be made, where she lyeth on the right hand of her husband Sir John Butler." " The occasion of the murder was this : — King Harry the Seventh being to come to Latham, the Earl [of Derby], his brother-in-law, sent unto him [Sir John Butler] a message to desire him to wear his cloth at that time ; but in his absence his lady scorned that her husband should wait on her brother, being as well able to entertain the king as he was. Which answer he [the Earl] took in great disdain, and prosecuted the said Sir John with all malice that could be. And amongst other things, the said Sir John had a ferry at Warrington, which was worth a hundred marks [£66, 13s. 4d.] by the year unto him ; there being no bridge. The Earl coming to go to London, the said Sir John would not suffer him to pass, but forced him about by Manchester. Whereupon the Earl bought a piece of land of one Norris of Warrington, by which means he was privileged to pass on the other side ; and so builded a bridge at Warrington, on both sides, being his own land. And the said Sir John Butler, after the 12 ANCIENT BALLADS AND bridge was builded, did notwithstanding exact and take toll and tax of all passengers as before ; whereon the Earl caused the king to make it free. On that and such like discontents, they [the Earl and Sir John] took arms against one another ; and Sir Piers Legh and William Savage that sided with the Earl made trenches upon Warrington Heath, which were to be seen not long since, before the inclosing of the said heath. So in the end, during the uproar, they cor- rupted his servants, and murdered him in his bed. His lady, at that instant being in London, did dream the same night that her husband was slain, and that Bewsey Hall did swim with blood ; whereupon she presently came homewards, and heard by the way the report of his death." An accomplished antiquary, long a resident of Warrington, was consulted respecting this tradition, and the following is his reply: "The subject has puzzled me and all other Warrington antiquaries for many a long year, and we are not satisfied yet. No one of the alleged actors, no one of the facts, and no one of the causes of the supposed quarrel, can be true. When the last Sir John Butler died, there was no Earl of Derby ; and when King Henry VII. visited the Earl at Latham, the Earl's sister, who had married Sir John Butler, was dead. I believe, however, that the story has a foundation, though the adores f abides are phantoms." The subject has since been fully investi- gated by William Beamont, Esq., and the ballad printed at length in Chap. XVIII. of his "Annals of the Lords of Warrington," Chetham Series, vol. 87. The late Mr. Roby published a ballad on this SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 13 subject in his "Traditions of Lancashire." The following, however, will be found to adhere more closely than his to the tradition ->f the neighbourhood : BUTLER OF BEWSEY. Listen, lords and ladies fair, And gentles, to my roundelay ; List, youths and maidens debonnaire, To this most doleful tragedy. Of Pincerna, that noble race, That Botiller was yclept, I say ; And Bewsey Hall, that goodly place, Where traitors did the Butler slay. Fatal the feud 'tween him and one Whose sister was his wedded wife ; The proud Earl Derby, whose false son Did plot to take the Butler's life. Savage by name and nature too, Piers Legh, that pierced all too free, Join'd with Lord Stanley and his crew, And bought the warder's treacherie. A light shone from the warder's tow'r, When all the house lay sunk in sleep, To guide those murd'rers, fell and stour, Across the moat, dark, wide, and deep. In leathern boats they cross'd, and then The warder softly oped the gate : Bold 'fronted them the chamberlain ; Holcrofte his master warn'd — too late. 14 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Him they slew first, and then the knight, While sleeping, 'neath their daggers bled ; A faithful negro, black as night, Snatcht up the infant heir and fled. That felon porter craved reward For treach'rous guiding in the dark : They paid him ; then for his false guard They hung him on a tree in the park. In vain they sought — the child was saved ; But gallant Butler was no more : That night his wife in London dreamt That Bevvsey Hall did swim with gore. When that she learn'd the foul deed done, She pray'd they might have felons' doom ; But might 'gainst right the struggle won ; Then sigh'd she forth in bitter gloom : — " If by my lord's fell foes and mine My will in life is thus denied ; And I must live, bereaved, to pine, Death nor the grave shall us divide." An alabaster tomb she made, To her lov'd husband's mem'ry true ; And on her death her corse was laid Close by his side, 'neath aged yew. Mourn for the brave, the fair and true, Sleeping in love, and hope, and faith ; May ruthless ruffians ever rue Their murder foul, brave Butler's death ! SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 15 It is stated in an early MS., but on anonymous authority, that Sir Piers Legh, being an ecclesiastic, was sentenced, as a perance for his share in this murder, to build Disley church, which he performed in the year 1527. A native poet, in a modern poem of considerable merit, 1 thus commemorates the Bewsey tragedy : — " But yet th' historic page records a tale, Crimson'd with blood, when ev'n these stately walls, As yet uninjur'd by the shocks of time, Could not the sword of massacre repel From their own guarded Lord ; for civil strife Bade here dark Murder his fell poignard steep In the defenceless breast. A hireling band At dead of night, when nature sunk to rest, And sleep secure had those proud tow'rs disarm'd, Hither insidious stole. Their dread designs Base-creeping fraud forewent, and bribery sped ; For from yon window of old Gothic form Beam'd light perfidious, set by venal hands, Guiding their silent steps. The guardian moat Saw wond'ring its strange passengers, borne o'er In stranger vehicles. With fancy's eye, There do I still behold the taper, set, With treason big, blue-gleaming on the wave : There too, again, I view aghast the band Of grim assassins, murder in their looks, In silence cross the glimm'ring lake, and hear Yon massy door, hoarse-creaking on its hinge, 1 " Bewsey," a poem, was written by the late John Fitchett, Esq. of Warrington, and was published by subscription many years ago, quarto, pp. 32. It is now a very scarce tract. 16 ANCIENT BALLADS AND By trait'rous hands slow drawn. Ah ! there, behold ! The nightly raven, screaming, flaps his wing, Portending death ; and hark ! within, the sound Of clashing arms, horrific, stuns the ear ! Ah ! list the dying groans, the fearful shrieks, The hollow-trampling feet, the murd'rers' shout, That, mingling in one horrid echo, bid Ev'n Fancy's self, wild-starting, shrink appall'd ! Tradition tells, a faithful Negro brav'd Singly their savage rage, and bold oppos'd Their passage to the room where thoughtless slept His dearly-honour'd master, till at last, O'erpower'd by numbers, and o'erwhelm'd with wounds, Alas ! he nobly fell. Their reeking hands Unsated yet, had still to execute Deeds of black import, and dire schemes of blood : For ah ! unarm'd, and in his bed surpris'd, Vilely they butcher'd the devoted Lord ! Meanwhile a servant-maid, with pious guile, Bore in her apron, artfully conceal'd, The infant heir ; and many a danger brav'd, Saved him uninjur'd from the ruffians' swords, The Negro's valour fav'ring her escape." This fact, as well as that the heroic servant was a Negro, though not specified in the Bodleian MS., is traditionary in the neighbourhood. Mr. Fitchett states that this faithful Negro, as the last earthly reward that could be paid him, was interred with Sir John and Lady Butler in the family vault, in a small chapel belonging to them, in Warrington church, which now belongs to the Athertons of Atherton ; and in which the figures of the unfortunate knight and his SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 17 lady are represented in alabaster, lying on a tomb- stone, adorned with curious sculpture ; and in a niche in the wall is a figure of the Negro, in a recumbent posture, of black stone, or stained composition. It is evidently to this tradition that Pennant refers in his Tour (p. 20), when he states that " Sir Thomas (Butler), I believe the last of his name, was, with his lady, murdered in his house by assassins, who in the night crossed the moat in leathern boats, or coracles, to perpetrate this villainy." The tradition respecting the Negro must be abandoned. The statue is of dark stone, and is the figure of a woman. Mr. Beamont is of opinion that it represents Alicia Boteler, the widow of Sir John Boteler, the founder of the chapel. THE LANCASHIRE HEROES. In Praise of the Valiant Champions of the North. (MS. Ashm. Vol. xlviii. Art. 52, fol. 101.) Within y e northe contre, Many noble men there be, Ye shall well understand, Ther ys ye yerle off Westmorland, 1 Y e quyns lyffeteanant A noble man and a valiant ; Then yer ys y e yerle of Combarland. 2 And y e yerle of Northomberland, 3 And Sir Harry Perce, his brother,* As good a man as another He ys an hardy knight, And hath oft put the Skotts to flight. C 1 8 ANCIENT BALLADS AND There ys my lord Ivars, 5 my lord Dacars, 6 With all their partacors, Noble men and stowte, I do put youe out off dowte ; Yf y e Skotts ons looke owte, Ye (they) wyll rape them at y e sknowte, For Northarne men wyll fight Bothe be day and night, Her enymyes when .... As y e hawk upon her pray ; Ther ys also Sir Harry Ley, 7 Which dar both fight and fray, Whether it be night or day, I dare be bold to say, He wyll not rone away, He ys both hardy and fre ; There ys also Sir Rychard Lye, 8 Which ys both ware and wice, And of Polytyk device, All thes well I do knowe : Yet ys ther many moo, The which I cannot name That be men of mickle fame, God save the yerle of Shrowesbyry ! 9 The above verses have a place assigned rather because of their title, than because of any Lancashire heroes named in them. They would seem to refer to some period in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, when the Earl of Westmorland was the queen's lieutenant in that part of the kingdom. Most probably that period was about 1569, when the rebellion in the north arose. They were written before 1572, because they name the SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 19 Earl of Northumberland and Sir Harry Percy his brother, who succeeded to the earldom in that year. The following notes may identify the persons named : 1 The Earl of Westmorland was probably Charles Neville, sixth earl, who was attainted in 1570, because of his share in the Rebellion of the North, when all his honours were forfeited, and the title remained in abeyance till 1624. 3 The Earl of Cumberland was Henry Clifford, second earl, who died in 1569. 3 The Earl of Northumberland was Thomas Percy, the seventh earl of that name, created earl in May 1557, attainted in 1571, and beheaded in 1572, because of his share in the Rebellion of the North. 4 Sir Henry Percy, his brother and heir-male, succeeded to the earl- dom in 1572 as eighth earl of his family, and was found dead in the Tower from a pistol-shot in 1585. 5 Lord Ivars of the text was William Evre, second baron Evers, Evre, or Eure ; succeeding his grandfather, the first baron. He died in 1594. 6 The Lord Dacres of the text was probably George Dacre, fourth baron Dacre of Gillesland, or of the North, who was under age in 1566, and died in 1569. His son, Leonard Dacre, was an active leader in the Rebellion of the North. 7 Sir Harry Ley (Lee) of the verses was probably the brave old veteran of that name who, at a great age, lamented to his queen that he could no longer show his devotion to her by deeds of arms. There was also a Sir Henry de Lea, near Preston, Co. Lancaster. 8 Sir Richard Lye of the text it is not easy to identify. He may have been one of the Richard Leighs of West Hall, High Leigh, Co. Chester ; the father dying in 15S2, and the son in 1586. 9 The Earl of Shrewsbury, with a benison on whom the verses con- clude, was probably George Talbot, ninth earl (the sixth of his name), who succeeded his father in 1560, held the high office of earl-marshal, was K.G., and died in 1590. He was the unfortunate gaoler of Mary Queen of Scots. ANCIENT BALLADS AND THE SCOTTISH FIELD, OR FLODDEN FIELD. A BALLAD-POEM in MS., entitled "The Scottish Field," was discovered by William Beamont, Esq., of Warrington, in the muniments at Lyme, written on strips of parchment, which had been pasted together to form a roll of about thirteen feet long by three and a half inches wide. The first portion has been lost, or it would have been between two and three feet longer. The writing is, in the opinion of Sir Frederick Madden, of the latter half of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. It was printed in the second volume of u Chetham Mis- cellanies," edited by J. Robson, Esq., M.D., of War- rington. The English army seems to have been arrayed in two battles, a vanward, and a rearward, each having a centre and two wings. Of the first, the right wing (and extreme right of the army) was under Edward Howard, a younger Son of the Earl of Surrey, and consisted of the Lancashire and Cheshire troops, with Sir Thomas Butler, Sir John Booth [of Barton], Sir Richard Bold, and others. The right wing was driven back at the outset. The Second battle, or rear- ward, was under the immediate command of the Earl of Surrey, who led its centre ; and its left wing was commanded by Sir Edward Stanley, afterwards Lord Monteagle. The poet has assigned the place of honour to John Stanley, son of the Bishop of Ely, and commander of his contingent. He afterwards married the daughter of William Handford, so emphatically distinguished in the MS. The poem may have been written about two years after the battle, which took SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 21 place 9th September 15 13, as it laments the Bishop of Ely's death, which occurred in March 1515. Of course we select from this quaint alliterative poem only- such portions as relate to Lancashire men and their acts. Referring to the Earl of Surrey, the writer tells us — He made letters boldly all the land over ; In Lancashire belive, he caused a man to ride, To the Bishop of Ely, that bode in those parts : Courteously commanded him, in the king's name, To summon the shire and set them in order : He was put in more power than any prelate else. Then the Bishop full boldly bowneth' 1 forth his standard, With a captain full keen, as he was known after ; He made a wee 2 to wind, to warn his dear brother Edward, that eager knight, that epe 3 was of deeds ! A stalk of the Stanleys, steepe 4 of himself ! Then full radly 5 he raiseth Rinckes 6 ten thousands : To Skipton in Craven then he come belive, 7 There abideth he the banner of his dear brother, Till a captain with it come, that known was full wide, Sir John Stanley, that stout knight, that stern was of deeds ! With four thousand fursemen 8 that followed him after ; They were tenants that they took, that tenden on the bishop, Of his household, I you hete, 9 hope ye no other. 1 Setteth, displayeth. 2 Little. 3 Apt. 4 ? Stipes, a branch. 6 Readily. 6 Soldiers ; ranks. 7 Soon, immediately. 8 Fierce men. 9 Tell. 22 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Every bairn had on his breast broidered with gold, A foot of the fairest fowl that ever flew on wing ! With their crowns full clear, all of pure gold ! It was a seemly sight to see them together, Fourteen thousand eagle-feet, fettled 1 in array. If ye would wit 2 the wings that to that [rear] ward 'longed, That was a bishop full bold, that born was at Lathom ; Of Ely that ilk Lord, that epe was of deeds ! An egg of that bold earl, that named was Stanley ; Near of nature to the duke, that noble have been ever: But now death with his dart hath driven him away ! It is a loss to the land : our Lord have his soul ! For his wit and his wisdom, and his wale 3 deeds ; He was a pillar of peace the people among ; His servants they may syke 4 and sorrow for his sake, "What for pity and for pain my pen doth me fail ; I will meddle with this matter no more at this time, But he that is makles 5 of mercy have mind on his soul ! Then he sent with his company a knight that was noble, Sir John Stanley, that stout knight, that stern was of deeds ; There was never bairn born that day bare him better. The left wing to that rearward was my Lord Mont- eagle. With many lads of Lancashire that to him 'longed, Who foughten full furiously while the field lasted. 1 Got ready, set right. 2 Know. s Good, brave. 4 Sigh. 6 Matchless. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 23 Many squires full swiftly were swept to the death ! Sir John Both of Barton was brought from his life ! A more bolder bairn was never born on woman. And of Lancashire John Lawrence : our Lord have their souls ! These freaks 1 would never flee, for fear that might happen, They were killed like conquerors, in their king's service. Then the Scots king calleth to him a herald, Biddeth tell him the truth and tarry no longer, — Who were the banners of the bairns that bode in the valley ? " They are standards of the Stanleys, that stand by themselven ; If he be faren 2 into France, the Frenchmen to feere, 3 Yet is his standard in that stead 4 with a stiff captain, Sir Henry Kighley is called, that keen is of deeds ; Sir Thomas Jarred, that jolly knight, is joined there- under, With Sir William Molynex, with a manful meany ; 5 These freaks will never flee for fear of no weapon, But they will stick with their standards in their steel weeds ; 6 Because they bashed 7 them at Berwick, that boldeth them the more. Lo ! how he batters and beats, the bird with his wings ! We are feard of yonder fowl, so furiously he fareth ! 1 Men. s Fared, gone. 8 To frighten. 4 Place. * A troop, or following, many. 7 Put them down. . * Dress, armour 24 ANCIENT BALLADS AND And yonder streamer full straight that standeth him beside, Is the standard of St. Tandere, That never beaten was in battle, for bairn upon lyve ! The third standard in the stead is my Lords Mounteagle." Lancashire lads like lions laden them aboute ! All had been lost, by our Lord ! had not those lads been ! But the care of the Scots increased full sore : For their king was down knocked and killed in their sight, Under the banner of a bishop, — that was, the bold Stanley ! * In life, alive. Notes. — James Stanley, brother of Thomas, first Earl of Derby, was Bishop of Ely and warden of the collegiate church of Manchester. — Edward Stanley was not created Lord Monteagle till the following year (1514). — Sir John Stanley, son of the Bishop of Ely, was knighted on the field of battle. — Eagle-feet is a cognizance of the Stanleys. — The Lawrences were a family seated in the north of Lancashire. — The Kighleys were especially attached to the Stanleys. — "Sir Thomas Jarred" is Gerard of the Bryn, ancestor of the present Sir Robert Gerard ofGarswood. — Sir William Molyneux was of Sefton. — Dr. Robson says the standard of " St. Tandere " should be that of St. Cuthbert, under which the troops of the bishopric fought. The writer probably meant St. Andrew. — From the concluding lines of the poem, its author would seem to have been one of the Leghs of Baguley, Cheshire. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. . 25 THE FAMOUS HISTORY OR SONG CALLED FLODDEN FIELD. (Harl. MS., Cod. 3526.) This ballad-poem has a long title, ending with "the most courageous Knight Sir Edward Stanley, who for his prowess and valiantness showed at the said battle, was made Lord Mount Eagle, as the sequel declareth." The poem is contained in 9 Fittes or Cantos, occupy- ing 66 closely-printed 4to pages. We select a few extracts bearing upon Lancashire : — • • • • • There is Sir Edward Standley Stout, For martial skill clear without make 1 Of Lathom House by line came out, Whose blood will never turn their back. All Lancashire will live and die With him, so chiefly will Cheshire, For thro' his father's force, quoth he, This kingdom first came to my Sire. ***** Now like a Captain bold he brought A band of lusty lads elect, Whose curious coats commily 2 wrought With dreadful dragons 3 were bedeckt ; From Pennigent to Pendle Hill, From Linton and Long Addingham, 1 Match. 2 Comely. 8 Griffins, the dexter supporter of the Stanley arms. ANCIENT BALLADS AND And all that Craven crofts did till They with the lusty Clyfford came. From Lancashire of lusty blood, A thousand soldiers stiff in stour. 1 Sir Edward Standley, stiff in stour, He is the man on whom I mean, With him did pass a mighty pow'r, Of soldiers, seemly to be seen. Most liver lads on Lonsdale bred, With weapons of unwieldy weight, All such as Tatham Fells had fed, Went under Standley's streamer bright. From Bowland, billmen bold were bound With such as Bretton banks did aid ; ***** All Lancashire for the most part The lusty Standley stout can lead, A stock of striplings strong of heart, Brought up from babes with beef and bread From Warton unto Warrington, From Wigan unto Wiresdale, From Weddecon to Waddington, From Ribchester unto Rochdale, From Poulton to Preston [proud] with pikes They with the Standley out forth went. From Pemberton and Pilling Dikes, For battle billmen bold were bent. With fellows fierce and fresh for fight, Which Halton fields did turn in force ; 1 Fight. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 27 With lusty lads, liver and light, From Blackburn and Bolton-in-the-Moors. With children chosen from Cheshire In armour bold for battle drest, And many a gentleman and squire Were under Standley's streamer prest,. etc. etc. etc. Another poem in the Harl. MSS. {Cod. 395), of less aitt1ie?itic character, ends thus : — Now God that was in Bethlehem born, And for us died upon a tree, Save our noble prince that wears the crown, And shew his mercy on the Earl of Derby. The Mirror for Magistrates contains two metrical pieces on the Battle of Flodden Field. The first is entitled " The Lamentation of King James the Fourth King of Scots, slain at Brampton (another name for the same battle), in the 5th year of King Henry the Eighth, Anno Christi 15 13." It contains nothing to- connect it with Lancashire. But the next piece, en- titled " The Bataile of Brampton or Flodden Field, faught in the year of our Redeemer 15 13, and in the 5th year of the reign of the victorious prince King Henry the Eighth," has some reference to the Lanca- shire forces. After enumerating the leaders and officers in the van-ward and middle-ward, the writer, Francis Dingley of Manston, thus refers to the rear-ward : — Stanza 14. Sir Edward Stanley in the rearward was he, A noble knight both wise and hearty ; 28 ANCIENT BALLADS AND With many a noble man of the west countrey, And the whole powre of the Earle of Darby, With a royal retinue of the Bishop of Ely ; And of Lankeshyre men manly did fight, By the help of God, and in their prince's right. Stanza 18. The red lyon with his owne father's bloud inclynate, Came towards the white lyon both meeke and mylde, And there by the hand of God he was prostrate, By the help of th' eagle with her swadled chylde : The Buckes-heads also the Scots has beguilde ; And with their grey goose wings doulfully them dight, By the help of God, and in our prince's right. The eagle and child were the crest, and the bucks' heads one of the badges or ensigns, of the Stanleys. The grey goose wings of course refer to the archers under the command of Sir Edward Stanley. Sir Edward Stanley of Hornby Castle, Lancashire, commanded the [left wing of the] rear of the English army at Flodden Field, 9th September 15 13, and forcing the Scots, by the power of his archers, to descend the hill, thus broke their line, and ensured the triumph of the English arms ; for which good service Henry VIII., keeping his Whitsuntide at Eltham, the following year (15 14) commanded that Sir Edward Stanley, for those valiant acts against the Scots, where he won the hill and vanquished all that opposed him, as also that his ancestors bore the eagle in their crest, SOJVCS OF LANCASHIRE. 29 should be there proclaimed Lord of Monteagle, and he had subsequently summons to parliament in that dignity. He was also elected a Knight of the Garter. A LOVE SONG. By Richard Sheale. 1 (Ashm. MS. 48.) My Rebbell sweet, in whom I trust, Have now respect and do not faylle Thy faithful frend, who ys most just, And shall not in hys frendshyp quayle ; But prove himself as just and true, As ever sowthe was fownd in yow. For fleetynge tyme, nor wastfull swoord, Nor tawntinge gyrds fawstered in art, Shall make me to forego my woord, Nor from my faythfull frend astart ; But wyll be fownd as tryed gowlde As frendlyness requyres yt showlde. Thy tender hart to gentell kynde Doth show what rase ingendred the ; A n obeli hart in the I fynd, Which makes me to thy wyll agre ; And ever wyll and ever shall, Tho' I showlde dwell in lastyng thrall. 1 Richard Sheale is supposed to have been a Lancashire man. He wrote the rhyming epitaph on Margaret, Countess of Derby, second wife of Edward, second Earl (1558), and is also believed to have been the writer of the finest old ballad in the English language — " Chevy Chase." 3o ANCIENT BALLADS AND Lothsom dysdayne dothe swelle to se, And ragying ire doth boyle allso, For sowthe trew faythe 1 grounded to be In harts dwellynge on yerthe below ; Wher the[y] do thynk that hydden guylle Doth trap men wyth hys subtyll wyle. I woowld I had the nymbell wynges Of mylk-whyte dove that clyps in sckye In fethers then I vvoold be clad To mownt over the mowntaynes hye, And lyght on the I woold be bolde, That kepethe fast my hart in howlde ! A BALADE OF MARYAGE. The following specimen of old local poetry was dis- covered some years ago among the papers at Brows- holme Hall, Lancashire, the seat of the Parkers, hereditary bow-bearers of Bowland, and it is here reprinted with Dr. Whitaker's abridgments and cor- rections. We have modernised the spelling : — In yonder wood there is a dene Where I myself was late reposing ; Where blossoms in their prime have been, And flowers fair their colours losing ; A love of mine I chanced to meet, Which caused me too long to tarry, And then of him I did intreat, To tell me when he thought to marry. 1 Forsooth, true faith ; i.e., "in fact, true faith." - Clips in sky — Anglo-Sax., clyp, to cut ; in other words, that cleaves the air. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 31 " If thou wilt not my secret tell, Ne bruit abroad in Whalley parish, And swear to keep my counsel well, I will declare my day of marriage. " When summer's heat will dry no mire, And winter's rain no longer patter ; When lead will melt withouten fire, And bear-brades 1 do need no water ; When Downham stones 2 with diamond rings, And cockles be with pearls compared ; When gold is made of gray goose wings, Then will my love and I be married. "When buck and hart in Hodder lies, And graylings on the fells are breeding ; When mussels grow on every tree, And swans on every rock are feeding ; When mountains are by men removed, And Ribble back to Horton carried, Or Pendle Hill grows silk above, Then will my love and I be married. " When moor or moss do saffron yield, And beck 3 and sike 4 run down with honey ; When sugar grows in every field, And clerks will take no bribe of money ; 1 The young green shoots of bear, or bigg, a coarse kind of barley, to which rain is indispensable when they first appear above ground. 2 At Downham crystals are found, usually called Downham diamonds, which in lustre equal Bristol stones. These are mostly found on Wossa Hill, near Downham. 3 Beck is the Scandinavian name for a brook or burn. 4 Sike is a small rivulet or stream ; in Lancashire often called a rindle. ANCIENT BALLADS AND When men in Bowland dieth here, And at Jerusalem be buried ; Or when the sun doth rise at noon, Then will my love and I be married." " Now, farewell, friend ; if it be so, And this thy once expected wedding ; For neither I, nor none of my kin Will ever need to look for bidding. 1 I swear and vow, if this be true, And thou of such an evil carriage, If I should live ten thousand year, I'd never more expect thy marriage." THE BLESSED CONSCIENCE. Written on the departure from Merry England of T/tomas Hoghton, Esq. of Hoghton Tower. "This ballad," says Dr. J. H. Dixon (an active member of the Percy Society, and a great collector of broadsides, etc.), " has long been sung in Pendle Forest, Lancashire, and the neighbourhood ; having been handed down by tradition. It was first printed by Mr. Peter Whittle, F.S.A., of Preston, whose copy is said to have been taken from the recitation of a Lanca- shire fiddler. There are various versions, but the differences between them are unimportant." The ballad carries with it evidence of the date of the events it sings, although Mr. Whittle appears to have made 1 Bidding to a wedding is inviting. So at a funeral, two or four persons called bidders are sent about to invite the friends, and distribute the mourning. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 33 free with several of the stanzas. The " Bishop Younge" named in the 3d verse, was originally a chorister at St. David's Cathedral, and in 1559 was made bishop of that see, from which he was translated to the archiepiscopal see of York, which he held about ten years (1560- 15 70), and was also for a considerable period Lord President of the North. In both his high functions, civil and ecclesiastic, he would have the right to summon before him any " obstinate " Catholic recusant who would not attend church, or who other- wise showed his determination not to conform to the sort of Protestantism which was held to be the estab- lished religion in the reign of Elizabeth. The Thomas Hoghton, the hero of the ballad, was, in all probability, the son and heir (by his first wife, Alice Assheton) of Sir Richard, who was knight of the shire in 1547. At Sir Richard's death in 1559, Thomas was 40 years of age. He married Catherine, daughter of Sir Thomas Gerard of Brynn, and both families were persecuted for their religion. The only full brother of Thomas was Alexander, who was twice married, but died with- out issue. Thomas had, however, three half-brothers, sons of his father's second wife, Alice Morley, of whom the eldest was the Thomas who was Sheriff of Lanca- shire in 1563, and who was slain at Lea in a tumult brought against him by Thomas Langton, Baron of Newton, in November 1589. The other two were Rowland and Richard ; the latter, though only of half blood, being the only real brother in love, if we are to believe the ballad. We take it from a printed copy in eight pages, obligingly forwarded to us for that pur- pose, by Mr. Whittle, only modernising the spelling. D 34 ANCIENT BALLADS AND I. Apollo, with his radiant beams, Inflamed the air so fair, Phaeton with his fiery teams The heat of wars did bear. The day was hot, the evening cool, And pleasures did abound ; And meads, with many a crystal pool, Did yield a joyful sound. 2. This fragrant time to pleasures prest, Myself for to solace, I walked forth, as I thought best, Into a private place. And as I went, myself alone, There came to my presence A friend, who seem'd to make great moan, And said, " Go, get you hence." 3- "Alas ! good Sir, what is the cause You this have said to me ? " " Indeed," he said, " the Prince's laws Will bear no more with thee : For Bishop Younge will summon thee ; You must to his presence ; For in this land you cannot live And keep your conscience." 4- " I am too old, I cannot ride, What is my best to do? " SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 35 " Good Sir, here you must not abide, Unless to church you go : Or else to Preston you must wend, For here's no residence ; For in this land you have no friend To keep your conscience." 5- " Then did I think it was the best For me in time provide : For Bishop Younge would me molest, If here I should abide. Then did I cause my men prepare, A ship for my defence ; For in this land I could not fare, And keep my conscience. 6. " When my ship that it was hired, My men return'd again ; The time was almost full expired, That here I should remain ; To Preston town I should have gone To make recognizance ; For other helps perceived I none, To keep my conscience. 7- " To lovely Lea 1 then I me hied, And Hoghton bade farewell : 1 Lea, a manor and hamlet three miles west of Preston, came to the Hoghtons by the marriage of Sir Richard de Hoghton, about 1308 or 1309, to Sibilla, daughter and heiress of William, son and heir of Henry de Lea. Lea Hall was about three and a half miles from Preston, and it 36 ANCIENT BALLADS AND It was more time for me to ride, Than longer there to dwell. I durst not trust my dearest friend, But secretly stole hence, To take the fortune God should send, And keep my conscience. 8. "When lovely Lea I came until [i.e., unto], And passed by the gate, My cattle all, with voices shrill, As if they mourn'd my fate, Did leap and roar, as if they had Understood my diligence [? intelligence] : It seem'd my cause they understood, Thro' God's good providence. 9- " Oh ! Hoghton high, which is a bower Of sports and lordly pleasure, I wept, and left that lofty tower Which was my chiefest treasure. 1 To save my soul and lose the rest, It was my true pretence : was there that Thomas Hoghton (our hero's half-brother), then sheriff) was slain by Thomas Langton, baron of Newton, in November 1589, a few months before Thomas the elder died in exile. 1 Hoghton was the ancient seat of the Hoghtons, being held as early as the reign of Henry II. by Adam de Hocton, who married the daughter of Warin de Bussel, baron of Penwortham, shortly after the Conquest. The present Hoghton Tower, now partly in ruins, was built by this Thomas Hoghton (who here laments to leave it) in the reign of Elizabeth. Previously the ancient manor-house stood below the hill on the water-side, but he built the new tower, with a lofty gate-house, on its present elevated and commanding site. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 37 Like frighted bird, I left my nest, To keep my conscience. " Thus took I there my leave at last, And rode to the sea-side ; Into the ship I hied apace, Which did for me abide. With sighs I sail'd from merry England, I ask'd of none license : Wherefore my estate fell from my hand, And was forfeit to my Prince. " Thus merry England have I left, And cut the raging sea, Whereof the waves have me bereft Of my so dear country. With sturdy storms and blustering blast We were in great suspense ; Full sixteen days and nights they last And all for my conscience. " When on the shore I was arrived, Through France I took my way ; And unto Antwerp I me hied, In hope to make my stay. When to the city I did come I thought that my absence Would to my men be cumbersome, Though they made me no offence. 280566 33 ANCIENT BALLADS AND 13- "At Hoghton, where I used to rest, Of men I had great store, Full twenty gentlemen at least, Of yeomen good threescore. And of them all, I brought but two With me, when I came thence ; I left them all the world knows how, To keep my conscience. 14. " But when my men came to me still, Lord ! how rejoiced I, To see them with so good a will To leave their own country ! Both friends and kin they did forsake, And all for my presence ; Alive or dead, amends I'll make, And give them recompense. 15- " But fortune had me so bereft, Of all my goods and lands, That for my men was nothing left But at my brethren's hands. Then did I think the truth to prove Whilst I was in absence, That I might try their constant love, And keep my conscience. 16. r, When to my brethren I had sent, The welcome that they made SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 39 Was, false reports me to present, Which made my conscience sad. My brethren all did thus me cross, And little regard my fall, Save only one — that rued my loss — That is Richard, of Park Hall. 17. "He was the comfort that I had ; I proved his diligence ; He was as just, as they were bad, Which cheered my conscience. When this report of them I heard, My heart was sore with grief, In that my purpose was so marr'd, My men should want relief. 18. " Good cause I had to love my men, And them to recompense ; Their lives they ventured, I know when, And left their dear parents. Then to come home straightway I meant, My men for to relieve ; My brethren sought this to prevent, And sums of gold did give. 19- " A thousand marks ' they offered then, To hinder my license ; That I should not come home again, To keep my conscience. 1 ^666 : 13 : 4. 40 ANCIENT BALLADS AND But if that day I once had seen, My lands to have again, And that my Prince had changed been, I would not me have stay'n " I should my men so well have paid, Thro' God's good providence, That they should ne'er have been afraid To lose their due expense. 20. ' But now my life is at an end, And death is at the door ; That grisly ghost his bow doth bend, And through my body gore ; Which nature now must yield to clay, And death will take me hence ; And now I shall go where I may Enjoy my conscience. 21. " Fair England ! now ten times adieu, And friends that therein dwell ; Farewell my brother Richard true, Whom I did love so well. Farewell, farewell ! good people all, And learn experience ; Love not too much the golden ball, But keep your conscience ! " 22. All you who now this song shall hear, Help me for to bewail SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 41 The wight, who scarcely had his peer, Till death did him assail. His life a mirror was to all, His death without offence ; u Confessor," then, let us him call, O blessed conscience ! In a MS. copy of this ballad, kindly forwarded to the present Editor by J. W. Bone, Esq., B.A., F.S.A., and which has been in the possession of his family for two or three generations, there are several additions to the copy printed in the first edition of this work, and some variations which are worthy of notice. The original title appears to have been, "An Excellent Song, composed on Sir Thomas Hoghton, of Hoghton Tower, Baronet, when he was driven off from his estate at Hoghton Tower since the pretended Refor- mation." In the second stanza the two first lines of the MS. are— " These pastimes had my heart solaced, I knowing well my case." The first line in the fourth stanza runs thus — " I am too old, I cannot ride ; " which is probably a better reading than the line as originally printed. The last two lines of the sixth stanza are thus given in the MS.:— " For other helps received I none, Whilst I was in absence." Then follows an additional stanza — 42 ANCIENT BALLADS AND " Unto my house there did resort Both rich and also poor ; Hawks and hounds for my good sport, There was no want in store. Of meat and drink there was no want, Nor music with licence ; I left those joys, which were not scant, To keep my conscience." The fifth and sixth lines of the eighth stanza are better than those previously printed. They are— " Did leap and roar as they 'd been wood [mad], Without all dalliance." The seventh printed stanza is not in the MS., and the eleventh is given as follows : — " When on the shore I was arrived, Through France I took my way ; And unto Antwerp I me hied, In hope to make my stay. With sturdy storms and blustering blasts We were in great suspense ; Full sixty days and nights they last, And all for my conscience." These lines form the first and last halves of the twelfth and eleventh as printed, the rest is not in the MS. After the fourteenth stanza in the printed copy, the following lines occur in the MS. : — " Then to come home straightway I meant, My men for to relieve ; My brethren sought me to prevent, And sums of eold did give. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 43 A thousand marks they offered then To hinder my licence, That I could not come home again To keep my conscience." These are the last and first halves of the eighteenth and nineteenth stanzas, forming stanza the fourteenth in the MS. In like manner, the first halves of the fifteenth and eighteenth stanzas as printed from the eighteenth stanza of the MS. There are several other transpositions and variations of minor importance, some of which have been adopted in the present text ; but since Mr. Bone may hereafter publish his copy of the ballad in extenso, along with several others, they need not be further particularised. Mr. Bone adds : — " There is a mistake of fact in the title ; the Thomas Hoghton it relates to was neither a baronet nor a knight. He was eldest son and heir of Sir Richard Hoghton, Knight ; and Dodd's Church History of England says of him ' that he, being zealous for the old religion, went abroad towards the beginning of Queen Elizabeth's reign, and died at Liege, June 3, 1580.' He assisted Cardinal Allen in founding the College of Douay. The first baronet in the family was Sir Richard Hoghton, nephew of this Thomas ; he died in 1630." 44 ANCIENT BALLADS AND THE RADCLIFFE TRAGEDY OF "FAIR ELLEN." AMONGST the common people in the neighbourhood of Radcliffe and Bury, a story is currently believed that the kitchen of Radcliffe Tower was the scene of a cruel tragedy, perpetrated by a menial on the daughter of the lord, to gratify the malice and cupidity of a stepmother ; and a red stain on the floor marked, as it is said, the place where the victim fixed her bloody hand while her murderer perpetrated the atrocity. Although there is nothing in the family history of the Radcliffes to support this tradition, and although for ioo years back, at least, there has been no such relic to be found in Radcliffe Tower, the tradition is not on that account the less firmly believed. A ballad of the murder, under the title of "The Lady Isabella's Tragedy," is printed in Bishop Percy's Reliques, with the following introduction: — "This ballad is given from an old black-letter copy, in the Pepys collection, collated with another in the British Museum (H. 263, fol.) It is there entitled ' The Lady Isabella's Tragedy, or the Stepmother's Cruelty ; being a relation of a lamentable and cruel murther, committed on the body of the Lady Isabella, the only daughter to a noble Duke,' etc. To the tune of ' The Lady's Fall.' To some copies are annexed eight more modern stanzas, entitled, 'The Duchess's and Cook's Lamentation.'" The legend runs somewhat thus : — " In times long past, Sir William de Radcliffe possessed Radcliffe Tower. His first wife had died in giving birth to her first child, a girl, who, when she grew up, became SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 45 remarkable for her beauty. But, in the meantime, Sir William had married again, and the stepmother, a haughty and ambitious woman, cordially hated the only person who divided her husband's affections with herself. One day, when Ellen was about eighteen years of age, Sir William went out hunting. This seemed to the stepmother a good opportunity for the execution of a nefarious design she had long cherished. Calling her daughter to her, she said, ' Fair daughter, go, I beseech thee, and tell the master-cook that he must dress the white doe for dinner.' The damsel, unconscious of any harm, did as she was requested. When she had delivered her message the cook said, ' You are the white doe my lady means ; and it is you I must kill.' In vain did the unhappy victim implore and intreat, and in vain did a scullion boy offer him- self in her place ; the damsel was killed, and made into 2ipie. In the meantime, Sir William's chase had been long and animated ; but he was unable to drive away a foreboding of ill that kept crossing his mind, and at last he felt impelled to order his retinue to return. At dinner he called for his daughter to carve for him, as was her wont, but she appeared not. On asking his wife where she was, she urged as an excuse that she was gone into a nunnery, but the scullion boy exclaimed, ' 'Tis false ; cut open that pie and there you will find your daughter ! ' He then related the sad catastrophe, and the cruel stepmother was condemned to be burned at the stake, and the cook to stand in boiling lead. The scullion boy was declared the heir of all his lord's possessions." Dr. Whitaker, in his History of Whalley, says : — 46 ANCIENT BALLADS AND "To this place and family (Radcliffe of Radcliffe Tower) are attached the tradition and ballad given by Dr. Percy under the name of ' Isabella,' but here applied to a Lord Thomas and Fair Ellenor, father and daughter, whose figures are supposed to be graven on a slab in the church, 1 which the common people— con- cluding, I suppose, from its whiteness that it was meant as an emblem of the innocence it is said to cover — have mutilated, by breaking off small fragments as amulets for the prevention or cure of disorders. Traditions, always erroneous in their circumstances, are yet rarely devoid of foundation ; and though the pedigrees of Radcliffe exhibit no failure of the family by the premature death of an heiress ; though the last Richard de Radcliffe, who had daughters only, 2 certainly did not make ' a scullion boy the heir of all his land,' when he settled it on Radcliffe, Baron Fitzwalter ; though the blood actually pointed out on the kitchen floor, where this Thyestasan banquet is said to have been prepared, deserves no more regard than many of the stories and appearances of the same kind ; yet . . .... we are not to discard as incredible the tradition of a barbarous age, merely because it asserts the sacri- 1 This slab Dr. Whitaker describes as " an alabaster slab, north-west of the altar in Radcliffe church, covering the remains of James de Rad- cliffe, founder of the church. There are, as usual, a male and female figure cumbent, the man in armour, and some remains of children in praying attitudes, beneath. What can be recovered of the inscription round the verge is as follows : — Orate pr. aia Jacobi de Radclyff .... qu ai ... . propicieret Deus." (That is, " Pray for the souls of James de Radcliffe, etc., on whose souls God have mercy.") 2 He died in 1502, as per inquisition, aged 31, leaving daughters, who are not noticed in the descent. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 47 fice of a young and beautiful heiress to the jealousy or the avarice of a stepmother. When this is granted, the story of the pie, with all its horrors, may safely be ascribed to the inventive genius of a minstrel. On the whole, Radcliffe is a place which, not only from its anti- quity and splendour, but from the great families which have branched out from it, and the romantic tradition attached to it, can scarcely be surveyed without enthu- siasm, or quitted without regret." Both Radcliffe Tower, and the Hall, have long since been demolished. The ballad is printed both by Roby and Baines ; the latter observing that the story is curious, and deserves to be preserved in its original garb, as well for its antiquity as for its poetic merit : — FAIR ELLEN OF RADCLIFFE. There was a lord of worthy fame, And a hunting he would ride, Attended by a noble traine Of gentrye by his side. And while he did in chase remaine To see both sport and playe, His lady went, as she did feigne, Unto the church to praye. This lord he had a daughter deare, Whose beauty shone so bright, She was beloved both far and neare Of many a lord and knight. Fair Ellen was this maiden calPd ; A creature faire was she ; 48 ANCIENT BALLADS AND She was her father's only joye, As you shall after see. Therefore her cruel stepmother Did envye her so muche, That day by day she sought her life, Her malice it was suche. She bargain'd with the master-cook To take her life awaye ; And, taking of her daughter's book, She thus to her did saye : — " Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praye, Go hasten presentlie ; And tell unto the master-cook These words that I tell thee : " And bid him dress to dinner streight That faire and milk-white doe That in the parke doth shine so bright, There's none so faire to showe." This ladye, fearing of no harme, Obey'd her mother's will ; And presently she hasted home Her pleasure to fulfill. She streight into the kitchen went Her message for to tell ; And there she spied the master-cook, Who did with malice swell. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 49 " Nowe, master-cook, it must be soe, Do that which I thee tell ; You needs must dresse the milk-white doe, Which you do knowe full well." Then streight his cruell, bloody hands He on the ladye laid, Who quivering and shaking stands, While thus to her he sayd : — " Thou art the doe that I must dresse ; See here, behold my knife ; For it is pointed, presentlye To ridd thee of thy life." O then cried out the scullion-boye, As loud as loud might bee, — " O, save her life, good master-cook, And make your pyes of mee ! " For pitye's sake do not destroye My ladye with your knife ; You knowe shee is her father's joye ; For Christe's sake save her life." " I will not save her life," he sayd, " Nor make my pyes of thee ; Yet, if thou dost this deed bewraye, Thy butcher I will bee." Now when his lord he did come home For to sit downe and eat, He called for his daughter deare, To come and carve his meat. E 5 o ANCIENT BALLADS AND " Nowe sit you downe," his ladye said, " O sit you downe to meat ; Into some nunnery she is gone : Your daughter deare forget." Then solemnlye he made a vowe, Before the companie, That he would neither eat nor drinke Until he did her see. then bespake the scullion-boye With a loud voice so hye — " If now you will your daughter see, My lord, cut up that pye, " Wherein her flesh is minced small, And parched with the fire ; All caused by her stepmother, Who did her death desire. " And cursed bee the master-cook, O cursed may he bee ! 1 proffer'd him my own heart's blood, From death to set her free." Then all in blacke this lorde did mourne, And, for his daughter's sake, He judged her cruel stepmother To bee burnt at a stake. Likewise he judg'd the master-cook In boiling lead to stand ; And made the simple scullion-boye The heire of all his land. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 51 JAMES I. AND THE LOIN OF BEEF. During the progress in Lancashire of James I. he spent some days at Hoghton Tower, and at dinner there on Sunday, 17th August 1617, his majesty was so much pleased with a fine loin of beef, that in a merry mood he is said to have knighted the joint, which has ever since been called the " Sir-loin." The following lines relating to this event are sometimes sung in the neighbourhood ; and have been communi- cated by Mr. P. A. Whittle, F.S.A. THE SIR LOIN. Thee the god of plenty bore To the king of Britain's shore, His fav'rite dish. In James's time Plain eating was not deem'd a crime. The god, in guise of yeoman tall, Pass'd along the crowded hall ; And with portly mien and bland, Gave thee to the monarch's hand. The well-known dish the King survey'd, And then drew forth the shining blade ; He waved it thrice, with gentle tap, Thrice impos'd the knightly slap. And worthier thou a king's reward Than half the titled bands, I ween, At courtly masque or banquet seen. Oft in winter at thy side May thy loved plum-pudding bide ! 52 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Near thee, by the parson wedded, And with nuptial blessings bedded ! Preserv'd in Thomson's matchless lay, Sir Loin, thou wilt ne'er decay. WARRIKIN FAIR. THERE is an old ballad preserved — we believe by Mr. J. O. Halliwell, and communicated by William Bea- mont, Esq. of Warrington — describing, in the dialect of the place and time, how Gilbert Scott sold his mare Barry at Warrikin {i.e., Warrington) Fair. It is perhaps the oldest ballad extant in the Lancashire dialect, and its date is fixed by the name " Rondle Shay's " in the fifth verse ; for the name of Sir Thomas Butler's bailiff in the 2d Edward VI. (1548) was Randle Shay or Shaw. Now, au yo good gentlefoak, an yo won tarry, I'll tell yo how Gilbert Scott soud his mare Barry ; He soud his mare Barry at Warrikin fair, But when he'll be paid, he knaws no', I'll swear. So when he coom whom, and toud his woife Grace, Hoo stud up o' th' kippo, and swat him o'er th' face, Hoo pick'd him o' th' hillock, and he fawd wi' a whack, That he thowt would welly a brocken his back. " O woife," quo' he, " if thou'll le'mme but rise, I'll gi' thee aw' th' leet, wench, imme that lies ;" "Tho udgit," quo' hoo, "but wheer does he dwell?" " By lakin," quo' he, " that I conno' tell." SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 53 " I tuck him for t' be some gentlemon's son, For he spent tuppence on me, when he had dun ; An' he gen me a lunchin o' denty snig poy, An' by th' hond did he shak' me most lovingly." Then Grace hoo prompted hur neatly and fine, An' to Warrikin went o' We'nsday betime ; An' theer, too, hoo staid for foive markit days, Till th' mon wi' th' mare were cum t' Rondle Shay's. An' as hoo wer' resting one day in hur rowm, Hoo spoy'd th' mon a-riding th' mare into th' town ; Then bounce goos hur heart, an' hoo were so gloppen, That out o' th' winder hoo'd like for to loppen. Hoo stampt an' hoo stared, an' down stairs hoo run, Wi' hur heart in hur hont, an' hur wint welly gone ; Her head-gear flew off, an' so did her snood ; Hoo stampt an' hoo stared, as if hoo'd bin woode. To Rondle's hoo hied, an' hoo hov' up the latch, Afore th' mon had tied th' mare gradely to th' cratch. "My gud mon," quo' hoo, "Gilbert greets you right merry, And begs that yo'll send him th' money for Barry." " Oh, money !" quo' he, " that connot I spare : " "Be lakin," quo' hoo, "then I'll ha' th' mare." Hoo poo'd an' hoo thrumper'd him sham' to be seen, " Thou hangman," quo' hoo, " I'll poo' out thy e'en. " I'll mak' thee a sompan, I'll houd thee a groat ; I'll auther ha' th' money, or poo' out thy throat :" So between 'em they made sich a wearisom' din, That to mak' 'em at peace, Rondle Shay did come in. 54 ANCIENT BALLADS AND " Cum, fye, naunty Grace ; cum, fye, an' ha' dun ; You'st ha' th' mare, or th' money, whether yo' won." So Grace geet th' money, an' whomwards hoo's gone ; But hoo keeps it hursel' an' gies Gilbert Scott none. A few words in this quaint ballad require a glossary. It has evidently been preserved by oral tradition for a time, and then incorrectly dictated by, or taken down from, its singer. The second line of the second verse should read thus — " Hoo tuck up th' kippo, an' swat him o'er th' face ;" that is — She took up the big stick and struck him over the face. The next line reads — She pushed or pitched him upon the hillock, and he fell with a whack, or great force. "Welly" is well- nigh, nearly. The second line of the third verse, in English, is — I will give thee all the light, wench, in me that lies. " Udgit" may mean a soft fool, or a clumsy fellow ; or it may be a form of hedgehog. " By lakin " is a corruption of " By'r lakin," itself a corruption of " By our lady," a Roman Catholic expletive often to be met with in old plays. The third line of the fourth verse reads — and he gave me a luncheon of dainty snig {i.e. eel) pie. We should be inclined to read the first line of the fifth verse thus — Then Grace she pranked her {i.e. dressed, adorned herself) featly and fine. The third and fourth lines of this verse mean that she stayed at Warrington five market-days, till the man with the mare came and put up at Randle Shay's. " Gloppen " means startled, surprised ; " Loppen," to have leaped. In the seventh verse are two similar colloquialisms, " her heart in her hand, and her wind (breath) well- (nigh gone." "Snood" is a hair-fillet or band. "Woode" is mad, wild. The two first lines of verse SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 55 eight read — To Randle's she went, and she heaved up the latch, before the man had tied the mare properly or completely to the hay-rack. "Poo'd" is pulled; " thrumper'd," thumped, beat. " Sompan " is pro- bably what we still mean by sumph, a foolish, stupid fellow. "I'll hold thee a groat," — I'll bet thee a wager of a groat. Shakspere has " to hold a penny," in the sense of to bet a trifle. In the last verse Randle Shay accosts Grace Scott familiarly as " Naunty," or aunt, a common mode of salutation to elderly women. BRIGADIER MACINTOSH'S ESCAPE AND "FAREWELL." Brigadier Macintosh, Laird of Borlum, was an old and experienced officer, who had served in Holland with King James's guards. He was kinsman to the laird styled " The Macintosh," the chief of the powerful clan Cattan or Chattan, who joined the Scottish rebels, to the number of more than 300 well-disciplined men. The Brigadier, who was a brave yet cautious soldier, crossed the Firth of Forth with great skill, in face of the enemy, and had he been commander of the rebel forces they would have made a very much more sturdy resistance at Preston. He despised the incompetency of Forster, the so-called " General," who yet was placed over him, and would not follow his suggestions or counsel. The Brigadier planned the defence of Preston, and fought there at the head of the Highland force. Being taken prisoner, he was committed to Newgate, from which prison he, with seven compan- 56 ANCIENT BALLADS AND ions, effected his escape on the night of the 4th May 1 7 16 ; his trial being fixed for the following day. The old Brigadier, then in his 59th year, and his daring comrades, forced their way out of Newgate, knocking down the keeper and the turnkey, and disarming the sentinel. Though a reward of ^1000 was offered for his apprehension he got clear away to the Continent. Notwithstanding that a bill of attainder and outlawry was passed against him, which excluded him from participating in the freedom promised by the general Act of Indemnity, he ventured (probably after the death of George I.) to return to his native country ; but he was seized and imprisoned for life in Edinburgh Castle, where he died on the 6th January 1743, aged about 85. He wrote several pieces during his confine- ment : one entitled " Essays on Ways and Means for inclosing, fallowing, and planting Scotland, etc.," published in 1729, "had the effect of introducing a spirit of improvement into the country, and led to the formation of a society for improving agriculture." On his escape from Newgate, he became, if possible, more celebrated and beloved than ever among the Jacobites, but especially among those of Lancashire. He formed the subject of a very popular English ballad, which (says Dr Hibbert-Ware, in his Memorials of the Re- bellion in 1715), from the scene being laid in Proud Preston, and from one or two peculiarities of expres- sion, ought to be regarded as a Lancashire Ballad. It is given in the Memorials from a copy in the posses- sion of Mr. David Laing of Edinburgh, — a broadside, in double columns, without any date or place of print- SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 57 BRIGADIER MACINTOSH'S FAREWELL TO THE HIGHLANDS. (To an excellent new tune). Macintosh is a soldier brave, And of his friends he took his leave ; Unto Northumberland he drew, And march'd along with a jovial crew ; With a fa la la, ra da, ra da. My Lord Derwentwater x he did say, Five hundred guineas he would lay To fight the Militia, if they would stay ; But they all proved cowards, and ran away. With a fa la, etc. 1 Amongst the various individuals of eminence who entered into the conspiracy [of 1715], James Radcliffe, third Earl of Derwentwater, took the lead. His estate was immense ; and as he gave employment to several hundred men among the mines at Alstone Moor it was expected that he would bring a great number of men into the field. His generous and charitable disposition had also rendered him- extremely popular among his tenants and dependants. His lordship was a Roman Catholic, and allied by consanguinity to the Chevalier St. George, his mother having been a natural daughter of Charles II. This unfortunate noble- man, with a number of friends and all his servants, well armed ioined the rebels in Northumberland on Thursday, 6th October 1715. His troop of horse was commanded by his brother, Charles Radcliffe, Esq., and Captain John Shaftoe. At General Wills's attack on Preston, the Earl of Derwentwater is said to have headed a body of gentlemen volunteers drawn up on the north side of the churchyard, in protecting the Church- gate barrier. The Earl and Brigadier Macintosh delivered themselves up as hostages to General Carpenter, and on the 13th November the Earl and his men surrendered as prisoners of war. His lordship, a wealthy English nobleman, complained heavily of his having been vil- lainously used by the High Church party, especially in Lancashire, who 53 ANCIENT BALLADS AND The Earl of Mar 1 did vow and swear, If that Proud Preston he came near, Before the Right should starve, and the Wrong should stand, He would drive them into some foreign land. With a fa la, etc. My Lord Derwentwater he did say, When he mounted on his dapple gray, " I wish I were at home with speed, For I fear we're all betray'd, indeed." With a fa la, etc. had engaged him and other Catholics to come in to their support — pro- mising that, on the forces entering the county, they should be joined by a reinforcement of 20,000 men, a promise which they utterly failed to keep — but who, he said, had left them in the lurch. On the 25th November the prisoners were sent under a strong guard from Wigan to Warrington, and on the following day to London, guarded by a strong detachment of Stanhope's dragoons, the Earl of Derwentwater being allowed to travel in a carriage. On arriving at London he was committed to the Tower. On trial, he pleaded guilty, and with Viscount Kenmure and the Earl of Nithsdale received sentence of death. He prayed the royal clemency, urging his youth and inexperience, by which he had been led to engage in the rebellion rashly, and without much previous concert or premeditation, on the assurance that many of his relations and acquaintances would be there. On the 24th February 1716 he was executed on Tower Hill. In his last declaration he confessed himself a Roman Catholic, and avowed his loyalty to him whom he styled "James III., his rightful sovereign." 1 The Earl of Mar had been secretary of state to Queen Anne under a Tory ministry. In August 1715 he called together various chieftains of Highland clans at his seat of Braemar, under pretence of holding a great deer-hunt, and induced many noblemen and chiefs to rise in rebellion, with their clans. He set up the rebel standard at Kirkmichael for the Chevalier St. George, under the name and title of King James VIII., King of Scotland. On the failure of the Jacobite cause in Scotland the Earl, with other leaders, escaped to the continent. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 59 " No, no," says Forster, 1 " never fear, The Brunswick army is not near ; But if that they come, our valour we'll show, And give them a fatal overthrow." "With a fa la, etc. My Lord Derwentwater, when he found That Forster had drawn his left wing round, Said, " I wish I were with my dear wife, For I fear that I will lose my life." With a fa la, etc. Macintosh he shook his head To see his soldiers all lie dead ; " It was not for the loss of those, But I fear we're taken by our foes. With a fa la, etc. Macintosh is a valiant soldier, He carried a musket on his shoulder ; " Cock your pistols, draw your rapier ; D n you, Forster, for you're a traitor !" With a fa la, etc. 1 Thomas Forster of Etherston, Northumberland, and knight of the shire for the county, was a High Church Tory ; and as it was thought impolitic to offend Protestant prejudices by nominating either the Earl of Derwentwater or Lord Widdrington (both Roman Catholics) to the leadership of the Northumbrian rebels, this honour was assigned to Mr. Forster, who was styled General. A more incompetent leader was pro- bably never known. His incapacity and cowardice mainly contributed to the defeat of the rebels at Preston. He was amongst the prisoners taken to London, and was to have been tried on the 14th April 1716, but on the 10th he contrived, by a false key, to let himself out of Newgate prison, at the same time locking in the governor. A reward of ,£1000 was offered for the apprehension of Forster, but he contrived to get over to Calais. 60 ANCIENT BALLADS AND My Lord Derwentwater to Forster did say, " Thou hast prov'd our ruin this very day : Thou promisedst to stand our friend, But thou hast prov'd a rogue in the end." With a fa la, etc. My Lord Derwentwater to Lichfield did ride, With coach and attendants by his side ; He swore if he died on the point of the sword, He'd drink a good health to the man that he lov'd. With a fa la, etc. " Thou, Forster, has brought us from our own home, Leaving our estates for others to come. Thou treacherous dog, thou hast us betray'd, We are all ruin'd," Lord Derwentwater said. With a fa la, etc. My Lord Derwentwater he is condemn'd, And near unto his latter end : His poor lady she did cry, " My dear Derwentwater, thou must die." With a fa la, etc. My Lord Derwentwater he is dead, And from his body they took his head ; But Macintosh and others are fled, To fit his hat on another man's head. With a fa la, etc. We have retained the title, as printed in the old broadside ; but this ballad would much more fitly bear that of "A Lament for the Earl of Derwentwater," than " Brigadier Macintosh's Farewell to the High- SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 61 lands." The Brigadier figures in but three or four stanzas ; the Earl in seven or eight. There was an old ballad with the title of " Farewell Manchester " written about the time of the young Pretender being in that city ; but Mr. Chappell, in his " Popular Music of the Olden Time" (ii. 683), states that it is "in all probability irrecoverably lost." We have noted this in the hope that it may lead to a copy being found amongst some of the descendants of old Jacobite families in Lancashire. LONG PRESTON PEGGY. During the Rebellion of 1745 a buxom, handsome young woman of Long Preston, near Settle, Yorkshire, was very anxious to see Prince Charles Edward Steuart and his army, and came to Preston in Lanca- shire for that purpose, a distance of 38 miles. Having gratified her curiosity by seeing them, she at once returned to her native village. A song was made, which became famous in Ribblesdale, for every country lad could sing it at that time. Peggy lived to a great age, and used to carol this song at all public meetings held at Rauthmell, Cross Keys Inn, and other places about Clitheroe, to the tune of Chevy Chace. This song, having apparently been handed down by tradition only, cannot now be recovered entire. How many verses it contained originally we know not ; but the two following are all that survive in the memories of some old persons in and about Long Preston, who were wont to sing the song nearly a century ago. 62 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Long Preston is a township in the parish of that name, in the West Riding of Yorkshire, four and a-half miles south by east from Settle. Proud Preston is of course the central town of Lancashire, celebrated for its Guild. Long Preston Peg to Proud Preston went ; x To see the Scotch Rebels it was her intent ; A noble Scotch Lord, as he passed by, On this Yorkshire damsel did soon cast an eye. He call'd to his servant, who on him did wait, " Go down to yon girl who stands in the gate [i.e., road, street], That sings with a voice so soft and so sweet, And in my name do her lovingly greet." Many collectors have endeavoured, but in vain, to find more of this old Lancashire ballad than the two verses given by Dr. Dixon, in his " Songs and Ballads of the English Peasantry." The following version is much more complete than any yet given. Long Preston Peggy to Proud Preston went, To view the Scotch Rebels it was her intent ; A noble Scotch lord, as he passed by, On this Yorkshire damsel did soon cast an eye. 1 Another version of this verse is given in " New Tales of the Borders and of the British Isles," under the title of an "Old Yorkshire Ballad- Preston Peggy : " — From Long Preston, Peggy to proud Preston went, To join the bold rebels it was her intent : For in brave deeds of arms did she take much delight, And therefore she went for the rebels to fight. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 63 He called to his servant, who on him did wait— " Go down to yon maiden who stands in the gate, That sings with a voice so soft and so sweet, And in my name do hei lovingly greet." So down from his master away he did hie, For to do his bidding, and bear her reply ; But ere to this beauteous virgin he came, He moved his bonnet, not knowing her name. " It's oh ! Mistress Madam, your beauty's adored, By no other person than by a Scotch lord, And if with his wishes you will comply, All night in his chamber with him you shall lie." The two last verses were taken down from the lips of an old woman who recently resided near Ulverstone, by J. P. Morris, Esq., F.S.A JEMMY DAWSON. A Ballad, by Shenstone. This ballad records one of the many touching episodes connected with Lancashire's share in the rebellion of 1745. When the Young Pretender was in Manchester in the November of that year, recruiting was carried on with great vigour for what was called the Man- chester regiment ; the Prince's secretary, Lord George Murray, fixing his quarters at the Dog Inn, Deansgate, for the purpose of obtaining recruits, and distributing French commissions to officers. Among those who obtained a commission was Mr. James Dawson, a 64 ANCIENT BALLADS AND gentleman of a respectable family in Lancashire. He had received a liberal education, and was of St. John's College, Cambridge ; which he is said to have quitted, fearing that he should be expelled on account of some irregularities. Regarding this statement some doubt may be entertained, as well as upon the report that he joined the Young Pretender while under the dread, after quitting Cambridge, of not being again received by his father. A letter from the registrar of the Uni- versity of Cambridge, dated 24th October 1833, states that he matriculated as a pensioner on the 17th December 1737 ; that he never took a degree ; "nor does he appear to have been subjected to any punish- ment for irregularity in the university courts held by the vice-chancellor." The Manchester regiment sur- rendered at Carlisle on the 30th December 1745, and its commissioned officers were conveyed in waggons, under a strong guard, to London. In the streets of that city, through which they were led in a sort of triumph, the greatest indignities were offered them. They appear to have expected that, as they had served under French commissions, they would be deemed prisoners of war, and would be regularly exchanged. Their fate, however, was far otherwise. Imprisoned in the cells of Newgate, and afterwards in the New Prison of Southwark, they passed thence to the gallows. Captain Dawson was betrothed to a young lady, who seems to have engaged all his thoughts. He is said to have employed himself in writing verses during his confinement on the subject of his unhappy fate. The trials commenced on the 16th July 1746, in the court- house at St. Margaret's Hill, before the High Com- missioners appointed for that purpose. The trials SONGS OF LANCASH E. 65 lasted three days, and all the prisoners arraigned being found guilty, nine, including Captain Dawson, were ordered for execution on the 30th of that month. The interval was passed by most of the prisoners in pre- paring written declarations of their motives and sentiments in joining the standard of their Prince. Captain Dawson declared that, if he had ten thousand lives, he would devote them all to his king and country sooner than see right overpowered by oppression, or rebellion prevailing. He declared that he died in the tenets of the Church of England. He begged pardon of all whom he had injured, and stated that Ensign Maddock, who had turned evidence for the Crown, had forsworn himself. He said he forgave the partiality of the jury, the fetches of the counsel, and the misguided zeal of the judge. He prayed earnestly for his poor self; begging that the Deity would excuse all his frailties, negligences, and levities. The last leave which took place between Captain Dawson and the lady to whom he was betrothed is described by the poet in the ballad. The nine officers of the Manchester regiment, attended by a strong party of soldiers, were conveyed on three hurdles from the New Gaol of Southwark to the gallows erected at Kennington. A pile of faggots and a block were placed near the gallows ; and while the prisoners were in the course of being removed from the sledges into a cart, drawn for that purpose under the " fatal tree," the faggots were set on fire. The guards formed a circle round the place of execution. The prisoners, though unattended by any clergyman, spent nearly an hour in their devo- tions. They then severally delivered the declarations which they had written to the sheriff, expressive of 66 ANCIENT BALLADS AND their conviction of the right and justice of the glorious cause for which they died. Soon afterwards they were turned off, all of them dying calmly and composedly. At the end of five minutes after suspension had taken place, even before signs of life had ceased, they were successively cut down and stripped. Being laid on the block, the hangman with a cleaver severed each head from the body, and put it in a coffin ; then taking out the bowels and heart, he threw them into the fire. When the heart of the last was thrown into the fire, the executioner cried out, " God save King George ! " and was answered by the crowd with a loud shout. Among the numerous spectators of this revolting scene was the plighted fair one of Captain James Dawson. Her fate is pathetically commemorated by Shenstone. He wrote the following ballad shortly after the event, and it was first printed amongst his posthumous works. The copy now given is from Percy's Reliques, as taken from a MS. which contained some slight variations from that in the printed works. See also the " Rebels of '4.5 " by W. H. Ainsworth. Come listen to my mournful tale, Ye tender hearts, and lovers dear ; Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh, Nor will you blush to shed a tear. And thou dear Kitty, peerless maid, Do thou a pensive ear incline ; For thou canst weep at every woe, And pity every plaint but mine. Young Dawson was a gallant youth, A brighter never trod the plain ; SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 67 And well he lov'd one charming maid, And dearly was he lov'd again. One tender maid she lov'd him dear ; Of gentle blood the damsel came, And faultless was her beauteous form, And spotless was her virgin fame. But curse on party's hateful strife, That led the faithful youth astray, The day the rebel clans appear'd : O had he never seen that day ! Their colours and their sash he wore, And in the fatal dress was found ; And now he must that death endure, Which gives the brave the keenest wound. How pale was then his true love's cheek When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear ! For never yet did Alpine snows So pale, nor yet so chill appear. With faltering voice she weeping said : " O Dawson, monarch of my heart, Think not thy death shall end our loves, For thou and I will never part. " Yet might sweet mercy find a place, And bring relief to Jemmy's woes, O George, without a prayer for thee My orisons should never close. " The gracious prince that gives him life, Would crown a never-dying flame, 68 ANCIENT BALLADS AND And every tender babe I bore Should learn to lisp the giver's name. " But though, dear youth, thou should'st be dragg'd To yonder ignominious tree, Thou shalt not want a faithful friend To share thy bitter fate with thee." O then her mourning coach was call'd, The sledge mov'd slowly on before ; Though borne in a triumphal car, She had not lov'd her favourite more. She follow'd him, prepared to view The terrible behests of law ; And the last scene of Jemmy's woe With calm and stedfast eye she saw. Distorted was that blooming face Which she had fondly lov'd so long ; And stifled was that tuneful breath Which in her praise had sweetly sung ; And sever'd was that beauteous neck Round which her arms had fondly closed ; And mangled was that beauteous breast On which her love-sick head reposed ; And ravish'd was that constant heart She did to every heart prefer ; For though it could its king forget, 'Twas true and loyal still to her. Amid those unrelenting flames She bore this constant heart to see ; SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 69 But when 'twas moulder'd into dust, " Now, now," she cried, " I'll follow thee. " My death, my death alone can show The pure and lasting love I bore : Accept, O Heaven, of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more." The dismal scene was o'er and past, The lover's mournful hearse retired ; The maid drew back her languid head, And, sighing forth his name, expired. Though justice ever must prevail, The tear my Kitty sheds is due ; For seldom shall she hear a tale So sad, so tender, and so true. A communication from Mr. J. F. Beever of Man- chester to Barlow's Historical Collector states that Jemmy Dawson was the eldest of the four children of William Dawson of Manchester, gentleman, also styled doctor and apothecary, by his first wife, Elizabeth, daughter of Richard, son of John Allen of Redivales, an ancestor of the Byroms of Kersal. He appears to have been born in 17 17, so that he was about 29 at his death. He was admitted to St. John's College, Cam- bridge, 2 1 st October 1737, and the register describes him as the elder son of William Dawson of Manchester, " Pharmacopolce? He matriculated on the 27th De- cember following. His only brother, William, was buried in the tomb of the Lady Barbara Fitzroy, in the Manchester Collegiate Church. His eldest sister, Eliza- jo ANCIENT BALLADS AND beth, married William Broome of Didsbury, gentleman ; his youngest sister, Sarah, died unmarried. As to the heroine of the ballad, it is stated in the " Legends of Lancashire " that the name of this unfortunate young person was Katherine Norton, that she was "an orphan, and that her parents had been of illustrious rank. She had travelled with a maiden aunt, and as they were residing for a few weeks in the vicinity of Cambridge, she had met with young Dawson, and thus commenced an ardent attachment between them." Mr. Robert Chambers, in his History of the Rebellion oftf* states that " when it was ascertained that Captain Dawson was to suffer death, the inconsolable young lady determined to witness the execution, and she accord- ingly followed the sledges in a hackney coach, accom- panied by a gentleman nearly related to her, and one female friend. She got near enough to see all the dreadful preparations without betraying any extrava- gant emotions ; she also succeeded in restraining her feelings during the progress of the bloody tragedy ; but when all was over, and the shouts of the multitude rang in her ears, she drew her head back again into the coach, and crying, ' My dear ! I follow thee, I follow thee ! Sweet Jesus, receive both our souls together ! ' fell upon the neck of her companion, and expired in the very moment she was speaking." SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 71 THE PRESTON PRISONERS TO THE LADIES ABOUT COURT AND TOWN. By way of Comfort, from C. W. to W. T. The following song, apparently a production of one of the Jacobite prisoners in Preston gaol, after the defeat of the rebels in 1715, is here inserted from a broadside originally " printed for J. Roberts, in Warwick Lane, 1716 ; price twopence." A copy of this broadside is preserved in the collection of" Proclamations, Ballads," etc., in 32 volumes, presented by Mr. J. O. Halliwell, F.R.S., etc., to the Chetham Library. You fair ones, all at liberty, We captive lovers greet ; Nor slight our tears and sighs, 'cause we Can't lay 'em at your feet ; The fault's not ours, and you may guess We can desire no greater bliss. With a fa, la, la, etc. What ! though pack'd up in prisons base, With bolts and bars restrain'd, Think not our bodies love you less, Or souls are more confined : Each was to 'ts utmost power your slave, Nor freedom took, but what you gave. With a fa, la, etc. 72 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Thus doubly captive, in this cause Your prior title pleads, This gaol's high treason 'gainst your laws, And property invades : Wherefore, since prisons are our due, 'Tis just we be lock'd up by you. » With a fa, la, etc. From hence to those most blissful bowers Lest we should miss our way, Those beauties that display'd their powers The last triumphant day, As most expert in Cupid's wars, Shall guide us on like grenadiers. With a fa, la, etc. Thus we'll to the innocent and fair, That shun indecent sights, From purchas'd shouts and noisome air, To whispers and delights : Then all our pains shall pleasures prove, And pinion'd arms be wings of love. With a fa, la, etc. But if our stubborn keepers still Should chain us in our dens, In disobedience to your will And sovereign influence ; Spite of their shackles, bolts, and doors, Our hearts are free, and they are yours. With a fa, la, etc. Meanwhile, within these walls immur'd, Think not our spirit's lost ; SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. The vilest ale our gaols afford Is nectar, with a toast ; And if some wine creep in by stealth, It has its relish from your health. With a fa, la, etc. Our tedious nights and loathsome days, With your remembrance bless'd At length may some compassion raise Within your tender breasts : No matter what our juries find, We're happy still, if you prove kind. With a fa, la, etc. Nay, should we victims be design'd By those that rule the state ; Should mercy no admittance find To hearts that should be great ; What dread can gaols or gibbets show To men who've died so oft for you ? With a fa, la, etc. If fate must fix th' unworthy doom, We'll leave you fresh supplies, And from our ashes, in our room, Some Phcenixes shall rise, Whose vows will more successful prove In happier days to win your love. With a fa, la, la, etc. 74 ANCIENT BALLADS AND TOWNLEY'S GHOST. Colonel Francis Townley, a scion of one of the oldest families in Lancashire, served abroad, and in 1745 held a colonel's commission from the king of France. Being recommended by that king to the service of the Pretender, he joined Charles Edward at Carlisle, of which city he was for a time the governor. He took an active part in the rebellion ; was at Man- chester, Preston, etc. ; and had the command of the Pretender's " Manchester Regiment," numbering only some 300 rank and file. He surrendered on the 30th December 1745 to the Duke of Cumberland at Carlisle, when the Manchester Regiment had been reduced to only 1 14, including officers ; or, including non-commis- sioned officers, drummers, and privates, to 93 men. The commissioned officers were conveyed from Car- lisle to London in waggons, under a strong guard, and were lodged in cells in Newgate. The officers gene- rally, who held French commissions, expected to be treated as prisoners of war, and to be exchanged ; and in the list demanded by cartel from France the name of Colonel Townley stood at the head. But it was determined that the full vengeance of the law should fall upon all belonging to the Manchester Regiment. The trials commenced on the 16th July 1746, in the court-house at St. Margaret's Hill, London. Colonel Townley was first arraigned. His counsel pleaded that he had been sixteen years in the service of France, and that during the time in which he took up arms for the Pretender he held a commission from the French king, and consequently was as much in the SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 75 service of France as any officer in the French army. It was urged, therefore, that Townley had as just a right to the cartel as any French officer taken by the English during the war between the two kingdoms. But the court was of opinion that evidence to this effect would be against the prisoner ; for that no man who was by birth a liege subject of the king of England, was justifiable in taking up arms and acting in the service of a prince who was actually in war against the king of England. Colonel Townley, who was firm and undaunted through the trial, was found guilty ; and when sentence of death was passed against him he was not in the least discomposed, nor did his countenance undergo any change of colour. On the 30th July the nine officers found guilty were executed on a gallows erected for the purpose on Kennington Common. At the end of five minutes after suspension had taken place, Colonel Townley, even before signs of life had ceased, was cut down and stripped. Being laid on the block, the hangman, with a cleaver, severed his head from his body, and put it into a coffin ; then taking out his bowels and heart, he threw them into a fire of faggots, kindled for the purpose. The remains were allowed to be privately interred by his friends ; and only one head — that of Captain Fletcher — was exposed on Temple Bar. Amongst the various Jacobite effusions of the period to which these executions gave rise, the following ought to have a place. It relates to the supposed breach of faith committed with the prisoners of war after the capitulation at Carlisle, and the promise of William, Duke of Cumberland, against whom the bitterest denunciations of the English and Scottish partisans of the house of Stuart were launched, under 76 ANCIENT BALLADS AND his appellation of " The Curse of Scotland." The author of the ballad is not known. It is copied from a MS. in the handwriting of Mrs. Kenyon, wife of a clergyman of that name, resident a century ago in Salford, and incumbent of Trinity Chapel. TOWN LEY'S GHOST. WHEN Sol in shades of night was lost, And all was fast asleep, In glided Townley's murder'd ghost, And stood at William's feet. " Infernal wretch, away ! " he cried, " And view the mangled shade, Who on thy perjur'd faith relied, And basely was betray'd. " Embrued in bliss, embalm'd in ease, Tho' now thou seem'st to lie, My injur'd shade shall gall thine ease, And make thee beg to die. " Think on the hellish acts you've done, The thousands you've betray'd : Nero himself would blush to own The slaughter thou hast made. " Not infants' shrieks, nor parents' tears, Could stop thy bloody hand ; Nor even ravish'd virgins' tears Appease thy dire command. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 77 " But oh ! what pangs are set apart In hell, thou'lt shortly see ; Where even all the damn'd will start To view a fiend like thee." With speed, affrighted, William rose, All trembling, wan, and pale ; And to his cruel sire 2 he goes, And tells the dreadful tale. " Cheer up, my dear, my darling son," The bold usurper said ; " Never repent of what you've done, Nor be at all dismay'd. " If we on Stuart's throne can dwell, And reign securely here, My uncle Satan's king of hell, And he'll protect us there ! " THE THREE SISTERS. The following Lancashire ballad was contributed to Notes and Queries (vi. 102)— whose Editor permits us to reprint it— by a correspondent signing " Seleucus," who suspects it to be the oldest of several versions. It is supposed to be sung by the second sister : — 1 William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, was the second son of George II. He was born 15th April 1721, and died in 1765. 78 ANCIENT BALLADS AND There was a king of the north countree, Bow down, bow down, bow down ! There was a king of the north countree, And he had daughters, one, two, three. I'll be true to my love, and my love'U be true to me. 1 To the eldest he gave a beaver hat, Bow down, bow down, bow down ! To the eldest he gave a beaver hat, And the youngest she thought much of that. I'll be true to my love, and my love'll be true to me. To the youngest he gave a gay gold chain, Bow down, bow down, bow down ! To the youngest he gave a gay gold chain, And the eldest she thought much of the same. I'll be true to my love, and my love'll be true to me. These sisters were walking on the bryn, 2 Bow down, bow down, bow down ! These sisters were walking on the bryn, And the eldest pushed the younger in. I'll be true to my love, and my love'll be true to me. Oh, sister ! oh, sister ! oh, lend me your hand ! Bow down, bow down, bow down ! 1 Probably the original form of this line was, "An [if J my love'll be true to me." - Brink of a river, a craggy slope. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 79 Oh, sister ! oh, sister ! oh, lend me your hand ! And I will give you both houses and land. I'll be true to my love, and my love'll be true to me. I'll neither give you my hand nor glove, Bow down, bow down, bow down ! I'll neither give you my hand nor glove Unless you give me your [own] true love. I'll be true to my love, and my love'll be true to me. Away she sank, away she swam, Bow down, bow down, bow down ! Away she sank, away she swam, Until she came to a miller's dam. I'll be true to my love, and my love'll be true to me. The miller and daughter stood at the door, Bow down, bow down, bow down ! The miller and daughter stood at the door, And watched her floating down the shore. I'll be true to my love, and my love'll be true to me. Oh, father ! oh, father ! I see a white swan, Bow down, bow down, bow down ! Oh, father ! oh, father ! I see a white swan, Or else it is a fair wo-man. I'll be true to my love, and my love'll be true to me. 80 ANCIENT BALLADS AND The miller he took up his long crook, Bow down, bow down, bow down ! The miller he took up his long crook, And the maiden up from the stream he took. I'll be true to my love, and my love'll be true to me. I'll give to thee this gay gold chain, Bow down, bow down, bow down ! I'll give to thee this gay gold chain, If you'll take me back to my father again. I'll be true to my love, and my love'll be true to me. The miller he took the gay gold chain, Bow down, bow down, bow down ! The miller he took the gay gold chain, And he pushed her into the water again. I'll be true to my love, and my love'll be true to me. The miller was hang'd on his high gate, Bow down, bow down, bow down ! The miller was hang'd on his high gate, For drowning our poor sister Kate. I'll be true to my love, and my love'll be true to me. The cat's behind the buttery shelf, Bow down, bow down, bow down ! The cat's behind the buttery shelf ; If you want any more you may sing it yourself. I'll be true to my love, and [an] my love'll be true to me. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 81 One of Mr. Halliwell's " Nursery Rhymes," begin- ning— "John Cook had a Fttle gray mare," etc., ends thus — " The bridle and saddle were laid on the shelf, He, haw, hum ; If you want any more, you may sing it yourself, He, haw, hum ! " Another version of this ballad is given by " G. A. C." in Notes and Queries, where the action seems to com- mence with " the body of a fair ladye," which " came floating down the stream ; " stopping " hard by a miller's mill," when the miller took it out of the water, "to make a melodye." This form of the ballad thus describes how the lady's body was changed into a viol : — And what did he do with her fair bodye ? Fal the lal, the lal, laral loddy, He made it a case for his melodye, Fal, etc. And what did he do with her legs so strong ? Fal, etc. He made them a stand for his violon, Fal, etc. And what did he do with her hair so fine ? Fal, etc. He made of it strings for his violine, Fal, etc. G 82 ANCIENT BALLADS AND And what did he do with her arms so long ? Fal, etc. He made of them bows for his violon, Fal, etc. And what did he do with her nose so thin ? Fal, etc. He made it a bridge for his violin, Fal, etc. And what did he do with her eyes so bright ? Fal, etc. He made them spectacles to help his sight, Fal, etc. And what did he do with her pretty toes ? Fal, etc. He made them a nosegay to put to his nose, Fal, etc. Again, Dr. Rimbault gives another version of the ballad, evidently earlier than that last cited, and which he states to be the production of James Smith, D.D. (Oxford), born 1604, and died 1667 ; respecting whom Wood says, " he was much in esteem with the poetical wits of the time, particularly with Philip Massinger, who called him his son." We append this ballad as printed from an old broadside copy of 1656, omitting the burden after the first verse : — SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 83 THE MILLER AND THE KING'S DAUGHTER. By Dr. James Smith. There were two sisters, they went playing, With a hie downe, downe, a downe-a, To see their father's ships come sailing in, With a hy downe, downe, a downe-a. And when they came unto the sea-brym, The elder did push the younger in. O sister, O sister, take me by the gownd, And draw me upon the dry ground. O sister, O sister, that may not be, Till salt and oatmeal grow both on a tree. Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam, Until she came unto the mill-dam. The miller ran hastily down the cliff, And up he betook her withouten her life. What did he do with her breast-bone? He made him a violl to play thereupon. What did he do with her fingers so small ? He made him pegs to his violl withall. What did he do with her nose-ridge ? Unto his violl he made him a bridge. What did he do with her veins so blue ? He made him strings to his violl thereto. 84 ANCIENT BALLADS AND What did he do with her eyes so bright ? Upon his violl he played at first sight. What did he do with her tongue so rough ? Unto the violl it spake enough. What did he do with her two shins ? Unto the violl they danced Moll Syms. Then bespake the treble string, O yonder is my father the king. Then bespake the second string, O yonder sits my mother the queen. And then bespake the strings all three, O yonder is my sister that drowned me. Now pay the miller for his pain, And let him be gone in the devil's name. Dr. Rimbault adds that the viol was the precursor of the violin ; but while the viol was the instrument of the higher classes of society, the " fiddle " served only for the amusement of the lower. The viol was entirely out of use at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Moll or Mall Symms, mentioned in the 13th stanza, was a celebrated dance tune of the sixteenth century. The three versions of this ballad curiously illustrate each other. That said by " Seleucus " to belong to South Lancashire has the merit of telling consistently a tragedy of sisterly envy and jealousy ; but it lacks the quaint conceit of the transformation into a musical in- strument. No apology is needed for giving all three versions. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 85 LANCASHIRE MAY-SONGS. One evening towards the close of April 1861, says Mr. Harland, I was surprised by a party of waitts who had come into my garden, in the hamlet of Swinton and township of Worsley, and who serenaded the family in a song, the words of which I could not make out from their singing. There were four singers, accompanied by a flute and a clarionet, and they together discoursed most simple and rustic music. I could not at first understand what was evidently a local custom of ancient date, as it was not Easter, or Whitsuntide, or May-day, or any of the old popular festivals. My in- quiries on the subject resulted in my obtaining, from the dictation of an old Mayer, the words of two songs, called by the singers themselves " May Songs," though the rule is that they must be sung before May comes in. My chief informant, an elderly man named Job Knight, living in Swinton, told me that he himself "went out" a May-singing for about fourteen years, though he has discontinued the practice for some years. He says the time the Mayers commence is usually about the middle of April, though some parties start as early as the beginning of that month. But the songs cease with the evening of the 30th April. Job says he can remember the custom for about thirty years, and he never heard any other than the two songs which follow. There are usually, he says, five or six men, with a fiddle, and sometimes a flute or clarionet. The songs are printed just as recited by Job Knight ; and when I ventured to hint that one line, the 3d in 3d verse of Song II., was too long, he sang it over, to show S6 ANCIENT BALLADS AND that all the words were somehow brought into the strain. The first song bears marks of some antiquity ; first in the double refrain, or 2d and 4th lines in each stanza, which are poetically and musically far superior to the others ; next in the picture of manners conveyed by the worshipful master of the house in his chain of gold, the mistress with gold along her breast, etc. The phrases, "house and harbour," "riches and store," also point to earlier times. The last line of this song appears to convey its object, and to point to a simple superstition, that these songs were to draw, or perhaps drive " these cold winters away." There are various lines in both songs in which the sense seems to have been marred, from the songs having been handed down by oral tradition only ; but I have not ventured to alter these in any way. The second song seems more modern than the first. The refrain, or 4th line of each stanza, is again the most poetical and musical in the whole song. OLD MAY SONG.— I. All in this pleasant evening together come are we, For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay ; We'll tell you of a blossom that buds on every tree, Drawing near to the merry month of May. Rise up the master of this house, put on your chain of gold, For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay ; We hope you're not offended, [with] your house we make so bold, Drawing near to the merry month of May. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 87 Rise up the mistress of this house, with gold along [upon] your breast, For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay ; And if your body be asleep, I hope your soul's at rest, Drawing near to the merry month of May. Rise up the children of this house, all in your rich attire, For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay ; For every hair upon your head shines like the silver wire, Drawing near to the merry month of May. God bless this house and harbour, your riches and your store, For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay ; We hope the Lord will prosper you, both now and evermore, Drawing near to the merry month of May. So now we're going to leave you in peace and plenty here, For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay ; We shall not sing you May again until another year, For to draw you these cold winters away. NEW MAY SONG.— II. Called also " The Baisersj" said to have been written by a Swinton man. COME and listen awhile unto what we shall say Concerning the season, the month we call May ; 88 ANCIENT BALLADS AND For the flowers they are springing, and the birds they do sing, And the basiers l are sweet in the morning of May. When the trees are in bloom and the meadows are green, The sweet-smelling cowslips are plain to be seen, The sweet ties of nature, which we plainly do say, For the basiers are sweet in the morning of May- All creatures are deemed, in their station below, Such comforts of love on each other bestow : Our flocks they're all folded, and young lambs sweetly do play, And the basiers are sweet in the morning of May. So now to conclude with much freedom and love, The sweetest of blessings proceeds from above ; Let us join in our song, that right happy may we be, For we'll bless with contentment in the morning of May. 2 1 The busier is the name given in this part of Lancashire to the auri- cula, which is usually in full bloom in April. This name for it is not to be found in Gerarde's History of Plants, or Culpeper's British Herbal, nor in the glossaries of Halliwell, Nares, etc. The auricula was intro- duced into this country from Switzerland about the year 1567. Can its Lancashire name have any relation to auricula, — q.d., little ear? " F. C. H.," in Notes and Queries (3d series, ii. 305), after noticing the con- jecture as to the derivation of the word basier, adds : " It seems more probable that basier was originally bear's ear, the usual name of the auricula in the eastern counties — certainly a very coarse name for a very beautiful flower, but founded no doubt upon the resemblance of the leaf to an ear, which gave occasion to the botanical name of auricula." Another correspondent concurs as to this derivation, and states that the common French name for the auricula is oreilles d'ours. a This last line would read better thus — " For we're blest with content in the morning of May." SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 89 Both these songs have appeared, with musical notation, in Messrs. Chambers's Book of Days, and are here reprinted by their permission. STRETFORD AND NORTHEN MAY SONG. Mr. John Higson, of Droylsden, in an article entitled " Stretford as we found it and heard of it," which appeared in the Ashtoti Reporter of June 23 and 30, i860, writes — "We cannot refrain from noticing the custom of singing 'May carols' under the chamber- windows of the drowsy villagers on the eve of the 1st of May. Of course the poet of the gang fits the song to suit each particular case, extemporising lines addressed to the several sons and daughters by name. Here is one version of it." We omit verses 1, 2, 3, 8, and 9, as almost identical with some of those of the Old Swinton May Song : — 4- Rise up ye little children, and stand all in a row, For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay ; We should have call'd you one by one, but your names we do not know ; Drawing near to the merry month of May. 5- Rise up the little infant, the flower of the flock, For the summer springs so fresh, green, and ga> The cradle that you do lay in, it stands upon a rock ; Drawing near to the merry month of May. 90 ANCIENT BALLADS AND 6. Rise up, the fair maid of this house, put on your gay gold ring, For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay ; And "bring to us a can of beer — the better we shall sing; Drawing near to the merry month of May. 7- Fair Flora in her prime, down by yon riverside, Where the fields and the meadows they are green, Where little birds are singing, sweet flowers they are springing, And summer springs so fresh, green, and gay, Drawing near to the merry month of May. Mr. Higson adds that the air is said to suit the words and the occasion admirably. Though some of the lines are a little too long and prosy, and the 7th verse has both an additional line and a different arrangement, the song is not devoid of merit, and the tune " is made to come in." In the 3d line of the 5th verse a simple pun is perpetrated. In a private com- munication he writes, " I have met with an elderly woman, who, when a girl, has assisted to sing this May-song at Barnton in Cheshire. The carol also prevails about Northenden." There is yet another version, printed under the title of " The Cheshire May-song," in Mr. J. O. Halliwell's Palatine Anthology, p. 185, which he states was "kindly communicated to him by George Ormerod, Esq., F.S.A., of Sedbury Park, Gloucestershire," the historian of Cheshire. We give the first verse, as showing its similarity as well as its difference : — SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 91 All on this pleasant evening together come are we, For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay ; To tell you of a blossom that hangs on every tree, Drawing near to this morning of May. O this is pleasant singing, sweet May-flower [it] is springing, And summer comes so fresh, green, and gay. The 3d line of the 2d verse runs — " And turn unto your loving wife, so comely to behold." The 3d line, 3d verse — "And if your body's sleeping, we hope your soul has rest." The next seven verses are provided to suit the age, sex, and condition of members of the particular house- hold addressed. We give these in order to complete the various readings of this curious May-song : — 4- Oh, rise up, Mr. A. B., all joys to you betide, etc., Your steed stands ready saddled, a-hunting for to ride, etc. 5- Your saddle is of silver, your bridle is of gold, etc., Your bride should ride beside you, so lovely to behold, etc. 6. Oh, rise up, Mr. C. D., and take your pen in hand, etc., For you're a learned scholar, as we do understand, etc. 92 ANCIENT BALLADS AND 7- Oh, rise up, Mrs. E. F., all in your rich attire, etc., You are to have some noble lord, or else some wealthy- squire, etc. 8. Oh, rise up all the little ones, the flower of all your kin, etc., And blessed be the chamber their bodies lie within, etc. 9- Oh, rise up, the good housekeeper, all in her gown of silk, etc., Oh, may she have a husband good, and twenty cows to milk, etc. io. But where are all those fair maids that used here to dance? etc., Oh, they are gone abroad from hence, to spend their lives in France, etc. The nth and last verse is substantially the same as in the Swinton and the Stretford versions. Mr. Halli- well adds that the verses he prints are a selection from a series sent from High Legh, in Cheshire, to Mr. Ormerod, by a lady resident there, in 1827. She men- tioned that "the series of stanzas is widely extended to suit all classes of persons that may be required to be addressed, and the rural minstrels occasionally improvise in a style corresponding to what is here given." SONGS OF LANCASHIRE, 93 SONGS OF THE MAYERS. "This Mayers' song," says Hone in his Every Day Book (i. 567), " is a composition, or rather a medley, of great antiquity, and I was therefore very desirous to procure a copy of it. In accomplishing this, how- ever, I experienced more difficulty than I had antici- pated ; but at length succeeded in obtaining it from one of the Mayers." The following is a literal reprint of it :— THE MAYERS' SONG. Remember us poor Mayers all, And thus do we begin To lead our lives in righteousness, Or else we die in sin. We have been rambling all this night, And almost all this day, And now returned back again We've brought you a branch of May. A branch of May we have brought you, And at your door it stands ; It is but a sprout, but it's well budded out, By the work of our Lord's hands. The hedges and trees they are so green, As green as any leek ; Our heavenly Father he watered them With his heavenly dew so sweet. 94 ANCIENT BALLADS AND The heavenly gates are open wide, Our paths are beaten plain, And if a man be not too far gone, He may return again. The life of man is but a span, He flourishes like a flower ; We are here to-day and gone to-morrow, And we are dead in an hour. The moon shines bright, and the stars give a light, A little before it is day ; So God bless you all, both great and small, And send you a joyful May. THE MAYERS' CALL. Come, lads, with your bills, To the wood we'll away, We'll gather the boughs, And we'll celebrate May. We'll bring our load home, As we've oft done before, And leave a green bough At each good master's \ good neighbour's V door, pretty maid's To-morrow, when work's done, I hold it no wrong, If we go round in ribands, And sing them a song. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE.. 95 Come, lads, bring your bills, To the wood we'll away, We'll gather the boughs, And we'll celebrate May. MAY EVE SONG. If we should wake you from your sleep, Good people, listen now ; Our yearly festival we keep, And bring a May-thorn bough. An emblem of the world it grows ; The flowers its pleasures are ; But many a thorn bespeaks its woes, Its sorrow and its care. Oh ! sleep you then, and take your rest, And, when the day shall dawn, May you awake in all things blest, A May without a thorn. And when to-morrow we shall come, Oh ! treat us not w,ith scorn ; From out your bounty give us some — Be May without a thorn. May He who makes the May to blow, On earth his riches shed, Protect thee [you] against every woe, Shower blessings on thy [your] head. After " bringing home the May," there is another ditty :— 96 ANCIENT BALLADS AND MAYERS' MAY-DAY SONG. On the Mayers deign to smile, Master, mistress, hear our song ; Listen but a little while, We will not detain you long. Life with us is in its spring, We enjoy a blooming May, Summer will its labour bring, Winter has its pinching day. Yet the blessing we would use Wisely — it is reason's part — Those who youth and health abuse Fail not in the end to smart. Mirth we love : the proverb says, " Be ye merry, but be wise ;" We will walk in wisdom's ways — There alone true pleasure lies. May that now is in its bloom, All so fragrant and so fair, When autumn and when winter come, Shall its useful berries bear. We would taste your home-brew'd beer- Give not, if we've had enough — May it strengthen, may it cheer ; Waste not e'er the precious stuff. We of money something crave, For ourselves we ask no share ; SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 97 John and Jane the whole shall have, They're the last new-married pair. May it comfort to them prove, And a blessing bring to you ; Blessings of connubial love Light on all like morning dew. So shall May, with blessings crown'd, Welcomed be by old and young ; Often as the year comes round, Shall the May-day song be sung. Fare ye well, good people all, Sweet to-night may be your rest ; Every blessing you befal, Blessing others, you are blest. WASSAIL SONG. The following Christmas song of Wassail is taken from a small chap-book, printed at Manchester, called "A Selection of Christmas Hymns," and there entitled " Wessel Cup Hymn." It is obviously a corrupted version of a much older ditty, but well deserves to be preserved as a song of the season. Here we come a-wassailing Among the leaves so green ; Here we come a- wandering, So fair to be seen. H I ANCIENT BALLADS AND Chorus. — Love and joy come to you, And to your wassail too, And God send you a happy new year— new year, And God send you a happy new year. Our wassail cup is made of the rosemary tree, So is your beer of the best barley. We are not daily beggars That beg from door to door, But we are neighbours' children, Whom you have seen before. Call up the butler of this house ; Put on his golden ring ; Let him bring us up a glass of beer, And the better we shall sing. We have got a little purse, Made of stretching leather skin ; We want a little of your money, To line it well within. Bring us out a table, And spread it with a cloth ; Bring us out a mouldy cheese, And some of your Christmas loaf. God bless the master of this house, Likewise the mistress too ; And all the little children, That round the table go. Good master and good mistress, While you're sitting by the fire, SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 99 Pray think of us poor children, Who are wand'ring in the mire. Chorus. — Love and joy come to you, And to your wassail too, And God send you a happy new year — new year, And God send you a happy new year. Our wassail cup is made of the rosemary tree, So is your beer of the best barley. THE LIVERPOOL TRAGEDY: Or, A Warning to Disobedient Children and Covetous Parents j showitig how one John Fuller left his father's house to go to sea against his will, and was shipwrecked, but was preserved on a rock; how he was fetched by the ship's boat, and put ashore at Bengal, where he married; how he returned home, when he, not informing his parents who he was, they murdered him for the sake of his gold; with their tragical end. 1 Part I. You tender parents that have children dear, Be pleased to wait awhile, and you shall hear A dismal accident befel of late, Which ought to bear an everlasting date. 1 This doggerel ballad has been frequently issued both in broadside and as a chap-book. It was popular so recently as the beginning of the present century, and finds ready sale in 1874. do ANCIENT BALLADS AND At famous Liverpool, in Lancashire, One Mr. Robert Fuller liv'd, we hear ; A grazier, who liv'd in a happy state, He being not too poor, nor yet too great. He had three daughters, charming beauties bright, And but one son, which was his heart's delight ; His father doated on him, and in truth He was a dutiful and sober youth. He bound him 'prentice to one Mr. Brown, A noted surgeon who liv'd in the town ; With whom he stay'd the term of seven years, And serv'd him faithfully, as it appears. And afterwards sometime did with him dwell, And as a servant pleas'd his master well ; He got acquainted with a surgeon's mate, Who was going a voyage up the Strait. He did persuade him for to go to sea, And said, in time he might promoted be ; This so much wrought upon the young man's mind, That he to go with him seem'd much inclin'd. He went and told his father his design, That he would go to sea in a little time, — " For I to the East Indies now will go ; Therefore, dear father, do not say me No." To hear these words his father was surpris'd, It soon fetch'd tears from his aged eyes ; " Can you, my son," said he, " from me depart, And leave me here behind with aching heart ? SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. ic " Because I plac'd in you my chief delight, Do you my tender care this way requite? You my consent to go shall never have ; 'Twill bring me down with sorrow to the grave. " Go, wilful youth ! Perhaps the time may come That you may wish you'd stay'd with me at home.' But all these arguments would not prevail ; He was resolv'd the raging main to sail. His mother cried, " I thought I had a son Would be my comfort for the time to come." His sisters cried, " Dear brother, do not go, And leave our father thus oppress'd with woe." His father said, " My son, let reason rule ; Take my advice, and do not play the fool. What is the meaning of this sudden change ? What makes you fancy at this time to range?" " Father ! all these persuasions are in vain ; I am resolv'd to cross the raging main ; Therefore, give me your blessing ere I go, For I'll be gone, whether you will or no." His father cry'd, " Since you don't me regard, God justly will your wickedness reward ; God's heavy judgments will upon you come, For being such a disobedient son. " So you must go without what you now crave ; Mine nor God's blessing you will never have." What courses now this stubborn youth doth steer, You in the second part shall quickly hear. 32 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Part II. He went with speed unto the surgeon's mate And goes with him a voyage up the Strait ; But with that voyage he was not content ; Further to go his rambling mind was bent. He came to London, and a ship he found, Which lay at Deptford, for the Indies bound ; And straight he ordered his matters so As surgeon's mate on board of her to go. The very next day, as he set sail, we hear, He sent a letter to his father dear ; " Father," he wrote, " I am alive and well, " But when I shall return I cannot tell. " I am on board a noble ship of fame, For the Indies bound, the Prince by name ; I will come home when my wild frolic's run ; So this is all at present from your son." His aged father read the letter strait, And said, " My son is gone in spite of fate ; All I can do, I'll act a father's part, And beg of God to turn his stubborn heart." Where now his aged father we will leave, And turn unto his son, which made him grieve, Who then was sailing on the ocean wide ; But mark what in short time did him betide. As by the coast of Brazil they did sail, Boreas began to blow a blustering gale ; SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 103 The captain then, with deep concern, did say, " If this storm holds, we shall be cast away." He scarce had spoke these words, when on a rock The ship was drove with such a mighty shock ; She stuck so fast she could not get away ; So they in sorrow were there forced to stay. The captain cried, " Let's beg of God that He May from this shocking danger set us free : Next let all hands help to heave out the boat, That o'er the rolling billows we may float." He gave command ; the thing as soon were done, And overboard with speed the boat was flung ; Each one to save his life got in with speed, Until the boat would hold no more indeed. The boat it were so full it could not swim, So some were forced to get out again ; The surgeon's mate, the grazier's stubborn son, As fortune ordered, chanced to be one. He was obliged out of the boat to go Back to the ship, his heart oppress'd with woe ; Fifteen poor souls behind them they did leave, Whose piercing cries a stony heart would grieve. The captain cried, " My boat will hold no more ; But if I should live to get on shore, And you remain alive in this sad case, I'll surely come and fetch you from this place." 104 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Part III. The poor distressed men in great despair, Unto the Lord did make their humble pray'r, Expecting ev'ry minute for to be Sunk to the bottom of the swelling sea. The grazier's son said, " Here I will not stay, But through the foamy billows swim away. I can swim well ; the sea does calm appear ; So fare you well my brother sailors dear." He overboard did jump before them all, Which made the seamen after him to call : " You silly man, you cannot get on shore, We think that we shall never see you more.' 1 Thus he went along till almost night, When his poor limbs were tired quite ; But fortune unto him did prove so kind, That he by chance a mighty rock did find. The rock was rugged, high, and very steep ; He with much trouble up the side did creep, And looking round, no land he could behold ; He cry'd, " My sorrow now is manifold. "My father's words into my mind does come, That I do wish I'd stopt with him at home ; Also I find it true what he then said ; But now my disobedience is repaid. " He likewise told me if I e'er did slight His careful counsel, God would me requite ; He told me, though a blessing I did crave, His nor God's blessing I should never have." SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 105 Part IV. He thus lamenting, spent the tedious night Until the morning it grew light ; Then went to search the rock all round, Where for his food some shell-fish he found. Satan, the first deceiver of mankind, Did come to tempt this surgeon, as we find, Thinking he would with any terms comply, So took advantage of his misery. While this young surgeon looked out to sea, At a good distance from him seem'd to be A something rowing to him in a boat, Which o'er the rolling waves did swiftly float. This young man thought he'd been a friend at first, But next he fear'd that it was something worse ; " For if some wild man-eater it should be, He first will kill, then next devour me." The young man were soon freed from fear, As the devil, like some sailor, did appear ; And when he came unto the rock did say, " Young man how came you here this very day ? " The surgeon all his whole misfortunes told, And while the truth to him he did unfold, Three drops of blood down from his nose did fall, Which made him think him not a friend withal. The devil then reply'd " Young man, if you Will be my servant, wholly, just and true, And will resign yourself all up to me, I from this wretched place will set you free." io6 ANCIENT BALLADS AND The young man found who were with him then, And cried, " You grand deceiver of us men, get you gone, your flattery forbear ; Why do you try my soul for to ensnare ? " I now your whole temptations do despise, Thou subtle fiend, thou father of all lies ; 1 will resign myself to God alone ; Therefore, you vile deceiver, quick, begone !" The devil then he strait did disappear, And left the surgeon trembling with fear ; Where now awhile we'll leave him to complain, And turn unto his shipmates once again. The captain in the boat got safe on shore, And soon returned to the ship once more, Where, out of fifteen, nine were left alive ; The captain did their drooping hearts revive. " Where is the rest of you ? " the captain cry'd " Alas ! with hunger they have dy'd. All but the surgeon, who here would'nt stay, And overboai-d did jump, and swam away." The captain cry'd, " I hope my dream is right, That he were on a rock I dreamt last night ; So man the boat, for I the rock do know, To save his life I thither now will go. The boat was mann'd, and to the rock they came, Where, to their joy, he did alive remain ; They took him in, and then they row'd away, Which prov6d unto him a happy day. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 107 Part V. Their ship from off the rock they soon did get, And took great pains in well repairing it ; Then for Bengal in India they did sail, And soon arrived with a prosperous gale. The surgeon soon got him there a wife, And ten years liv'd a very happy life ; Six children had, likewise a good estate, But he was born to be unfortunate. About his parents he was troubled so, That back to England he would go ; He left his wife and children, as 'tis told, And with him took ten hundred pounds in gold. Two of his sisters in that time were dead, The other to a glazier married ; He call'd there first, she was o'erjoy'd to see That her own brother yet alive should be. " How does my parents do? " then he did say, She cry'd, " They're well, I saw them yesterday ; But they're so covetous grown of late, They scarce allow themselves food for to eat." " This night I'll go and lodge there," he did say ; " But they sha'nt know me till you come next day.' Unto his father's house he then did go, Asking if he a lodging could have or no? They answer'd, "Yes," and bid him strait come in. But now, alas ! his sorrows did begin ; io8 ANCIENT BALLADS AND His father said, "Young man, I tell you true, I had a son who was very much like you." A purse of gold he to his mother gave, And said, " To-morrow it of you I'll have." She cry'd, "You shall." He then went to bed, When the devil quickly put it in her head, To murder her own son, the gold to have, For that was all she in this world did crave ; " Husband," said she, " When he is dead and gone, Then all the gold will surely be our own." To murder this young man they both did go. But that he was their son they did not know ; They found him fast asleep, void of all care, Then quickly cut his throat from ear to ear. His sister came, saying, " Father, dear, Did there not come my brother here?" He answer'd, " No." She said, " There did indeed." "Alas ! " said they, " we've made our son to bleed." He strait took up then the bloody knife, And instant put a period to his life : His wife she sat a little while below, At last up stairs did to her husband go, Where, to her grief, she saw him bleeding lie ; She cry'd, " Alas ! I've caused you to die, All by my means, for the sake of cursed gold : My child and husband dead I do behold ! " Now I will make up the number three, I cannot live such a sad sight to see." SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 109 Saying, " World, farewell ! gold, from you I must part ;" Then run the knife into her cruel heart. The daughter, wond'ring at their long delay, Did go up stairs to see what made them stay ; When the dreadful sight she did behold, Her dying mother all the story told. Then did her daughter weep, then went away, And raving mad, died on the next day. So children all, from disobedience flee, And parents, likewise, not too covetous be ! STONYHURST BUCK-HUNT. The present editor, in sending a broadsheet of this ballad to Notes and Queries (x. 503), stated that the circumstances occurred about a century ago ; x that the name of the rhymer is now forgotten ; 2 but that 1 From several circumstances, we imagine that this hunt must have been in the time of Thomas Howard, described by Sir Harris Nicolas in his Synopsis, etc., as ioth duke of his family, but by Eurke in his Peerage as 8th duke. He was born nth December 1683, and married Mary, — another account calls this lady Maria Winifreda Francisca, pro- bably Englished by Mary Winifred Frances, — only daughter and heiress of Sir Nicholas Shirebume, or Sherburne, of Stonyhurst, created baronet February 4, 1685. This marriage would account for the duke being at the buck-hunt ; and Sir Nicholas Shirebume, his father-in-law, who died December 16, 1717, is named, with his daughter the duchess, in the last stanza. The duke died on the 23d December 1732, without issue, and was succeeded by his brother Edward, 9th duke. The above fixes the date of the hunt as earlier than December 1717. 2 We have since learned that the composer of this ballad was a Mr. Cottam, a schoolmaster at Hurst Green ; and that he also wrote a song no ANCIENT BALLADS AND the piece is still sung or recited by old residents. It is entitled — " An Interesting Account of Stonyhurst Buckhunt : detailing the particulars of the chace of that day, which was honoured with the presence of the Duke of Norfolk, his noble brothers, and his kinsman John Talbot ; accompanied by Mr. Waters, Mr. Harris, and Mr. Penketh — all of whom were gentle- men fond of the turf, and who stood at nought in taking a leap when in ' View Halloo ! ' " To Whalley Moor therefore he ran, To Clitheroe and Waddington ; Yet visits Mitton by the way, Although he had no time to stay. i. It was one morning, when the sun Had gilded all our horizon, And seem'd in haste to mount the sky, Some new-known pleasures to espy ; Whose early rays did me invite To walk the downs for my delight. 2. Serene and calm all did appear ; At last this music reach'd my ear — The morning's call, one blast of horn ; While horses at the ground did spurn beginning, " Hie away to Rossall Point." He is also said to have written "The Burnley Haymakers," in this volume, and a song called "The Five-Barred Gate." We have sought in vain for the first and third of these songs. Are they irrecoverably lost? SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. In stately scorn, neighing so high, As echoed in the lofty sky. 3- 'Twas my good hap to see his grace As he on Twister mounted was ; Norfolk's great duke, my muse does mean, Whose skill in horsemanship was seen So excellent, my fancy swore Chiran ne'er taught Achilles more. 4- With steady countenance he sat, While the proud steed did bound and jet, Seeming of nature to complain That he was made of ought terrene, Ready to mount the starry sphere, And make a constellation there. 5- His noble brothers present were, Attending on this worthy peer, With many a gentleman of worth, Greater than here I can set forth ; I only should insert each^name — Learn you the rest from public fame. 6. Sir Nicholas upon a black, Was bravely mounted, show'd no lack ; Due commendation, could my muse For his great merits words diffuse : More gen'rous, just, or good than he, No mortal ever yet could be. ANCIENT BALLADS AND 7- Joy in his countenance appear'd, Wherewith his lovely guests he cheer'd ; Brisk, airy, young, to all he'll show — And may he evermore be so : Great with the honourable sort, Yet still the poor man's chief support. 8. His kinsman, Talbot, there I saw, A comely youth from top to toe ; With many heroes of the same, Yet he's the last of that brave name, Equipp'd in a most gallant sort, To be partaker of the sport. 9- The next rare object I did spy Was a brave horseman, — O, thought I, That's Pegasus he's mounted on, And he's the young Bellerophon ; Their motions were so well combin'd, You'd think they both had but one mind. io. " That's Mr. Waters," one did say, " Mounted on gallant Northall gray. And many more I saw, whose names In proper place I shall proclaim, Who, to divert themselves, met there, In hunting of a fallow deer. ii. Good hounds they had as ever run, Braver the sun ne'er shone upon ; SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 113 Towler and Tapster, hunters' pride — Famous and Juno, proved and tried ; The best that ever traced the grounds, And glory of all British hounds. 12. Carver, respected much by Knowls, Wonder and Thunder none controls ; Nor Ploughman — but they all excel, 'Tis hard to say which bears the bell ; Indifferent praises none should have, They're all superlatively brave. 13. Phillis and Comely, pray you mind, Though in the verse they come behind ; Their excellence in field is great, Their skill in hunting most complete ; Countess and Caesar bravely trace The ground, with charming, snuffling face. 14. The buck, unlodged, began to fear At sight of such a concourse there, Thinking it was conspiracy Against his life, and he must die ; Trusting to feel incontinent, Which still betray'd him by the scent. is- The hounds uncoupled on the plain, A mortal war straight did proclaim ; With such melodious mouths they cry, As make a perfect harmony ; 1 1 14 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Whilst Echo, answering in each grove, Had quite forgot Narcissus' love. 16. The sound of horn alarm did give Unto this silly fugitive ; Who was resolved in this chace To give a prospect to his grace, And to all worthy hunters there, Of all the country far and near. 17- To Whalley Moor he therefore run, To Clitheroe and Waddington ; Yet visits Mitton by the way, Although he had no time to stay ; Then into Bowland Forest goes, Still follow'd by his full-mouth'd foes. 18. Robin the groom began to swear — "This is the devil and no deer," So spurs up cheerful Favourite — A mare that may a prince delight, And coming close in, cried, " Zounds, All Europe cannot show such hounds." 19. With tedious but well-pleasing steps, Our trusty Abraham forward trips ; No river, mount, or dale can stay His passage, but he finds a way Through all obstructions, past compare In hunting otter, buck, or hare. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. u 5 20. Except old Mr. Harris, who Did all that any man could do ; And Mr. Penketh, who pursued As if they both had youth renew'd, Equal in skill and in desire, Which made the hunters all admire. 21. To Stony Moor this buck then fled, Where we did think him almost dead ; To Storth and Fowlscales then he hied, And then to pleasant Hodder side ; But had not Famous labour'd sore, We'd hunted all the forest o'er. 22. But when he'd cool'd his limbs awhile, And gather'd vigour for new toil, To Bosden stoutly he did run, The seat of Captain Hodgkinson ; And there we saw— O fate to tell ! He by our hounds at Knowsmoor fell ! 23. To Stonyhurst, then, this gallant train, As if in triumph turn'd again, Mutually asking on the way Which dog had best perform'd that day ;— But 'twas a riddle none could tell, Because they'd all perform'd so well. 24. Therefore, since ended is the chace, Let healths go round unto his grace ; n6 ANCIENT BALLADS AND To his illustrious duchess, too, The like devotion let us show ; Next for Sir Nicholas let us pray, And so conclude our hunting-day. AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD, ENTITLED THE UNFORTUNATE LOVE OF A LANCASHIRE GENTLE- MAN, AND THE HARD FORTUNE OF A FAIR YOUNG BRIDE. Time. — " Come, follow my love." Of this ballad there exists a broadside copy in Mr. J. O. Halliwell's Collection of Proclamations, etc., pre- sented by him to the Chetham Library. It is there printed in six columns, with two rude woodcuts at the head, of a lady and gentleman. It is also reprinted in that gentleman's Palatine Anthology. Look., ye faithful lovers, On my unhappy state, See my tears distilling, But poured out too late, And buy no foolish fancy At too dear a rate. Alack ! for my love I shall die. My father he's a gentleman, Well known, of high degree, And tender of my welfare Evermore was he. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 1 17 He sought for reputation, But all the worse for me. Alack ! etc. There was a proper maiden, Of favour sweet and fair, To whom in deep affection I closely did repair : In heart I dearly lov'd her ; Lo ! thus began my care. Alack ! etc. Nothing wanting in her, But this, the grief of all, Of birth she was but lowly, Of substance very small ; A simple hired servant, And subject to each call. Alack ! etc. Yet she was my pleasure, My joy and heart's delight, More rich than any treasure, More precious in my sight ! At length to one another Our promise we did plight. Alack ! etc. And thus unto my father The thing I did reveal, Desiring of his favour, Nothing I did conceal ; But he my dear affection Regarded ne'er a deal. Alack ! etc. ANCIENT BALLADS AND Quoth he, Thou graceless fellow, Thou art my only heir, And for thy own preferment Hast thou no better care, Than marry with a beggar, That is both poor and bare ? Alack ! etc. I charge thee, on my blessing, Thou do her right refrain, And that into her company You never come again ; That you should be so married I take it in disdain. Alack ! etc. Is there so many gentlemen, Of worship and degree, That have most honest daughters, Of beauty fair and free ; And can none but a beggar's brat Content and pleasure thee? Alack ! etc. By Him that made all creatures — This vow to thee I make — If thou do not this beggar Refuse and quite forsake, From thee thy due inheritance I wholly mean to take. Alack ! etc. These, his bitter speeches, Did sore torment my mind, SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 119 Knowing well how greatly He was to wrath inclin'd. My heart was slain with sorrow ; No comfort could I find. Alack ! etc. Then did I write a letter, And send it to my dear, Wherein my first affection All changed did appear ; Which from her fair eyes forc'd The pearly water clear. Alack ! etc. For grief, unto the messenger One word she could not speak, Those doleful heavy tidings Her gentle heart did break ; Yet sought not by her speeches On me her heart to wreak. Alack ! etc. This deed within my conscience Tormented me full sore, To think upon the promise I made her long before ; And for its true performance How I most deeply swore. Alack ! etc. I could not be in quiet Till I to her did go, Who for my sake remained In sorrow, grief, and woe ; 120 ANCIENT BALLADS AND And unto her in secret My full intent to show. Alack ! etc. My sight rejoiced greatly Her sad perplexed heart ; From both her eyes on sudden The trickling tears did start, And on each other's bosom We breathed forth our smart. Alack ! etc. Unknown unto my father, Or any friend beside, Ourselves we closely married, She was my only bride ; Yet still within her service I caus'd her to abide. Alack ! etc. But never had two lovers More sorrow, care, and grief ; No means, in our extremity, We found for our relief ; And now what further happen'd Here followeth in brief. Alack ! etc. Now all ye loyal lovers Attend unto the rest, See by my secret marriage How sore I am opprest ; For why, my foul misfortune Herein shall be exprest. Alack ! etc. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 121 My father came unto me Upon a certain day, And with a merry countenance, These words to me did say : My son, quoth he, come hither, And mark what I shall say. Alack ! etc. Seeing you are disposed To lead a wedded life, I have, unto your credit, Provided you a wife, Where thou may'st live delightful Without all care and strife. Alack ! etc. Master Senock's daughter, Most beautiful and wise ; Three hundred pounds, her portion, May well thy mind suffice ; And by her friends and kindred Thou may'st to credit rise. Alack ! etc. This is, my son, undoubted, A match for thee most meet ; She is a proper maiden, Most delicate and sweet ; Go woo her, then, and wed her, I shall rejoice to see't. Alack ! etc. Her friends and I have talked, And thereon have agreed, 122 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Then be not thou abashed, But speedily proceed ; Thou shalt be entertained, And leave no doubt to speed. Alack! etc. O pardon me, dear father, With bashful looks, I said, To enter into marriage, I sorely am afraid ; A single life is lovely ; Therein my mind is staid. Alack ! etc. When he had heard my speech, His anger did arise ; He drove me from his presence ; My sight he did despise ; And straight to disinherit me All means he did devise. Alack ! etc. When I perceiv'd myself In that ill case to stand, Most lewdly [i.e., wickedly] I consented Unto his fond demand, And married with the other, And all to save my land. Alack ! etc. And at this hapless marriage Great cost my friends did keep ; They spared not their poultry, Their oxen, nor their sheep. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. Whilst joyfully they danc'd, I did in corners weep. Alack ! etc. My conscience was tormented, Which did my joys deprive ; Yet, for to hide my sorrow, My thoughts did always strive ; Quoth I, what shame 'twill be To have two wives alive. Alack ! etc. O my sweet Margaret ! I did in sorrow say, Thou know'st not, in thy service, Of this my marriage day : Though here my body resteth, With thee my heart doth stay ! Alack ! etc. And in my meditations Came in my lovely bride, With chains and jewels trimmed And silken robes beside ; Saying, Why doth my true love So sadly here abide? Alack ! etc. Then twenty loving kisses She did on me bestow, And forth abroad, a-walking, This lovely maid did go ? Yea, arm-in-arm most friendly, With him that was her foe. Alack! etc. 124 ANCIENT BALLADS AND But when that I had brought her Where nobody was near, I embrac'd her most falsely, With a most feigned chear, Then unto the heart I stabb'd This maiden fair and clear. Alack ! etc. Myself in woeful manner, I wounded with a knife, And laid myself down by her, By this my married wife ; And said that thieves, to rob us, Had wrought this deadly strife. Alack ! etc. Great wailing and great sorrow Was then upon each side ; In woeful sort they buried This fair and comely bride, And my dissimulation Herein was quickly try'd. Alack ! etc. And for this cruel murder To death thus I am brought ; For this my aged father Did end his days in nought ; My Margaret, at these tidings, Her own destruction wrought. Alack ! etc. Lo ! here the doleful peril Blind fancy brought me in, SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. And mark what care and sorrow Forc'd marriage it doth bring. All men by me be warned, And Lord forgive my sin. Alack ! for my love I must die. CARELESS CONTENT. Written, in imitation of Sir Philip Sydney, by John Byrom, M.A., F.R.S. We copy this charmingly quaint piece from the Miscel- laneous Poems of this pleasing poet, who was born at Manchester in 1691, and died in September 1763, aged 71. I AM content, I do not care, Wag as it will the world for me ; When fuss and fret was all my fare, It got no ground as I did see : So when away my caring went, I counted cost, and was content. With more of thanks, and less of thought, I strive to make my matters meet ; To seek what ancient sages sought, Physic and food in sour and sweet ; To take what passes in good part, And keep the hiccups from my heart. With good and gentle humour'd hearts I choose to chat where'er I come ; 126 ANCIENT BALLADS AND What'er the subject be that starts ; But if I get among the glum, 1 I hold my tongue, to tell the troth, And keep my breath to cool my broth. For chance or change, of peace or pain, For Fortune's favour, or her frown, For lack or glut, for loss or gain, I never dodge, nor up, nor down ; But swing what way the ship shall swim, Or tack about with equal trim. I suit 2 not where I shall not speed, Nor trace the turn of ev'ry tide ; If simple sense will not succeed, I make no bustling, but abide : For shining wealth, or scaring woe, I force no friend, I fear no foe. Of ups and downs, of ins and outs, Of " they are wrong," and " we are right," I shun the rancours and the routs, And, wishing well to every wight, Whatever turn the matter takes, I deem it all but ducks and drakes. With whom I feast I do not fawn, Nor, if the folks should flout me, faint ; If wonted welcome be withdrawn, I cook no kind of a complaint ; With none disposed to disagree, But like them best, who best like me. 1 The sullen. 2 I follow, or sue, or crave. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 127 Not that I rate myself the rule How all my betters should behave ; But Fame shall find me no man's fool, Nor to a set of men a slave ; I love a friendship free and frank, And hate to hang upon a hank. Fond of a true and trusty tie, I never loose where'er I link ; Though if a business budges by, I talk thereon just as I think : My word, my work, my heart, my hand, Still on a side together stand. If names or notions make a noise, Whatever hap the question hath, The point impartially I poise, And read or write, but without wrath ; For should I burn or break my brains, Pray who will pay me for my pains ? I love my neighbour as myself, Myself like him, too, by his leave ; Nor to his pleasure, pow'r, or pelf, Came I to crouch, as I conceive : Dame Nature doubtless has design'd A man — the monarch of his mind. Now taste and try this temper, sirs, Mood it, and brood it, in your breast ; Or if you ween, for worldly stirs, That man does right to mar his rest ; Let me be deft and debonair, 1 I am content, I do not care. 1 Dextrous, or ready ; and gentle, or complaisant. 128 ANCIENT BALLADS AND It would be difficult to find in the whole range of lyric literature a composition containing so many singular qualities. In character and sentiment it is at once vigorous and laconic ; in style, antique and quaint, resembling not only Sydney, but in parts Suck- ling, Withers, and even George Herbert ; in diction proverbial and colloquial, yet never vulgar ; while it is one of the most happily constructed pieces of allitera- tive poetry to be found in the English language. Three distinct forms of this alliteration may be seen in it, — the first letters of words throughout a line, or some- times the like sounds of different letters ; this kind, mingled with syllabic alliteration, as — "The point impartially I poise;" And lastly, what may be called alliterative antithesis, as in — " Physic and food in sour and sweet ; " " For chance or change, of peace or pain ; " " For lack or glut, for loss or gain ; " " For shining wealth, or scaring woe," etc. THE FROG AND THE CROW. WE print this quaint song, by permission, from Notes and Queries, where it is given by a correspondent, " T. I.," who says he has been familiar with it from child- hood, but can give no history of it, save that it is tolerably well-known in Lancashire, and that the point consists in giving a scream over the last " Oh ! " which invariably, if well done, elicits a start, even in those SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 129 who are familiar with the rhyme and know what to expect. The present editor has frequently joined in the scream, some fifty years ^go. The moral is obvious, and the diction too recent for the song to have any great antiquity. There was a jolly fat frog liv'd in the river Swim, oh, And there was a comely black crow liv'd on the river brim, oh ; " Come on shore, come on shore," said the crow to the frog, "and then, oh." " No, you'll bite me ; no, you'll bite me," — said the frog to the crow again, oh. " But there is sweet music on yonder green hill, oh, And you shall be a dancer, a dancer in yellow, All in yellow, all in yellow," — said the crow to the frog, — " and then, oh." " Sir, I thank you ; Sir, I thank you," — said the frog to the crow again, oh. " Farewell, ye little fishes, that are in the river Swim, oh, For I am going to be a dancer, a dancer in yellow ; " " Oh, beware ! Oh, beware ! "—said the fish to the frog again, oh. "All in yellow, all in yellow,"— said the frog to the fish, — "and then, oh." The frog he came a-swimming, a-swimming to land, oh ; And the crow he came hopping, to lend him his hand, oh ; K i 3 o ANCIENT BALLADS AND " Sir, I thank you ; Sir, I thank you," — said the frog to the crow, — and then, oh. " Sir, you're welcome ; Sir, you're welcome," — said the crow to the frog again, oh. " But where is the music on yonder green hill, oh ? And where are the dancers, the dancers in yellow? All in yellow, all in yellow?" — said the frog to the crow, — and then, oh. " Sir, they're here ; Sir, they're here," said the crow to the frog, and eat him all up — Oh / [Screamed.] DICK O' STANLEY GREEN. THIS is a Lancashire version of a song of which many varieties exist, not only in different parts of England, but also in Ireland ; the subject of it being a raw, rustic lover, who offers himself to a lady, is ridiculed, and, deeming her expectations extravagant, retires in dudgeon. Amongst the better known English songs on this text are " Galloping Dreary Dun," " Richard of Taunton Dean," "Harry's Courtship," "The Clown's Courtship," etc. Some of these are in the Somerset- shire dialect. One is termed " The Wooing Song of a Yeoman of Kent's Son." There is a Yorkshire ballad on this subject ; and the Irish version is entitled " Dicky of Ballyvan." The following version is a great favourite in North Lancashire, and was copied for this work by Mr. John Hill, of Bleasdale : — SONGS OF LA NCA SHIRE. 1 3 1 1. Last New-'Er's day, as I've heerd say, I mounted on my dappled gray, My buckskin breeches I put on, My country clogs, to save my shoon, Besides an owd hat to cover my yed, 'Twas all hung round wi' ribbins red. Straightway I went unto the hall, Aloud for Mistress Jane did call ; Some trusty sarvant let me in, Thet I my courtship might begin : "Why, don't yaw ken me, Mistress Jane? I am poor Dick, fro' Stanley Green. 3- " My fayther's sent me here to woo, And I con fancy noan but yaw ; An yaw loove me, as I loove yaw, 1 What need ye mak so muckle to do ? 4- " It's I con plough, and I con sow, An' I con reap, an' I con mow. An' I con to the market go, An' sell my daddy's corn and hay, An' addle my sixpence ivvery day." 1 "An yo luv me, as aye luv yue, Noa knife shall cut awar luv i' two." Lancashire Folklore. 132 ANCIENT BALLADS AND 5- " Sixpence a day will never do : I must wear silk an' satin too ; Sixpence a day wain't find us meat." " Ods-ducks ! " says Dick, " I've a stack o' wheat, Besides an owd house, as stands close by ; It'll all be mine when my fayther die." 6. "Your compliments, Dick, are so polite ; They mak' the company laugh outright." "If yaw have got noah moore to say, I'll bid yaw good neet, an I'll away ! " Note by Mr. John Hill. — New-Ers is the pronunciation of New Year's. — Dnd, a contraction of the Anglo-Saxon do-ed, is much used in Amounderness for did. — Ods-ducks ! is an old exclamation very common in dales bordering on the Pennine chain of hills. — Thet is the local pro- nunciation of that. — Yaw, for you, is not the yo or the yeaw of Lanca- shire south of Ribble, but has the au sound, like the naiu of Yorkshire, and is almost universal in that county, and north of the Ribble. BLAKELEY COURTSHIP. This is another ballad upon the same favourite theme, and cast in like mould. It is communicated by Mr. John Higson of Droylsden, who states that it was sung by Mrs. Rideal many years ago. There was a young lad in Blakeley did dwell, And he'd go a courting one night by hissel'j SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 133 To borrow th' gray mare it was his intent, He took Tinker's gray mare and a courting he went, To his own mind, He rode and he rode till he came to the door, And Nell came t' oppen it, as she'd done afore ; " Come, geet off thy horse," she to him did say, " And put it i' th' stable, and give it some hay, To thy own mind." And when he had done he came into th' house, And he was as weet as any drown't mouse ; She rought him th' owd cheer, 1 as he'd set in afore, " Come sit thee down by me, love ; let's talk it o'er To our own mind." They talk'd it o'er until it was day, He said, "Ah'll goo whoam." She said, "Goo thy way." He went into th' stable, to fot his mare out, " Now prithee, love, ta'e me to th' bottom o' th' fowt, 2 To thy own mind." When Jamie were mounted, right off he did trig, His face was as curled as any owd wig ; He'd a chin like a churn, and an owd queer hat, And he look'd like a monkey a-top o' th' mare's back. 1 Reached him the old chair. 2 " Take me to the bottom or entrance of the fold," or cluster of houses round a yard or court — a common mode of grouping cottages in country places in Lancashire — forming the nucleus of many a hamlet or village, as population increases. 134 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Mr. HlGSON communicated another version of the same ballad to the present editor, which he obtained from Mr. Samuel Tatton, of Gorton and Manchester. It runs as follows : — BLAKELEY COURTSHIP. THERE were a young lad in Blakeley did dwell, And as for his name I darno' yo' tell ; He courted Ann Dawson at Bowlee Side, And on Tinker's mare a courtin' did ride, To his own mind. Last Seturday neet to Owd Tinker's he went, " Win yo' lend me yo'r mare," and he gan him consent, He says "Aw know thee — thy name it is Jack," An' away he went trudgin' at top o' th' mare's back, To his own mind. As he was gooin' by Coppy Wood Side, It rain'd os hard as e'er it could sigh ; His heart it did ache, an' he trembled with fear, Unless he couldn't get o'er at Bowlee Side, To his own mind. When he geet theere he knockt at the doore, An' Nanny coom eawt, as yo' may be sure ; " Put thy horse into th' stable, as theau'st done before, An' com sit deawn by me, as we'n done before, To my own mind." " Awve hens an' awve cocks, awve rappits un ducks, Beside gowd an' silver, tho' aw haveno' got much ; SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 135 Avvve as much as five pounds, when aw is made reet, Beside aw con wayve hawve a piece in a week, To my own mind." They talk'd it o'er till break of day, He said, "Aw'll goo whom ; " hoo said, " Goo thy way ; If theau'd done as aw'd had thee, my heart thea'd a won ; But neaw theau'rt as fur off as t'were when begun, To my own mind." He went into th' stable to fotch his mare eawt, Sayin' " Neaw, prithee, love, tae me to th' bottom o' th' fowt?" He'd a chin like a churn, an' an owd scrubby hat, He sit like a monkey ut top o' th' mare's back, To my own mind. An' when he geet whom his fayther did say, "What's matter wi' Jack? he's like an eawl sleepin' i' th' day ; Sometimes he doth sigh, an' sometimes he doth cry, An' he says he'll be up to them bye and bye," To his own mind. THE LANCASHIRE MILLER. This song has much point, and is a favourite in most parts of North Lancashire. I. OWD Jeremy Gigg, a miller was he, In Lancashire born and bred ; The mill was all he depended upon, To earn him his daily bread. 136 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Owd Jeremy he was growing owd, His latter end it was near ; He had three sons, and it puzzled him sore Which of 'em should be his heir. 2. Now he call'd to him his eldest son, — " An answer give to me : What way would theaw tak thy bread to mak, If my mill I left to thee ? " " Oh, if the mill were mine," said he, " I'll plainly tell to yeaw, Out of every seek I'd tak a peck, As yeaw've been used to do." 3- Now he call'd to him his second son, — " An answer give to me : What way would theaw tak thy bread to mak, If the mill were given to thee? " " Oh, if the mill were mine," said he, " As sure as my name's Roaf, Instead of a peck out of every seek, I'm sure I'd tak one-hawf." 4- Now he call'd to him his youngest son ; His youngest son was Will ; " On the answer theaw does give to me, Depends who gets the mill." " Oh, if the mill were mine," said he, " A living I would mek ; Instead o' one-hawf, I'd tek it all, And swear 'em out o' th' seek." SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. i 37 5- Then owd Jeremy he rose up in bed, To hear him talk so smart ; Saying, "Well done, Will ! theaw's won the mill ; Theaw'rt the lad o' meh heart ! " The other two look'd rayther blue, And swore it wur too bad ; But little Will, he won the mill, And the Devil he got his dad. CONTENTMENT. THE HAPPY WORKMAN'S SONG. By John Byrom, M.A., F.R.S. We copy this song, by permission, from the Mis- cellaneous Poems of this author. I AM a poor workman, as rich as a Jew — A strange sort of tale, but however 'tis true ; Come listen awhile, and I'll prove it to you, So as nobody can deny. I am a poor workman, you'll easily grant, Yet I'm rich as a Jew, for there's nothing I want ; I have meat, drink, and clothes, and am hearty and cant, 1 Which nobody can deny. 1 Cheerful. 138 ANCIENT BALLADS AND I live in a cottage, and yonder it stands ; And while I can work with these two honest hands, I'm as happy as they that have houses and lands, Which nobody can deny. I keep to my workmanship all the day long, I sing and I whistle, and this is my song — " Thank God, who has made me so lusty and strong," Which nobody can deny. I never am greedy of delicate fare : If God give me enough, though 'tis ever so bare, The more is His love, and the less is my care, Which nobody can deny. My clothes on a working-day looken l but lean, But when I can dress me, on Sundays I mean, Though cheap, they are warm ; though coarse, they are clean, Which nobody can deny. Folk cry out, " Hard times," but I never regard, For I ne'er did, nor will, set my heart upo' th' ward ; " So 'tis all one to me, bin 3 they easy or hard, Which nobody will deny. 1 envy not them that have thousands of pounds, That sport o'er the country with horses and hounds ; There's nought 'but contentment can keep within bounds, Which nobody can deny. 1 The Lancashire plural of look. 2 Upon the world. 3 Another Lancashire plural, be. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 139 I ne'er lose my time o'er a pipe or a pot, Nor cower in a nook, like a sluggardly sot ; But I buy what is wanting with what I have got, Which nobody can deny. And if I have more than I want for to spend, I help a poor neighbour or diligent friend ; He that gives to the poor, to the Lord he doth lend, Which nobody can deny. I grudge not the gentlefolk dressen so fine ; At their gold and their silver I never repine ; But I wish all their guts were as hearty as mine, Which nobody can deny. With quarrels o' th' country, and matters of state, With Tories and Whigs I ne'er puzzle my pate ; There are some that I love, but none that I hate, Which nobody can deny. What though my condition be ever so coarse, I strive to embrace it for better or worse, And my heart, I thank God, is as light as my purse, Which nobody can deny. Whatever, in short, my condition may be, 'Tis God that appoints it, as far as I see, And I'm sure I can never do better than He, Which nobody can deny. SIR GUALTER. A Tradition of Nor then Boat-House. IN the Phoenix, a Manchester literary journal, the following legendary ballad appeared during 1828. It I4Q ANCIENT BALLADS AND purported to have been preserved by "one Maister Lovelle ;" its writer being really William Rowlinson, a young Manchester poet, who, in his love for poesy in an antique garb, and in other respects, resembled poor Chatterton. Rowlinson was drowned, whilst bathing in the Thames, in June 1829. As the old orthography in which it was written does not improve the ballad, we print it in a modern dress. At Northen, near Manchester, there was, till very recently, an ancient ferry across the river Mersey from Lancashire to Cheshire, called " Northen Boat ;" the village of Nor- then, or Northenden, being in the latter county : — " Now ferry me o'er, thou good boatman ! I prithee, ferry me o'er ! That I may see my lady to-night, Or I never may see her more." " The winds blow high, and the stream runs strong, And I dare not ferry thee o'er ; Thou canst not see thy lady to-night, If thou never dost see her more." " I will see her to-night if my life be spared, For I've heard the death-owl's scream ; Who has heard it once may not hear it twice, She must hear my awful dream." " My boat is moor'd, and I will not cross j Sir Knight, thou may'st away ; Or rest thee to-night till the morning's light, — We will o'er at break of day." " Here's gold in store, and thou shalt have more, To venture across with me ; SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 141 If we die ere we reach the other bank, A mass shall be said for thee." The boat is unmoor'd, and they both leap in, And steer for the other side ; Now swim thou swiftly, thou fearless boat, Against the rushing tide. Now, now for thy life, thou boatman, push, For the stream runs swifter on ; Another boat's length, with all thy strength, And the bank ye have safely won. 'Tis past, 'tis past, they have reach'd the side, And they both leap on the bank : 'Tis well ! 'tis well ! with an eddying whirl That boat hath swiftly sank. Sir Gualter hath given the boatman gold, Thence hastes to the trysting-tree ; What a rueful sight for a gallant knight Was there for him to see ! The Lady Isabel blacken'd and scorch'd By the lightning blast of heaven ; And that stately tree, where they oft had met, Was leafless, and blasted, and riven ! He kneel'd him down o'er that lifeless form ; And the death-owl o'er him flew, And it scream'd as it pass'd on the rushing blast ; Then his fate Sir Gualter knew. Then he gather'd that form within his arms, And rush'd to the river's side ; 142 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Then plunged from the bank, and both of them sank In the darkly rolling tide. There is a tradition in the neighbourhood that the spirits of the knight and the lady are still occasionally to be seen at midnight, especially in storms, beneath the aged yew, as if still bent on keeping their tryst, — love stronger than death itself! THE HERMIT OF KERSALL CELL. By John Leigh, Esq., M.D., Manchester. SIR Hugh le Biron of Clayton Hall, near Man- chester, after having served the king in his French wars, returned home, and became a monk and the Hermit of Kersall Cell, for the maintenance of which cell he made considerable grants. It was attached to the Priory of Lenton in Nottinghamshire. Some remains of Clayton Hall, surrounded by the ancient moat, are yet extant on the Ashton Road. The old bell-tun et, surmounting what appears to be the oldest part of the hall, is very picturesque. Of Kersall Cell nothing is left. It is probable that the very interesting and ancient seat of Miss Atherton, one of the fine timber houses for which Lancashire and Cheshire were once celebrated, and still called Kersall Cell, occupies the site of the older ecclesiastical structure. A GALLANT knight he sallied forth, And none more proud than he, And the hall of Clayton rang with mirth And shouts of revelrie. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 143 " Down with the bridge," the knight he cried ; " Up with the portcullis," he said ; Sir Hugo le Biron pricked his steed, And from Clayton he gaily sped. And there were with him of lances a score, And twenty archers good. " Ah ha ! " said the knight, " who would not be Of merrie English blood ? " But who is she who sits in her bower, Watching the cavalcade ? 'Tis the lady of Clayton, Sir Hugo's bride, " Ah ! woe is me," she say'd. And many a year there passed o'er, Sir Hugo he came not again, And ever that lady she wept full sore As she thought of her true knight slain. They yield, they run, the field is won, And shouts now rend the air ; The English hotly press their foes, The French fly in despair. Yet one there is in that proud host No shout of joy can hear ; No smile that warrior's lips hath crossed For many a weary year. His sword is deeply dyed with gore, His shattered lance lies near ; Stern and sad is that warrior's mien, And his heart is lone and sear. 144 ANCIENT BALLADS AND No gladness to him doth victory bring, His soul is sore opprest, Sir Hugo le Biron looks coldly on, And fain would be at rest. There lieth a weight on his guilty soul No penance can move away, And he ever is found in the deadliest fight, And eke in the hottest fray. The wild wild shriek of that maddening hour Still ringeth oft in his ear, And he shuddereth now as it sweeps on the gale, And his face is blanched with fear. No human foe doth Sir Hugo dread, No sound of the fiercest blast ; Save when it sighs o'er the field of the dead The wail of a crime long past. Sir Hugo he turneth his steed away, He seeketh no flying foe, Death had he braved in the battle's van Then e'en let the vanquished go. He seeketh the shore, where once from his bark He had landed blithe and gay, But now he returneth a careworn man To guilt and remorse a prey. And over the ocean again he sped, Back to the land of his birth, Resolved from his home no more to roam, But to dwell by his ancient hearth. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 145 Sir Hugo to Clayton hath hastened on, And lighter hath felt his heart, When a muffled knell fiom the turret bell, Hath caused the knight to start. And issuing forth from out the gate, A train came slowly on ; A sable pall on a coffin thrown Bore his own escutcheon. "Who is it ye bring?" said the trembling knight, As he neared the sad array ; " 'Tis the lady of Clayton," a mourner said, " Who pined for her lord away." " And who art thou, thou way-worn knight, That rideth here all alone ? Why come ye to Clayton this doleful day ? Why look ye so sad and lone ? " Sir Hugo le Biron fell from his steed, For deadly faint he felt, " Why, who is this ? " said the wondering host, As over the knight they knelt. " Oh ! I am your lord," Sir Hugo he said, " Bear me within," cried the knight ; " Alas that ever I saw this day, Or met this dismal sight." To Kersall Cell the knight he fled, And a hermit lone was he ; And he sought by prayer to expiate The deeds of his chivalrie. L. 146 ANCIENT BALLADS AND A hermit lone that knight was he In Kersall whereto he fled, And many a year of sorrow was passed Ere he slept with the dead. WARRINGTON ALE. THE following song, by a deceased author, we believe, has never before been printed. It is a favourite in Warrington, especially with those by whom the bever- age it celebrates is preferred. YOUR doctors may boast of their lotions, And ladies may talk of their tea ; But I envy them none of their potions : A glass of good stingo for me. The doctor may sneer if he pleases, But my recipe never will fail ; For the physic that cures all diseases Is a bumper of Warrington ale. D'ye mind me, I once was a sailor, And in different countries I've been ; If I lie, may I go for a tailor, But a thousand fine sights I have seen. I've been cramm'd with good things like a wallet, And I've guzzled more drink than a whale ; But the very best stuff to my palate Is a glass of your Warrington ale. When my trade was upon the salt ocean, Why, there I got plenty of grog, SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 147 And I liked it, because I'd a notion It set one's good spirits agog. But since upon land I've been steering, Experience has alter'd my tale ; For nothing on earth is so cheering As a bumper of Warrington ale. Into France I have oftentimes follow'd, And once took a trip into Spain ; And all kinds of liquor I've swallow'd, From spring-water up to champagne. But the richest of wines to my thinking, Compared with good stingo is stale ; For there's nothing in life that's worth 'drinking, Like a bumper of Warrington ale. DROYLSDEN WAKES SONG. Mr. HlGSON in his History of Droylsden gives the following account, under the title of " Threedy- Wheel : "— "A singular Wakes custom was introduced into Droylsden, about 18 14, from Woodhouses, near Fails- worth, where it had been prevalent for more than the third of a century. Chambers, in his Edinburgh Journal gives it a notice, as does also Bell, after Dixon, under the title of " The Greenside Wakes Song," in his annotated edition of the English poets. The cere- monial issued from Greenside, a hamlet in Droylsden, and consisted of two male equestrians grotesquely habited. One, John, son of Robert Hulme of Greenside, 148 ANCIENT BALLADS AND personified a man ; the other, James, son of Aaron Etchells of Edge Lane, a woman. They were engaged with spinning-wheels, spinning flax in the olden style, and conducting a rustic dialogue in limping verse, after which they collected contributions from spectators. Latterly, a cart was substituted for a saddle, as being a safer position in case they grew tipsy. Both Bell and Chambers translate the rhyme into "gradely English," and render threedy wheel, "tread the wheel ;" but it is evidently thread the wheel, as will be seen by a perusal of the original idomatic and more spirited version : — HE. It's Dreighlsdin wakes, un' wey're comin' to teawn, To tell yo o' somethin' o' greet reneawn ; Un' if this owd jade ull lem'mi begin, Aw'l show yo haew hard un how fast au con spin. Chorus. — So it's threedy wheel, threedywheel, dan, don, dill, doe. She. Theaw brags o' thisel'; bur aw dunno' think it's true, For aw will uphowd the, thy faurts arn't a few ; For when theaw hast done, un' spun very hard, O' this aw'm weel sure, thi work is ill marr'd Chorus. — So it's threedywheel, etc. He. Theaw saucy owd jade, theaw'dst best howd thi tung, Or else aw'st be thumpin' thi ere it be lung ; Un' iv'ot aw do, theaw'rt sure for to rue, For aw con ha' monny o' one as good as you. Chorus. — So it's threedywheel, etc. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 149 She. What is it to me whoe yo con have ? Aw shanno' be lung ere aw'm laid i' my grave ; Un' when ot aw'm deod, un' have done what aw con, Yo may foind one ot'll spin os hard os aw've done. Chorus. — So it's threedywheel, etc. He. Com, com, mi dear woife, aw'll not ha' the rue, Un' this aw will tell yo, un' aw'll tell yo true, Neaw iv yo'll forgie me for what aw have said, Aw'll do my endavur to pleos yo instead. Chorus. — So it's threedywheel, etc. She. Aw'm glad for to yeor 'ot yo win me forgive, Un' aw will do by yo os lung os aw live ; So let us unite, un' live free fro' o' sin, Un' then we shall have nowt to think on but spin. Chorus. — So it's threedywheel, etc. Both. So now let's conclude, and here undeth eawr sung, Aw hope it has pleost this numerous thrung ; Bur iv it 'os mist, yo need'nt to fear, We'll do eawr endavur to pleos yo next year. Chorus. — So it's threedywheel, threedywheel, dan, don, dill, doe. Mr Higson informs us that this queer dialogue song, which is sung to a somewhat plaintive tune, has been collected from various persons, and collated with the version of one of the actors and singers, an elderly man, who has often been dressed as the female and taken that ISO ANCIENT BALLADS AND part in the dialogue or duet. On one occasion her husband got so tipsy that he fell off his horse in the yard of Cinderland Hall, and she had to extemporise and instruct another to take his part. They each bore a small spinning-wheel before them, which was turned lustily during the chorus, which may have been origin- ally "speed the wheel." Amongst the variations, or interpolations, sometimes heard, is one that seems to indicate hemp or flax spinning at an early period : — " The tow that aw spin is five shilling a peawnd, Un that yo mun kneaw by mi wheel going reawnd, So it's threedywheel," etc. One brags to the other — " Aw con o'er-spin thee, by th' mass ; " And the rejoinder seems to be — "Aw con o'er-sing thee, by th' mass," Another piece of abuse is — " Theaw cankert owd besom, aw conno' endure Ony lunger a temper loike thoine is, aw'm sure." Altogether, the ballad, as it reaches us, seems but the dSbris of an ancient dialogue-song, in which man and wife quarrel over the domestic manufacture of linen vara. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 151 RADCLIFFE OTTER-HUNT. The scenes of the following ballad are laid in the Irwell and its banks, from Prestwick to Clifton and Radcliffe. The hunt probably took place in the last century ; for it is long since an otter was seen in the Irwell, though two were captured about 1849 in the Bollin, near Bowdon. The ballad is printed from a MS. copy supplied by Mr. John Higson of Droylsden. The otter tells his own story : — I AM a bold otter, as you shall hear, I've rambled the country all round ; I valued no dogs far or near, In the water, nor yet on the ground. I valued no dogs, far or near, But I roved through the country so wide, Till I came to a river so clear, That did Clifton and Prestwich divide. 1 As through the wild country I rambled, I liv'd at extravagant rate ; On eels, chubs, and gudgeons I feasted ; The fishermen all did me hate. Yet still up the rivers I went, Where the fishes my stomach did cheer, Till a challenge from Radcliffe 2 they sent me, They quickly would stop my career. 1 The Irwell forms the boundary between these townships. 2 Radcliffe is on the bank of the Irwell, and a bridge there spans the 152 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Next morning those dogs did assemble ; Jack Allen, 1 he swore I must die ; It made me full sorely to tremble, To hear those stout hounds in full cry. It was near Agecroft bridge 2 I oft went, Where with me they'd had many a round ; So closely they stuck to the scent, That they forced me to take to fresh ground. Jack Allen, the darling of hunters, And Ploughman, the glory of hounds ; You may search all the country over, Their equals are not to be found. Although I my country did leave, It was sorely against my own will ; They pursued me with courage so brave, That they proved a match for my skill. Again through the country I rambled ; To the Earl of Wilton's 3 I came, Where I made bold his fish-pond to enter, And there I found plenty of game. But the Earl being now at his hall, He swore that my life they must end ; So straight for Tom Thorpe 4 he did call, And for Squire Lomas' hounds they did send. Then the dogs and the huntsmen arrived, Thinking my poor life for to end ; 1 The huntsman. 2 The bridge near Kersal Moor, Higher Broughton. 8 Heaton Park, in Prestwich. 4 Then keeper to the Earl. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 153 But to gain my old ground I contrived, Where I could myself better defend. It was near Master Douglas's mill, Where they swam me three hours or more ; And yet I did baffle their skill, Till at length they were forced to give o'er. At length by misfortune I ventured, Again up the river to steer, When into a tunnel I entered, Not thinking my death was so near. But those dogs from old Radcliffe they came, And into my hold did me cry ; The hunters they all did the same, And they swore they would take me or die. 'Twas on the next morning so early They forced me from my retreat ; Then into the river I dived, Thinking all their sharp schemes to defeat. But those dogs they did soon force me out, Because that my strength it did fail ; Tom Damport, 1 that tailor so stout, He quickly laid hold of my tail. Then into a bag they did put me, And up on their backs did me fling ; And because that in safety they'd got me, They made all the valleys to ring. 1 The Lancashire and Cheshire pronunciation of Davenport. 154 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Then right for old Radcliffe did steer, And soon at Bob Hampson's did call ; And hundreds of people were there, * To drink and rejoice at my fall. The same afternoon they contrived With me more diversion to have ; Put me into a pit, where I dived, Just like a stout otter so brave. And yet I remained so stout, Though they swam me for three hours or more, The dogs they could not force me out, Till with stones they did pelt me full sore. Thus forcing me out of the water, Because that my strength it did fail ; And then in a few moments after Jack Ogden 1 laid hold of my tail. And so now they had got me secure, They right to the " Anchor " did steer ; But my lot was too hard to endure, And my death was approaching too near. Next morning to Whitefield 2 they took me, To swim as before I had done ; When out of the bag they did put me, Alas ! my poor life it was gone. 1 Another well-known man in his day. 2 Whitefield is a hamlet in the township of Pilkington, parish of Prest- wich, six miles N.N.W. of Manchester. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 155 And so now this old otter you've killed, You may go to Bob Hampson's and sing ; Drink a health to all true-hearted hunters, Success to our country and king. THE OWDHAM RECRUIT. This song was in much repute about half a century ago, and is still popular as a broadside. It is not devoid of merit, and is also interesting as containing several local phrases and allusions, mixed with a con- siderable share of racy Lancashire humour. After each verse, in the broadside, there is a portion in prose which is marked as to be " spoken." This peculiarity attaches to many modern compositions. The singers are allowed to extemporise at great length, and fre- quently cause much laughter by their allusions to passing events. When i're a young lad, sixteen years ago, I lov'd a pretty lass, and followed the plough ; But somehow or other I was ne'er content, Till I like a noddy for a sodger went. There were such shouts of mirth and glee, For I thowt I should a Captain be. Bud ah ! by gum ! I wur varra much mista'en, And monny a time I wished mysel at t' plough-tail again. So we march'd and march'd abeawt Owdham streets, Where they tried to persuade me 'twas my turn to treat ; 156 ANCIENT BALLADS AND I treated them all till we geet drunk as foos, Between serjeant, me, and corporal, there wur nod mich to chuse ; I thowt that my brass wod never ha been done, Thinks I but we shall live a life of rare fun. Bud ah ! by gum ! I wur varra much mista'en, And monny a time I wished mysel at t' plough-tail again. Bud when my brass wur o spent and dun, They pushed me about for a bit of roaring fun ; By gum, they'd like to throttled me ; eh what a sin ; With a collar stiff as steel just stuck under my chin, They cut my hair so close, sure, and gathered such a crop, They made me soon i' th' regiment a real dandy fop. Bud ah ! by gum ! I wur varra much mista'en, And monny a time I wished mysel at f plough-tail again. I'st never forget what a fuss of me they made, When we went to zfileck ut they coed their parade ; If I could look to pleeos um theer, may I indeed be brunt, For they wanted all at once my een, left, reet, and front ; Then o in a row like fire potters we wur stood, And my toes would'nt turn in let me do wot I could ; I listed for a Captain ; but, by gum, I wur mista'en, And, monny a time I wished mysel at t' plough-tail again. I wondered wot the dickins could ever be the matter, For they shut me in the guard-house to live on bread and waiter; SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 157 And when I offered then to quit that ugly place, A soldier with his bagnet stood staring in my face : I began then a thinkin' that my case was varra bad, For i're wur off by far than when i' th' awkard squad. I listed for a Captain ; but, by gum, I wur mista'en, And monny a time I wished mysel at t' plough-tail again. THE COCKEY MOOR SNAKE. The " Cockey Moor Snake " has had more than one imitation, both in prose and verse. Tim Bobbin's " Man of Heaton and the Flying Dragon " is a compo- sition of the same character, but it is not easy to decide which is the model. Both are intended to ridicule a countryman's ignorance of various articles of dress. We give the satire from a broadside, which lacks the printer's name : — COME listen to my sportive lay, While I relate what people say ; About a hunt which happened o'er, And on a place called Cockey Moor, A lady she walked out one day, And had got on a new boa ; She through the fields her way did steer, In the summer season of the year : But as the day was rather warm, She hung her boa upon her arm ; She thought she had it quite secure, But dropped it down on Cockey Moor. 158 ANCIENT BALLADS AND The lady on her way did hie, And weavers two by chance passed by ; They saw it stretched upon the ground, Bill cried out "Jack ! What's this we've found?" Just at this time the west wind blew And twirled the boa round the two ! " By gum," said Jack, " I tell thee Bill, Its summat wick, it waint stand still." Then close inspection they did make, When Bill cried out " it is a snake ! " And from it they did run, and roar "A snake ! a snake ! on Cockey Moor." Now off they ran as quick as thought, Their neighbours to a man they brought ; They told them all what they had seen Twisting and twirling on the green. " It's three yerds lung," they each did say, " Its colour neither black nor grey ; The middle thick, the ends wur small, By gum, it hed noa legs at all ! Yoan oft heerd tell o them there whales, That's got no head, but has two tails ; Beside its covered o'er wi yure, There's noa sich game on Cockey Moor." When awt folk round had heard the news, Some took their spades and some their shoos j This took a pike, and that a rake, And off they set to hunt the snake. Their terrier dogs they also took, In case that it might take the brook ; And whistled on the hounds that day For fear the snake might run away. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 159 With rusty bay'nets not a few, That had shone bright at some review, The people hied from every door, To kill the snake on Cockey Moot, As they drew nearer to the place, Fear and surprise stood in each face ; For there the snake lay on the ground, Just like a hoop in circle round. The bravest then out loudly spoke — " I say my lads this is no joke, Keep back your dogs, don't go too near ; I wish my gron-feyther wur here ; He'd tell us soon before it dies, Whether it walks, or swims, or flies ; Or if he's seen the like afore, For he's th' owdest mon on Cockey Moor." To this wise plan they soon agreed, And fetched the old man with much speed ; For many months he had been sick, So in a cart they wheeled him quick ; Just as the old man did arrive, Jack shouts aloud " its yet aloive ! " So in his cart the old man bent, And eyed it o'er with much intent : "Now wheel me back," old Roger said, " That is a thing that God ne'er made ; Adam ne'er kersun'd this I'm sure, The Devil has come to Cockey Moor." Now when they heard it was the Devil, They vow'd they'd plague that fause old rebel ; 160 ANCIENT BALLADS AND And each one to the other said, For once Old Nick shall soon be laid. Then all poor Satan they surround, When lengthways lying on the ground ; They swore they would no pity take For thus appearing like a snake ; To make sure work they did intend, To cut it up from end to end, And vow'd they'd either kill or cure, That devil-snake on Cockey Moor. Their dogs ne'er once set up a yell, Because they there no blood could smell, Some said it was a thing quite rare, But thought the Devil had none to spare ; His dwelling place being very warm, His blood dried up as with a charm ; Now wandering through the world so loose, They'd catch Old Nick, and "cook his goose." So then for Satan dug a hole, His body buried without soul, And prayed that it might rise no more To frighten folks on Cockey Moor. Now to the church all went next day, To hear the parson preach and pray ; And as he opened out his book, This truly was the text he took — " Satan was made — and so was Sin — God made a hole to put him in." Then crazy Dick stood up and cries, " Stop parson, stop ! Tha'art tellin lies ; I know quite well the Devil is laid, I helped to bury him with my spade : SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 161 We made a hole quite deep I'm sure, An tumbled him in on Cockey Moor." " What was his shape ? " his reverence said, "Just like a snake th' owd lad wur made ; All covered o'er with bristly hair : " They laughed to see the parson stare. " If this be true, Dick, what you say, I'm sure it was my wife's boa ; She lost it as she walked about, Somewhere between this and Tumfowt ; And if the snake you'll bring to me, Five shilling I will give to thee. You've made a great mistake I'm sure, No snakes can crawl on Cockey Moor." Now off Dick went, and soon he brought That which the parson eager sought ; He brought him in a bag, alas ! " Come now," says Dick, " let's have that brass." The parson then put down the crown, When to his friends Dick turned him round ; " Come on my lads, we'll have a spree, For each to this his share can be." But when the shreds of boa were out, " Curse on you all," he loud did shout, " I never was so tricked before, With devil-snakes from Cockey Moor." M i62 ANCIENT BALLADS AND JONE 0' GRINFILT'S RAMBLE. The Original Song. In Dr. Dixon's Songs and Ballads of the English Peasantry, one of the various versions of this song is printed, and it is there stated to be a production of the 1 8th century. But Samuel Bamford, in his Walks through South Lancashire, observes that the celebrated song of Jone o' Grinfilt, beginning, " Sed Jone to his wife on a whot summer's day, of which, perhaps, more copies have been sold among the rural population of Lancashire than of any other song known, has been generally ascribed to the pen of James Butterworth, the author of a poem called "Rochervale, and other productions of creditable literary merit. Mr. Bamford long held the common opinion as to the origin of Jone. The song took amazingly. It was war time ; volunteering was all in vogue then ; and he remembers standing at the bottom of Miller Street, in Manchester, with a cockade in his hat, and viewing with surprise the almost rage with which the very indifferent verses were purchased by a crowd that stood around a little old-fashioned fellow, with a withered leg, who, leaning on a crutch, with a countenance full of quaint humour, and a speech of the perfect dialect of the county, sang the song, and col- lected the halfpence as quickly as he could distribute it. Some years ago the writer fell in with this same personage at Ashton-under-Lyne, and took the oppor- tunity for acquiring further information respecting the origin of a song once so much in repute. He accord- SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 163 ingly invited the minstrel to a little rest and chat at a neighbouring tavern, where, over a pipe and a pot or two of ale, he learned all he wished to know on the subject, which he noted down in short-hand as the narrator gave it. It was a cold and rainy day in winter ; the door was accordingly shut, the fire stirred up to a warm glow. The cripple sat basking before the fire, with his lame leg thrown across his crutch, his other foot on the fender, when, after putting a quid of tobacco into his mouth, and taking a swig of the ale, he went on gaily with his narrative for some minutes, until glancing towards the paper, and seeing uncouth figures multiplying upon it, he sprang on his one foot, and, with a look of astonishment not unmixed with concern, he exclaimed, " Heigh ! heigh ! theer, I say ! Wot mack o' letters art 'o settin deawn ? Theer, I say ! Wot dust 'o ko [call] thoose lett-ters ? Dust 'o think 'at nobody knows wot theaw 'rt dooin' ? Busithe [but see thee], I'd ha' the to know 'at I know wot theaw 'rt doin' az well az theaw duz thisel. Theaw pretends to rule th' plannits, dust 'o ? Busithe I con rule um as weel az theaw con, an' that I'll let-te know, iv theaw awses [attempts] to put ony o' thi tricks o' me." A hearty laugh, a brief explanation, and, more than both, a kindly invitation to the drink and tobacco, soon brought the guest to his seat again, and to his wonted jovial humour. He then said there were thirteen " Jones o' Grinfilt " produced within a short time ; but the original one — that above mentioned — was composed by Joseph Lees, a weaver residing at Glodwick, near Oldham, and himself — Joseph Coupe — who at the time of its composition, was a barber, tooth-drawer, blood- letter, warper, spinner, carder, twiner, stubber, and 164 ANCIENT BALLADS AND rhymester, residing at Oldham. He said they were both in a terrible predicament, without drink, or money to procure any, after having been drinking all night. They had been at Manchester to see the play, and were returning to Oldham the day following ; when, in order to raise the wind, they agreed to compose a song, to be sung at certain public-houses on the road where they supposed it would be likely to take, and procure them what they wanted, the means for prolonging their dissipation. A storm came on, and they sheltered under a hedge, and the first verse of the song was com- posed by him [Coupe] in that situation. Lees com- posed the next verse ; and they continued composing verse and verse until the song was finished as after- wards printed. But it took them three days to com- plete it. They then "put it i' th' press ;" and he said, " We met ha' bin worth mony a hunthert peawnd, iv widdin ha' sense to ta' care o' th' brass." — Mr. John Higson states that formerly an Oldham man used to come every year to Gorton wakes, in order to sing this song, which he did in turn at the three public-houses then existing in the village. He was known, not only there but in all the villages round, as " Owd Jone o' Grinfilt," from his being a regular visitor at their annual wakes, and singing this favourite ballad. The Jacobins issued a polite parody of this song, which never became popular, and is supposed to be almost wholly forgotten. In it some paviours on the road point out Jone to one another, saying — " Sithee that's mon as con nouther walk nor ride." Jone hears them and detects them : — SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 165 " But aw fin' by their jeers, un' comical sneers, They'rne akin to th' owd makker o' stays." 1 JONE O' GRINFILT. Says Jone to his woife on a whot summer's day, " Aw'm resolvt i' Grinfilt no lunger to stay ; For aw'll goo to Owdham os fast os aw can, So fare thee weel Grinfilt, an' fare thee weel Nan ; For a sodger aw'll be, an' brave Owdham aw'll see, An' aw'll ha'e a battle wi' th' French." " Dear Jone," said eawr Nan, un' hoo bitterly cried, "Wilt be one o' th' foote, or theaw meons for t' ride?" " Ods eawns ! wench, aw'll ride oather ass or a mule, Ere aw'll keawer i' Grinfilt os black os th' owd dule, Booath clemmin', 2 un' starvin', un' never a fardin', It 'ud welly drive ony mon mad." "Ay, Jone, sin' we coom i' Grinfilt for t' dwell, Wey'n had mony a bare meal, aw con vara weel tell." " Bare meal, ecod ! ay, that aw vara weel know, There's bin two days this wick 'ot wey'n had nowt at o' : Aw'm vara near sided, afore aw'll abide it, Aw'll feight oather Spanish or French." Then says my Noant Marget, "Ah! Jone, theaw'rt so whot, Aw'd ne'er go to Owdham, boh i' Englond aw'd stop." 1 Tom Paine was a staymaker. 2 " Clemming " is hungering or famishing. The editor of Songs of the Peasantry says that turning the termination ing into ink is one of the most striking peculiarities of the [South] Lancashire dialect. On the other hand, Samuel Bamford says it is not Lancashire at all, but Cheshire. This peculiarity is found on both sides of the division between the two counties ; but not in other parts of Lancashire. 1 66 A NCIENT BA LLADS A ND " It matters nowt, Madge, for to Owdham aw'll goo, Aw'st ne'er clem to deeoth, both sumbry [somebody] shall know : Furst Frenchmon aw find, aw'll tell him meh mind, Un' if he'll naw feight, he shall run." Then deawn th' broo aw coom, for weh livent at top, Aw thowt aw'd raich Owdham ere ever aw stop ; Ecod ! heaw they staret when aw getten to th' Mumps, Meh owd hat i' my hont, un' meh clogs full o' stumps ; Boh aw soon towd 'um, aw're gooin' to Owdham, Un' aw'd ha'e a battle wi' th' French. Aw kept eendway thro' th' lone, un' to Owdham aw went, Aw ax'd a recruit if they'd made up their keawnt ? " Nowe, nowe, honest lad " (for he tawked like a king), " Goo wi' meh thro' th' street, un' thee aw will bring Wheere, if theaw'rt willin', theaw may ha'e a shillin'." Ecod ! aw thowt this wur rare news. He browt meh to th' pleck, where they measurn their height, Un' if they bin reight, there's nowt said abeawt weight; Awratched meh un' stretch'd meh, un' never did flinch : Says th' mon, "Aw believe theaw'rt meh lad to an inch." Aw thowt this'll do ; aw'st ha'e guineas enoo'. Ecod ! Owdham, brave Owdham for me. So fare thee weel, Grinfilt, a soger aw'm made : Aw getten new shoon, un' a rare cockade ; Aw'll feight for Owd Englond os hard os aw con, Oather French, Dutch, or Spanish, to me it's o' one ; SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 167 Aw'll mak' 'em to stare, like a new started hare, Un' aw'll tell 'em fro' Owdham aw coom. In several copies, both in print and MS., the song ends here, but in others several stanzas are added, of which the following will serve as a sample : — When aw went for a soger, aw ment for to ride, Soa they brought meh a tit, un' aw gat on at wrang side, Aw geet at wrang side, boh aw soon tumbled o'er ; Meh officer said aw should niver ride more. Aw thowt, that's quite reet, aw con goo o' meh feet As fur as aw wish for to goo. Soa they browt meh a gun, and caw'd lift an' reet, Theaw mun howd up thy yed, and keep slippin' thy feet ; Oh ! they wheelt me abeawt till aw leant to one side, An meh officer said aw could noather walk nor ride. Peace is proclaimed, and John goes home again : — Soa neaw aw'm at whoam, an' th' loom's set agate, Wee'n plenty o' praties, an' dumplins to ate ; And now peeace is made, th' weyvers may laugh At Billy's brown loaf, made o' bran an' o' chaff. Etc. etc. The song has had many imitations. The following may be given as specimens : — JONE O' GRINFILT'S RETURN. Aw'M Jone o' Marget's, fro' Grinfilt aw went, To conquer th' Frenchmen aw were fully bent ; 168 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Ot Owdham aw' 'listud, un went to the wars, Aw feort noather dangers, nur battles, nur scars ; To conquer or die, aw resolv'd fur to try, Un' humble the proide o' th' French. Wi' my kit on my back, aw fro' Owdham did go ; Aw thowt if aw fun' 'em, aw'd soon ler 'em know That Jone eawt o' Grinfilt no quarter would give, Boh would feight fur Owd Englond os lung as he lived. Oather French, Dutch, or Spanish, aw think aw con manage, Aw think aw'm the lad 'ot can crack. Aw met an owd freend as aw're gooin' up th' lone, He stopt me, un said, "Wheere neaw, honest Jonc?" " Mon, aw'm gooin' a feightin' o' th' French." " Bur theaw mun goo whoam, For aich body says 'ot they darno' coom." Ecod ! aw'll uphowd 'em 'ot sumbry's towd 'em, That aw're upo' th' road fur to feight. " Heawever," said Dick, " theaw had better go see, Un if theaw conno' mon 'em, be sure send fur me." " O Dick, never mind me, aw'll do whot aw con ; Remember my love to booath Marget and Nan ; Un' tell 'em naw fret, some money aw'll get, Un aw'll coom to Grinfilt again." When aw was hardly begun o' my trade, My officers towd me 'ot peeoce wur made. " If there be no feightin', whoam lemmi goo, Un' if they'll no' be quiet, be sure t' let me know. If to Grinfilt yoan come, yo'll foind me a-whoam, Next dur to Noant Market's aw live." SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 169 As aw're gooin' up th' broo', fur we livent o't top, Aw said aw'd raich Grinfilt 'fore ever aw'd stop, The're such peepin' un' whisp'rin' as aw wenten by th' Mumps, " That's Jone, 'ot went up wi' his clogs full o' stumps, Wi' his cap and his fither, he looks very cliver, Noant Marget 'ull wonder whoa's coom." When aw geet into Grinfilt eawr Nan were a-whoam, Hoo run to Noant Marget's, un' towd her aw'd coom, " What ! is he coom back ? Ecod it's quoite reet, If he's byetten th' French, wey'll ha'e one merry neet ; Eawr Jone, it's no deawt, has browt things abeawt ; He is true to booath country and king. " JONE O' GRINFILT JUNIOR. Mr. HlGSON informs us that the following was once a very popular song, and was taken down from the singing of an old hand-loom weaver at Droylsden. It was written just after the battle of Waterloo, when times were bad, and hand-loom weavers' wages fell from about ^3 to a guinea or 25s. a week — i.e., for three or four days' work, for then weavers could seldom be induced to work on Monday, Tuesday, or often on Wednesday, these days being devoted to recreations procured with high wages. Aw'm a poor cotton-wayver, as mony a one knaws, Aw've nowt t' ate i' th ! heawse, un' aw've worn eawt my cloas, Yo'd hardly gie sixpence fur o' aw've got on, Meh clogs ur' booath baws'n, un' stockins aw've none ; 170 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Yo'd think it wur hard, to be sent into th' ward l To clem 2 un' do best 'ot yo' con. Eawr parish-church pa'son's kept tellin' us lung, We'st see better toimes, if aw'd but howd my tung ; Aw've howden my tung, till aw con hardly draw breoth Aw think i' my heart he meons t' clem me to deoth ; Aw knaw he lives weel, wi' backbitin' the de'il, Bur he never picked o'er 3 in his loife. Wey tooart on six week, thinkin' aich day wur th' last, Wey tarried un' shifted, till neaw wey're quite fast ; Wey liv't upo' nettles, whoile nettles were good, Un' Wayterloo porritch wur' th' best o' us food ; Aw'm tellin' yo' true, aw con foind foak enoo, Thot're livin' no better nur me. Neaw, owd Bill o' Dan's sent bailies one day, Fur t' shop scoar aw'd ow'd him, 'ot aw' couldn't pay ; Bur he're just to lat, fur owd Bill o' Bent, Had sent tit un' cart, un' ta'en t' goods fur t' rent ; They laft nowt bur a stoo' 'ot're seeots for two ; Un' on it keawrt Marget un' me. The bailies sceawlt reawnd os sly os a meawse, When they seedn o' th' things wur ta'en eawt o' th heawse ; Un t' one says to th' tother, " O's gone, theaw may see." Aw said, " Never fret lads, you're welcome ta'e me : " They made no moor ado, bur nipt up th' owd stoo', Un' wey booath leeten swack upo' th' flags. 1 World. 2 Starve, hunger. 3 Threw the shuttle, wove. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 171 Aw geet howd o' eawr Marget, for hoo're strucken sick, Hoo said, hoo'd ne'er had sich a bang sin' hoo're wick, The bailies sceawrt off, wi' th' owd stoo' on their back, Un they wouldn't ha'e caret if they'd brokken her neck. They'rn so mad at owd Bent, 'cos he'd ta'en goods fur rent, Till they'rn ready to flee us alive. Aw said to eawr Marget, as wey lien upo th' floor, " Wey ne'er shall be lower i' this wo'ald, aw'm sure, Fur if wey mun alter, aw'm sure wey mun mend, Fur aw think i' my heart wey're booath at fur end, Fur mayt wey han none, nur no looms to wayve on, Ecod ! th' looms are as well lost as fun." My piece wur cheeont off, un' aw took it him back ; Aw hardly durst spake, mester looked so black ; He said, "Yo're o'erpaid last toime 'ot yo coom." Aw said, " If aw' wur', 'twur wi' wayving beawt loom ; Un i' t' moind 'ot aw'm in, aw'st ne'er pick o'er again, For aw've wooven mysel' to th' fur end." So aw coom eawt o' th' wareheawse, un' laft him chew that, When aw thowt 'ot o' things, aw're so vext that aw swat ; Fur to think aw mun warch, to keep him un' o' th' set, O' th' days o' my loife, un' then dee i' the'r debt : But aw'll give o'er this trade, un work wi' a spade, Or goo un' break stone upo' th' road. 172 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Eawr Marget declares, if hoo'd clooas to put on, Hoo'd go up to Lunnun to see the great mon ; Un' if things did no' awter, when theere hoo had been, Hoo says hoo'd begin, un' feight blood up to th' e'en, Hoo's nout agen th' king, bur hoo loikes a fair thing, Un' hoo says hoo con tell when hoo's hurt. This ballad is still a favourite in many parts of Lan- cashire ; and the three last lines have become " house- hold words." JONE O' GREENFEELT'S RAMBLE IN SEARCH OF TH' GREEN BAG. 1 Says Jone to his wife, I've great news for t' tell, I've bin t' Lunnon fowt, aw th' road by mysel : I geet up won morning afore break o' day, I thowt I should meet th' green bag i' my way, I'd no' porritch enow, so I run like a foo, And ne'er stopt till I seed Lunnon fowt. And when I geet there I walk'd up and deawn, Kept looking abeawt me like some country cleawn ; They wanted for t' know what I had i' my rag, I said it wur meal for t' put i' th' green bag. I begun for to swagger, and said he's a beggar, That mon that keeps stuffing th' green bag. 1 To those of our readers who are not old enough to remember the circumstances of the memorable trial of Queen Caroline, the consort of George IV., it may be necessary to explain that much of the documentary evidence produced on that occasion in the House of Lords came from a certain green bag, which, in the state of public feeling at that time, became an object of popular indignation, if not of contempt, like the celebrated " Non mi recordo " (" I do not recollect ") of an Italian witness against the Queen, on that trial. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 173 I think by my troth I mun write to eawr Nan, For t' tell her t' come here as hard as hoo con, Becose hoo's so brazent and fears no face, And I want for t' see that mon 'ot mays brass, I'll tie up my lugs, and run i' my clogs, And doff off my hat to th' green bag. There is more of this ; but enough has been given to show its character. JONE O' GRINFILT GOING TO TH' ROOSHAN WAR:— Is another of the many imitations of this favourite song, but very far short of the spirit of the original. We take a specimen of it from a printed ballad-sheet, or broadside : — Yo Lankyshire lads, coom listen awhoile, Aw'll sing yo a sung, 'ot 'ull mak yo o' smoile, Of owd Jone o' Grinfilt, yo've often yeard tell, Fur at Grinfilt near Owdham lung toime aw did dwell. Aw're at Wayterloo, wheere aw fowt loike a mon, Bur me age 'ot that toime it wur scarce twenty-one, So aw geet me discharge when th' peace it wur made, Un' aw went back to Grinfilt to start i' th' owd trade, Bur weyving un me, we shan never agree, So aw'll goo for a sodger again. Aw'm towd as owd Alexander the Czar Is fully detarmint to keep on the war ; 174 ANCIENT BALLADS AND So aw'll goo to Rushar beawt ony fear, Un' help my brave countrymen in the Crimear. So fare thee weel, Englont ! aw'm bound o'er t' main, Bur if avv're t' good luck fur to coom back again, Aw'll tell yo a teal, 'ot'll mak yo o' stare, About Alexander th' greet Rushan bear. Un if aw chance catch him, to Englont aw'll fetch him, Un shaw him at tuppence apiece. JONE O' GRINFILT'S VISIT TO MR. FIELDEN, With a Petition to the Queen to Jill every hungry belly : — Is another imitation, with reference to the late Mr. John Fielden of Todmorden, M.P. for Oldham, who was a great opponent of the new Poor Law. The extracts we take from a printed ballad broadside : — Says Jone eawt o' Grinfilt, " Aw'll tell yo what, Nan, Aw'll see Mester Fielden, as aw am a mon." Says Nan o' meh Gronny's, "This is meh belief, Aw think Mester Fielden con banish this grief, To Lunnun aw'll walk, wi' meh clogs on meh feet, To ax Bob and Nosey * if they cawn it reet. Aw'll tell eawr young queen, aw'm asheamt to be seen Fur aw've hardly a smock to meh back. 1 Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 175 Jone talks of going to Ireland to consult Father Matthew ; and of asking the Tory for meat, the Whig for a plate, and the Chartist for a glass of pop. Then — When aw coom back fro' Irelont, to Lunnun aw'll goo, Un' o' abeawt Grinfilt aw'll let him to know, Un' if they should caw meh a country cleawn, Aw'll say aw'm a felly fro' Saddleworth teawn, Wi' meh hat i' meh hont, aw'll tell 'em aw want Some porritch fur Marget and Nan. Aw'll say aw'm so clemm'd 'ot aw connot aboide, Un' meh guts are as bare as a jackass's hoide, Aw'll tell Bob and Nosey these toimes are so hard, They're o' empty heawses welly in eawr ward ; Now money's so scant, they mun o' drop their rent, Or th' landlords 'ull very soon break. THE BURNLEY HAYMAKERS. The present editor contributed this Lancashire song. It was hawked and sung about Burnley and the neighbourhood more than a century ago by a noted Burnley ballad-singer called " Robin O'Green," whose portrait was painted, and was afterwards engraved by, or for, one of the Towneleys of Towneley. He was still living in 1790. The song is a satire on some weather- prophet of his day, whose name has not been preserved, but whose astrological jargon and prophecies of fine weather are ridiculed in somewhat learned phraseology for a ballad. There are yet left in the neighbourhood a few astrologers, or, as they are termed, " wise men," 176 ANCIENT BALLADS AND who are said to make large incomes by casting nativi- ties, giving advice respecting stolen property, telling fortunes by means of cards, etc. This song is supposed to have been written by Mr. Cottam, the schoolmaster previously mentioned. I. Help goddess-muse to sing of revelation, Fanatic dreams or news from the stars, Knowledge refined, mysterious speculation, Secondary causes of peace or wars : See how the plotting heavens In a summer's even Together make weather at their own dispose, And to the sons of art, Their secrets do impart, And all their consultations most willingly disclose. 2. Sol went down clear one evening to the ocean, And gentle breezes perfumed the air, Up to a mount as if to pay devotion For such a blessing, this artist did repair, Telescopes and glasses, Fitting for such asses, He took and thro' them did look up to the flattering sky, And Aquarius spy, Laying his pitcher by, And nothing but fair weather appeared to his eye. 3- Just when the sun took lodging with the lion, Or near that time, if I do not mistake, SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 177 More weeping weather we mortals ne'er set eye on ; The sky wore a mantle for many days of black, The Twins disputed, Would not be confuted, They'd power that time to show'r down all their influ- ence, The moist triplicity, Within their powers might be, But mark how they deceived a man of mighty sense. 4- Venus had dried her , Which caused the wet ; Orion had put on His girdle close ; thinks he, I cannot miss it, Now, now, for hay-time, and so he marched home, Crying, mow your meadows, Husbands, wives, and widows, Cut down throughout the town, and you may take your rest ; The hay itself will make ; Hang me if I mistake, For prejudicing any is not my intent. 5- I with Molly, Peggy, Sue, and Betty, But five in number, dare well undertake, The planets smile and th' evening looks so pretty, Half of the hay in this town ourselves to make, No opposition, To change condition, I spy throughout the sky, fair weather to prevent ; Then cut your meadows down, And if the heavens frown, Or rain while Sol's in Leo, I'll burn my instrument. N 178 ANCIENT BALLADS AND 6. Credulous fools gave ear to this imposter, Cheats find acceptance above their deserts, Down go the meadows, each strove which could mow faster, Merely confiding in this rare son of arts : He himself did bluster, And his train did muster, With rake and fork to make what he had underta'en ; But coming to the field, He to his grief beheld,. The sky enveloped with clouds that threatened rain. 7- Yet confident, he called it "pride of the weather," And was assured that it was no rain : Mollis lets loose his wings with moistened feathers, Dipp'd in the ocean to cast 'em here again, Astrceus puffs and blusters, Drove the clouds in clusters, Here rushing, there crushing, till they pour'd down Such mighty clouds of rain, As if they strove again, By force of a new deluge this lower globe to drown. 8. For many days continued such foul weather, That all the hay cut down at that time was spoiled ; The bubbled farmers they all met together, Blaming their folly to be so much beguiled ; But this lying prophet Made no matter of it, SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 179 His book he had mistook, or taken a wrong text ; His tubes and telescopes Had quite deceived his hopes ; But he would be more certain when he predicted aext. 9- His book is only a lying errapater, His telescope is a poor hollow bark ; Yet with such tools this fool himself doth flatter To be Heaven's counsellor, or the planets' clerk. We have law for witches, That studies mischief, Some burning, others turning in a hempen string ; And can there any be, Deserves more than he, Who did such an inconveniency upon his neighbours bring ? THE PRAISE OF LANCASHIRE MEN OR A few lines which here is penned Wherein they Lancashire lads commend. Tune. — " A Job for a Journeyman Shoemaker." YOU Muses all assist my pen, I earnestly require, To write the praise of the young men Born in Lancashire : They are both comely, stout, and tall, And of most mild behaviour ; Fair maids, I do intreat you all To yield to them your favour. i8p. ANCIENT BALLADS AND When a Lancashire lad doth feel the dart Of Cupid's bow and quiver, And aim to take a fair maid's part, I'm sure he'll not deceive her : Unto their promise they will stand, Which they to you propounded ; They will not break for house or land, If love their hearts have wounded. There is knights' sons and gentlemen, That's born in Lancashire, That will be merry now and then, If need it do require : The plowman likewise is our friend, Who doth use plow and harrow ; He freely will his money spend When he meets with his marrow. 1 In Lancashire there's brisk young lads As are within our nation, Most of them of several trades, Or of some occupation ; That their wives they can well maintain, And bring them store of treasure ; All by their labour and their pain, They live with joy and pleasure : It is a most delightful thing, And pleasure for to hear, These boys their songs and catches sing When they drink their ale and beer : 1 Mate, companion, lover, match, equal. SONGS OF LANCASH/XE. 1S1 They will be merry, great and small, When they do meet together ; And freely pay for what they call — A fig for wind and weather ! At pleasant sports and football play They will be blythe and jolly ; Their money they will freely lay, And cast off melancholy. When Lancashire lads, of several trades, They have a jovial meeting, Each man a glass unto fair maids Will drink unto his sweeting. Brave Lancashire lads are soldiers stout, Whose valour have been tryed At sea and land in many a bout, When thousands brave men died ; And always scorned for to yield Although the foes were plenty ; If they're but ten men on the field, They surely will fight twenty. Great James our King 1 they will defend As well as any shire ; To England they will prove a friend, If need it do require. They loyal subjects still have been, And most of them stout-hearted, Who still will fight for king and queen, And never from them started. 1 This fixes the date of the ballad as in the reign of James I. or II. i82 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Now to conclude, and make an end Of this my harmless sonnet : I hope no man I do offend ; Each man put off his bonnet, And drink a health to James our king, And to our English nation ; God us defend in everything, And keep us from invasion ! WILL, THE FERRYMAN: A WATER ECLOGUE. Written, to accompany a particular piece of music, by Dr. Fref. The following lines, which appeared in the Gentleman's Magazine for June 1758, seem to have taken their rise from a circumstance still spoken of by tradition in Lancashire, and which is sufficiently evident from the lines themselves. — See An Account of Runcorn audits Environs by the Rev. John Greswell, Master of the Gra?nmar School in Manchestar. Pale shone the moon on Mersey's flood, The midnight silence was profound ; Save that where Elfled's castle x stood, The sea-gull sometimes scream'd around : 1 Ethelfleda, or Elfleda, widow of Eldred, Duke of Mercia, who died about a.d. 912, erected a castle at Runcorn, in the year 916, upon the site which still retains the name of Castle Rock, though no vestige of the castle remains. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 183 And village dog by fits did howl, And from the lofty yew, that grows Near old Rumcosa's kirk, 1 the owl Her hollow note would interpose : When from a cavern on the strand Poor Will the Ferryman appear'd, Who late had slept upon the sand, And frantic then his head uprear'd. For to a ship he call'd aloud, Whose whitening sail he chanced to spy, " I see her hand — I see her shroud — O Molly, stay— O stay— 'tis I ! " What though within the churchyard near Thy lifeless body low was laid ; Thy roving spirit will be here, For ever here thy restless shade. " For in this chamber of the rock, 2 Which tides have worn, and time hath eat, I gave thy virtue first the shock Which made thy future woe complete. " From Liverpool then full blythe we came ; Here on the beach the boat we moor'd ; Thou lost thy life by loss of fame : And fame once lost is ne'er restor'd. 1 Runcorn was called in the Saxon annals Riaicofan; by Huntingdon Rumcoveu; by other writers, Runcoven or Runcofan ; and in the king's books, Ronchestorn. - Probably that adjoining to the Bathing-house, below the Lovers' Walk. 184 ANCIENT BALLADS AND " Then pale the rose grew on thy cheek, And yellow what was lily-white ; Then sunk thy heart and spirit meek, And eye that sparkled with delight. " O com'st thou near? " he said ; "then come ! " (For now the sails did nearer show) ; " O reach thy hand, and take me home." — But billows whelm'd him far below. The ebbing waters soon return'd To Castle Rock his floating corse ; — They rung his knell — the village mourn'd — And his new sweetheart deck'd his hearse. THE LOVER'S LEAP. The following song, by an anonymous writer, is re- printed from Elegant Extracts. Hard by the hall our master's house, Where Mersey flows to meet the main, Where woods, and winds, and waves dispose A lover to complain ; With arms across, along the strand Poor Lycon walk'd, and hung his head ; Viewing the footsteps in the sand Which a bright nymph had made. The tide, said he, will soon erase, The marks so lightly here imprest ; But time or tide will ne'er deface Her image in my breast. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 185 Am I some savage beast of prey? Am I some horrid monster grown ? That thus she flies so swift away, Or meets me with a frown ? That bosom soft, that lily skin (Trust not the fairest outside show) Contains a marble heart within — A rock hid under snow. Ah me ! the flints and pebbles wound Her tender feet, from whence there fell Those crimson drops which stain the ground, And beautify each shell. Ah ! fair one, moderate thy flight, I will no more in vain pursue, But take my leave for a long night ; Adieu, lov'd maid, adieu ! With that he took a running leap, He took a lover's leap indeed, And plung'd into the sounding deep, Where hungry fishes feed. The melancholy her'n stalks by ; Around the squalling sea-gulls yell ; Aloft the croaking ravens fly, And toll his funeral knell. The waters roll above his head ; The billows toss it o'er and o'er, His ivory bones lie scattered, And whiten all the shore. ANCIENT BALLADS AND DEATH OF AN OLD HUNTSMAN. The following song (communicated by Mr. Higson of Droylsden) is known to have been sung more than fifty years ago. The Gartside named in the first verse is said to have lived near Hartshead Pike. Edmund Freer was huntsman to the Ashton-under-Lyne pack of hounds. I. Of Troy's famed walls, of Iliad's king, Of Hector's might, let poets sing, And celebrate in strains sublime The heroic deeds of ancient time : A humbler muse inspires my verse Whilst I old Gartside's [Freer's] fate rehearse. 2. Where Greenfield rears her rocks on high, O'ertops the clouds and meets the sky, And greets the first approach of morn This hero of the chase was born ; A huntsman he of great renown, To many noble sportsmen known. 3- The crafty fox, the timid hare, The kite that skims so blythe in air, The falcon swift, the grovelling mole, The marten sleek, the moping owl ; All birds and beasts of every shape, None could his wily toil escape. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 1S7 4- When withering age his nerves unstrung, The sportsmen all, both old and young, Crowd to his cot their grief to tell, And bid their dying friend farewell. All, seeing death approach so near, They cried, " Alas ! poor Edmund Freer ! " 5- When to the churchyard he was borne By village hinds, with looks forlorn, And herdsmen, too, his corse attend, To show their love to their old friend ; For death has ended the career Of the brave huntsman, Edmund Freer. 6. No more his horn the huntsman hears ; No more his voice the village cheers ; No more the fox, with artful care, Eludes the chase, or fears the snare ; Since death has ended the career Of that brave huntsman, Edmund Freer. 7- The turf that covers his remains Is much revered by rustic swains ; And sportsmen all, as they pass by, Pay the soft tribute of a sigh, Or drop a sympathetic tear, Saying, " Alas ! poor Edmund Freer ! " ANCIENT BALLADS AND HAND-LOOM v. POWER-LOOM. This song of a transitional era in weaving was sung by John Grimshaw, better known by his sobriquet of " Common," of Gorton, near Manchester. COME all you cotton-weavers, your looms you may pull down ; You must get employ'd in factories, in country or in town, For our cotton-masters have found out a wonderful new scheme, These calico goods now wove by hand they're going to weave by steam. In comes the gruff o'erlooker, or the master will attend ; It's " You must find another shop, or quickly you must mend ; For such work as this will never do ; so now I'll tell you plain, We must have good pincop-spinning, or we ne'er can weave by steam." There's sow-makers and dressers, and some are mak- ing warps ; These poor pincop-spinners they must mind their flats and sharps, For if an end slips under, as sometimes perchance it may, They'll daub you down in black and white, and you've a shilling to pay. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 1S9 In comes the surly winder, her cops they are all marr'd ; " They are all snarls, and soft, bad ends ; for I've roved off many a yard ; I'm sure I'll tell the master, or the joss, when he comes in : " They'll daub you down, and you must pay ; — so money comes rolling in. The weavers' turn will next come on, for they must not escape, To enlarge the master's fortunes they are fined in every shape. For thin places, or bad edges, a go, or else a float, They'll daub you down, and you must pay threepence, or else a groat. If you go into a loom-shop, where there's three or four pair of looms, They all are standing empty, incumbrances of the rooms ; And if you ask the reason why, the old mother will tell you plain, My daughters have forsaken them, and gone to weave by steam. So, come all you cotton-weavers, you must rise up very soon, For you must work in factories from morning until noon : You mustn't walk in your garden for two or three hours a-day, For you must stand at their command, and keep your shuttles in play. 190 ANCIENT BALLADS AND GORTON TOWN. This song was communicated by Mr. John Higson, who says it is "translated from the vernacular." It will be the more intelligible to the non-Lancashire reader. Gorton is a chapelry in the parish of Man- chester, and about three miles from that city. This was sung in February 1865, at the naming of a dog " Ringwood," at the Hare and Hounds inn, Abbey Hey, Gorton, by Samuel 'Beswick, a nephew of the composer of the tune, and author or compiler of the words — the late John Beswick, alias " Parish Jack," a singer, fluter, and fiddler, in great request at " stirs " and merry-makings, where his vocal and instrumental services were often paid in kind — in meat, clothes, or liquor. He was also in the choir of Gorton chapel, now St. James's Church, where he was buried a few years ago. It has been printed as a broadside. GOSH dang it, lads, we're coming again, Though many a mile I've been ; A Gorton lad I'm bred and born, And lots of sights I've seen. But when I did come back again, I nearly fell in fits, For times and folks so alter'd look'd, I thought I'd lost my wits. I turn'd me north, I turn'd me south, I turn'd me east and west, And everything so alter'd look'd, And some were none for th' best ; SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 191 They'n even altered Goose Green pump, They'n turn'd it upside down ; And th' well they'n choked with paving-stones, Since I left Gorton town. When I left home some years ago, Th' old folks had lots o' trade ; Some right good jobs came tumbling in, And every one well paid. We'd good roast-beef and pudding, And ale some decent swigs ; Egad ! they liv'd like fighting-cocks, And got as fat as pigs. But now, egad ! there's none such things ; Poor folks have empty tripes ; There's no roast-beef to stuff their hides, Its Poor Law soup and swipes. An honest working-man's no chance ; Grim want does on him frown ; I ne'er thought things would come to this, When I left Gorton town. In days gone by our fine young men Ne'er told such dismal tales ; They'd ne'er a man transported then As far as New South Wales. We'd honest men in Parliament, 1 Both Tories, Rads, and Whigs ; They were never known poor folk to rob, But now they've turn'd to prigs. 192 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Our manufact'rers work'd full time, Their mills were seldom stopt ; No general turn-outs were there then, Their wages never dropt. Those Corn-law folks and Chartist lads Might talk till all were brown, Without being sent to treading-mills, When I left Gorton town. In days gone by I never thought Such days would come as these, When lads were all as gay as larks, And wenches bright as bees. Right merrily they jogg'd to th' fairs In clogs and light shalloon, And every one could sport a face Just like a harvest moon. But now the clogs and light shalloons Each one has thrown aside, And lasses now are faded moons ; They're grown too proud to stride. The foolish frumps sport mutton pumps, And yet, their pride to crown, They've bustles tied behind 'em Half as large as Gorton town. But dang it, lads ! aw'st ne'er forget, When first I came i' th' town, A pretty wench came up to me, And says, " Where art thou boun' ? " SOJVGS OF LANCASHIRE. 193 But putting all these jokes aside, We'll hope these times will mend ; There'll come a day yet when the rich Will prove the poor man's friend. When work and honest poverty- Will meet with due regard ; And plotting knaves and creeping slaves Will get their just reward. It's soon or late, as sure as fate, Such things will come to pass ; And when we all get lots of work, We'll soon get lots of brass. With right good trade, and fairly paid, I dare bet thee a crown, There'll not be such a place i' th' world As merry Gorton town. THE HAND-LOOM WEAVERS' LAMENT. Mr. John Higson also obtained this song from the singing of John Grimshaw. You gentlemen and tradesmen, that ride about at will, Look down on these poor people ; it's enough to make you crill ; 1 Look down on these poor people, as you ride up and down, I think there is a God above will bring your pride quite down. 1 Chilly, goose-fleshy. O 194 ANCIENT BALLADS AND Chorus.— You tyrants of England, your race may soon be run, You may be brought unto account for what you've sorely done. You pull down our wages, shamefully to tell ; You go into the markets, and say you cannot sell ; And when that we do ask you when these bad times will mend, You quickly give an answer, " When the wars are at an end." When we look on our poor children, it grieves our hearts full sore, Their clothing it is worn to rags, while we can get no more, With little in their bellies, they to their work must go, Whilst yours do dress as manky as monkeys in a show. You go to church on Sundays, I'm sure it's nought but pride, There can be no religion where humanity's thrown aside ; If there be a place in heaven, as there is in the Ex- change, Our poor souls must not come near there ; like lost sheep they must range. With the choicest of strong dainties your tables over- spread, With good ale and strong brandy, to make your faces red ; SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 195 You call'd a set of visitors — it is your whole delight— And you lay your heads together to make our faces white. You say that Bonyparty he's been the spoil of all, And that we have got reason to pray for his downfall ; Now Bonyparty's dead and gone, and it is plainly shown That we have bigger tyrants in Boneys of our own. And now, my lads, for to conclude, it's time to make an end ; Let's see if we can form a plan that these bad times may mend ; Then give us our old prices, as we have had before, And we can live in happiness, and rub off the old score. This ballad was sung to the favourite air of "A hunting we will go," but better known in and near Manchester by a song of the time, of which one verse runs — With Henry Hunt we'll go, we'll go, With Henry Hunt we'll go ; We'll raise the cap of liberty, In spite of Nadin Joe. 1 1 Joseph Nadin was deputy-constable of Manchester for more than twenty years. He resigned in March 1821, and was succeeded by Mr. Stephen Lavender, from London. 196 ANCIENT BALLADS AND THE MIDDLETON OVERSEER AND THE MADMAN. The following ballad is said to be founded on fact. It was taken down by Mr. Higson, as sung by John Grimshaw. Middleton is a market-town and parish, midway between Manchester and Rochdale. We have also seen it in print as an ordinary ballad-sheet. It's of a clever overseer, as crafty as a mouse, sir, He brought a man from Middleton to Lancaster mad- house, sir ; The overseer laughed in his sleeve, in view of specula- tion, But little did he think to meet with such a desolation. Right fal the ral, the raddy oh, Right fal the looral lido ; Right fal the ral, the raddy oh, Right fal the looral lido. When they arriv'd at Lancaster, says the madman, " We're at home, sir." They walk'd about Lancaster streets, like Darby and his Joan, sir ; The madman and the overseer, they went to bed to- gether : Says the overseer to himself, " I'll stick to him like leather," Right fal, etc. Then the overseer did lie down, and the madman he did creep, sir, And by his cunning, crafty tricks, got the overseer asleep, sir ; SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 197 The note out of his pocket drew, which lay behind his head, sir ; Got up and left the overseer quite fast asleep in bed, sir. Right fal, etc. By chance he met a gentleman ; says he, " Where are you bound, sir ? He says, " I'm going to take a view of Lancaster fine town, sir." Says he, "I'm an overseer, I'm come upon a cruise, sir ; I've a message that I must take down to Lancaster mad-house, sir." Right fal, etc. When he got to Lancaster mad-house loudly he rang the bell, sir, And when the governor did appear, he cut a noble swell, sir ; Says he, "A madman I have got, I'll show you my receipt, sir ; I've had him in my custody, struggling all the neet, sir." Right fal, etc. Says the lunatic, " He is so mad, perhaps he'll form a plan, sir, And when this morning we do come, he'll swear / am the man, sir ; For he is so obstreperous, that no one can endure him ; And when he says that I'm the man, that instant you secure him." Right fal, etc. 198 ANCIENT BALLADS AND He went straight back to th' public-house, and loudly he did say, sir, — "Why, overseer, do you intend to lie in bed all day, sir?" The overseer was so alarm'd with fear beyond relation, To see the lunatic awake and free, yet full of conver- sation. Right fal, etc. Says the overseer, " I will get up ; we'll have a little meat, sir ; And after that we'll take a walk, and look at my estate, sir." After they had breakfasted, they kindly did embrace, sir : Says the overseer, "Yonder is a most elegant place, sir." Right fal, etc. Then the overseer his pockets groped, and straight began a-crying : His receipt was gone, he knew not how ; it set him near a-dying. Says the overseer, " I must form a plan, all for to get him in, sir." Says the lunatic unto himself, " I wish you would begin, sir." Right fal, etc. Then the overseer he rang the bell, without any further thought, sir : Says the madman to the turnkey, " This is the man I've brought, sir." SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 199 They got hold of the overseer, and hauled him into the place, sir ; Pull'd off his clothes, and shaved his head, and then they wash'd his face, sir. Right fal, etc. Then he was so ungovernable, and kicked up such a racket, That quick they bound him hand and foot, put on him a straight-jacket : When the operation did commence, his mind was filled with stitches, And the overseer looked in their face like one with dirty breeches. Right fal, etc. Says the lunatic, " I will go home, my sorrows are all over; I'm as happy now as ever cow was in a field of clover." " Where have you left the overseer ? " " Where they will make him civil : I've left him in Lancaster 'sylum as mad as any devil ! " Right fal, etc. A note was sent immediately by the coach, the " Volun- teer," sir, To get to Lancaster with speed, to release the overseer, sir ; And now, poor man, at home again, his mind's full of reflection, He'll remember Lancaster mad-house to the day of resurrection. Right fal, etc. ANCIENT BALLADS AND MARY MELVIN OF THE MERSEY SIDE. This has long been a favourite song. The broadsides are still printed and sold in Liverpool and the neigh- bourhood. Give ear with patience to my relation, All you that ever felt Cupid's dart, I'm captivated and ruinated By a young female that made me smart. My mind's tormented, I can't prevent it, Her glancing beauty has me destroy'd, I speak sincerely, I suffered dearly — For Mary Melvin of the Mersey side. In the month of May, when the lambkins play, By the river-side as I chanc'd to rove, There I spied Mary, both light and airy, And singing sweetly as she did rove. I got enchanted, I throbb'd and panted, Like one delirious I stood and cried, " Ah ! lovely creature, the boast of nature, Did Cupid send you to the Mersey side?" She made this answer, " It's all romancing For you to flatter a simple dame ; I'm not so stupid, or dup'd by Cupid, So I defy you on me to scheme. My habitation is near this plantation, I feed my flocks by the river-side ; Therefore don't tease me, and you will please me," Said Mary Melvin of the Mersey side. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 201 I said, " My charmer, my soul's alarmer, Your glancing beauty did me ensnare ; If I've offended, I never intended To hurt your feelings, I do declare. You sang so sweetly, and so discreetly, You cheer'd the woods and valleys wide, That fam'd Apollo your voice would follow, Should he but hear you near the Mersey side." " Young man you're dreaming, or you are scheming, You're like the serpent that tempted Eve ; Your oily speeches do sting like leeches, But all your flattery shan't me deceive. Your vain delusion is an intrusion ; For your misconduct I must you chide ; Therefore retire, it is my desire," Said Mary Melvin of the Mersey side. " Don't be so cruel, my dearest jewel, I'm captivated, I really vow ; To show I'm loyal, make no denial, Here is my hand, and I'll wed you now. I want no sporting, nor tedious courting, But instantly I'll make you my bride ; Therefore surrender, I'm no pretender, Sweet Mary Melvin of the Mersey side." She then consented, and quite contented Unto the church we went straightway, And quickly hurried, and both got married, And join'd our hearts on that very day. Her parents bless'd us, and then caress'd us ; A handsome portion they did provide ; We bless the day that we chanc'd to stray By the lonely banks on the Mersey side. 202 ANCIENT BALLADS AND GRIMSHAW'S FACTORY FIRE. IN 1790 Mr. Robert Grimshaw, of Gorton House, Gorton, near Manchester, having contracted with the Rev. Dr. Cartwright, the inventor of the power-loom, for the privilege of using 500 of his looms, erected, for their reception, a weaving factory at Knott Mill, with steam-power. The mill was finished, and the ma- chinery, including 30 power-looms, had not been many weeks at work before the whole building was burned to the ground. As the proprietor had previously re- ceived several anonymous letters threatening destruc- tion to the mill if he persisted to work it, there is every reason to conclude that the fire did not happen without design, but was the work of an incendiary. Mr. Grim- shaw was about erecting another mill in Gorton, but this fire not only deterred him, but others, from bring- ing the invention into use ; and the next attempt to introduce power-looms into Manchester was not made till sixteen years afterwards. About the time of the fire there lived up the Ginnel, near the Chapel-Houses, Gorton, a man named Lucas, a hand-loom weaver and crofter or bleacher. Though very illiterate, — not able to write, and scarcely to read, — he enjoyed consider- able local fame as a rhymester. He composed a ditty on the destruction of Grimshaw's mill, which was regu- larly set to music, printed, and sold by the ballad- dealers of Manchester. The entire song cannot now be recovered, but the following fragment has been orally gleaned from five old men, each of whom well recollects singing it at the time of its currency. It re- veals the feelings of the working-classes of that day on SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 203 the introduction of machinery and steam-power. For the above particulars we are indebted to the late Mr. John Higson. Come all ye country gentlemen, Come listen to my story ; It's of a country gallant Who was cropp'd in his glory, All by a new invention, As all things come by natur', Concerning looms from Doncaster 1 And weyvin' done by wayter. Chorus. — Then, eh, the looms from Doncaster That lately have come down — That they never had been carried Into Manchester town. For coal to work his factory He sent unto the Duke, 2 sir ; He thought that all the town Should be stifled with the smoke, sir ; But the Duke sent him an answer, Which came so speedily, That the poor should have the coal, If the Devil took th' machinery. Then, eh, etc. He got all kinds of people To work at his invention, Both English, Scotch, and Irish, And more than I could mention. 1 Dr. Cartwright had erected a mill for power-looms at Doncaster, but with so little success that it was abandoned. : The Duke of Bridgewater, the great coal-owner. 204 ANCIENT BALLADS AND He kept such order over them, Much more than they did choose, sir, They left him land for liberty ; Please God to spare their shoes, sir. Then, eh, etc. The floor was over shavings, Took fire in the night, sir ; But now he's sick in bed Some say it's with affright, sir. [The rest wanting.] THE BONNY GRAY. This song celebrated a famous cock-fight in the days of "the old Lord Derby" — Edward, the 12th earl — who was very fond of the sport, and who died in 1834. He was great-grandfather of the present earl. The song appears to indicate that the cock-pit in which the battle was fought was in Liverpool ; and it is clear that the Earl and the Prescot lads backed the cock named " Charcoal Black," while the Liverpool folks supported the " Bonny Gray," which proved the victor. We take this song from a printed ballad-sheet : — Come all you cock-merchants far and near, Did you hear of a cock-fight happening here? Those Liverpool lads, I've heard them say, 'Tween the Charcoal Black and the Bonny Gray. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 205 We went to Jim Ward's, 1 and call'd for a pot, Where this grand cock-battle was fought ; For twenty guineas a-side these cocks did play, The Charcoal Black and the Bonny Gray. Then Lord Derby came swaggering down ; " I'll bet ten guineas to a crown, If this Charcoal Black he gets fair play, He'll clip the wings of your Bonny Gray." Now when these cocks came to the sod, Cry the Liverpool lads, " How now? what odds?" The odds, the Prescot lads did say, 'Tween the Charcoal Black and the Bonny Gray. This cock-fight was fought hard and fast, Till Black Charcoal he lay dead at last, The Liverpool lads gave a loud huzza, And carried away the Bonny Gray ! THE LANCASHIRE WITCHES. In vain I attempt to describe The charms of my favourite fair ; She's the sweetest of Mother Eve's tribe, With her there is none to compare. She's a pride of beauty so bright, Her image my fancy enriches ; My charmer's the village delight, And the pride of the Lancashire witches. 1 The pugilist, who kept an inn in Liverpool. 206 ANCIENT BALLADS. Then hurrah for the Lancashire witches, Whose smile every bosom enriches ; Oh, dearly I prize The pretty blue eyes Of the pride of the Lancashire witches. They may talk of the dark eyes of Spain— 'Tis useless to boast as they do — They attempt to compare them in vain With the Lancashire ladies of blue. Only view the dear heavenly belles, You're soon seized with love's sudden twitches, Which none could create but the spells From the eyes of the Lancashire witches. Then hurrah, etc. The Lancashire witches, believe me, Are beautiful every one ; But mine, or my fancy deceives me, Is the prettiest under the sun. If the wealth of the Indies, I swear, Were mine, and I wallow'd in riches, How gladly my fortune I'd share With the pride of the Lancashire witches. Then hurrah, etc. MODERN SONGS AND BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE MODERN SONGS AND BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. l&omanttc anti iUgentiarp Ballad 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 " few and far between." The flame is, however, still kept alive by the poet ; and the few examples we are able to give are almost all derived from some of those who have added lustre to the literary annals of Lancashire. 210 MODERN SONGS AND THE LAST WOLF : a legend of humphrey head.* By "Tristram." (Abridged from the " Lonsdale Magazine" Feb. 1821.) At a remote period, a bold and intrepid knight, named Harrington, fixed his residence at Wraysholme Tower, near Humphrey Head, on the northern shore of Morecambe Bay. The remains of the tower, dark and gloomy, are still visible, sheltered by clumps of old trees, with deep green foliage of sombre hue. The knight, in erecting the tower, constructed the walls of stone, cemented with lime and ox-blood, designing them to endure for ages. His strange, wayward fancy is manifest in the shape of the present struc- ture, which is considerably wider at the top than the bottom. In his days a few wolves still remained in the extensive forest of Cartmel, and these he hunted with a determination to exterminate. In one of these excursions, Harrington had ridden away from his companions, and had ascended the summit of Hum- phrey Head, in order, if possible, to regain a sight of his fellow-sportsmen. While traversing the forest on a fleet horse, he heard shrieks, and on reaching the spot from whence they proceeded, he beheld a young and lovely female, crouching in a cleft of the rock, while an enormous wolf was endeavouring to reach her ; barking loudly, and with fierce, flashing eyes. The knight succeeded in transfixing the ferocious * The great length of this interesting ballad (seventy-five verses) pre- cludes our giving it entire ; but we have preserved the more salient fea- tures of the story. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 211 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 To hunt the country side. 212 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 little feel The mirth abounding there, Yon red-cross knight, Sir John Delisle, And Adela the fair. An orphan maid was Adela, Sir Edgar's cherish'd ward, For beauty famous wide and far, And bounteous deeds adored. Though oft by neighb'ring swains besought, She ne'er had wooed but one, Now dead in foreign lands, 'twas thought, Whose name was Harrington. 'Tis whisper'd that in happier times They plighted mutual troth, And then the youth sought other climes, Beneath his father's wrath. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 213 But as he scans yon stranger knight, You hear old Hubert vow, That love-lorn wande/er 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 5 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. 2r 4 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 '11 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. 215 The shingles in its headlong course With rattling din give way ; The hazels snap ben°ath its force, The mountain savins sway. Meantime, upon her palfrey light The ladye waits beneath ; When lo ! the wild wolf bursts in sight, And bares its glistening teeth. Her eyes are closed in mortal dread, And ere a look they steal, The wolf and Arab both lie dead, And scatheless stands Delisle. Full promptly from the slaughter 1 d prey He plucks his reeking spear, And cries, " O beauteous Adela ! Behold thy true love here ! " Rememberest thou thy early vow, Thou ne'er wouldst wed but one ? He comes, I trow, to claim it now, Thine own John Harrington. " Though many a day hath pass'd away Since those bright times we knew, This heart, though not so light and gay, Is still as warm and true. " Oh lovely star of auld lang syne ! That long hast ruled its core, This day at last hath made thee mine, To part, I ween, no more." 216 MODERN SONGS AND " Now, by my troth," Sir Edgar cried, u 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. 217 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, It seems not like her own / 218 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. 219 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 ; 220 MODERN SONGS AND And few they see near the gibbet tree, For a bleeding form glides on, From the haunted stream, in the moon's cold beam On the eve of good Saint John ! 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 ! v thought the knight, as he view'd her with pride, " The game should be love when my Arab I ride." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 221 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, plumed 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 Assheton line, Was she who came forth like a Dian divine ; And often the knight and the damsel, of late, Had met at the hunting, through love or through fate ; And now she bade welcome with maidenly pride — The knight waved his hand and rode on by her side ; But ere the old woodlands of Bowlee were cross'd, Both knight and fair maid to the hunters were lost. For there, while 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 ; 222 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 '11 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 Middleton church testifies. The name should be Harbord. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 223 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 tune ? And why was the church path with flowers bestrewn ? And who was that marble-pale beauty that moved As nothing she hoped for, and nothing she loved — Who gave her white hand, but 'twas clammy and cold ? Who sigh'd when she look'd on her ring of bright gold ? O Mary ! lost Mary ! where now is thy vow, " In life and in death I '11 be faithful as thou ? " PART THIRD. In a ruinous cottage, at Cambeshire 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. 224 MODERN SONGS AND " And who cometh here ?" said the mumbling old crone, " And why comes a gentleman riding alone ? And why doth he wander areawt* such a night, When the moon is gone down and the stars not alight ; When those are abroad would stab a lost child, And the wind comes up muttering, fearful and wild, And the hen 'gins to crow, and the dog 'gins to mew, And my grave-fatted lamp glimmers dimly and blue ? "When the dog 'gins to mew, and the cat 'gins to bark, And yon musty old skull snaps its teeth in the dark, And the toad and the urchin crawl in from the moor, And the frightful black adder creeps under the door, And the hapless self-murder'd, that died in her sin, Comes haunting the house with her dolorous din, And stands in the nook like an image of clay, With the sad look she 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, climb the wild mountain, or toil on the plain, Or be outcast on land, or be wreck'd on the main , * Areawt — out of doors — abroad. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 225 Or seek the red battle, and dare the death-wound, Or mine after treasure a mfe 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. Q 226 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'd wander' 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. 227 as is supposed, his attentions were not quite agreeable to the proud old baronet. Some stones 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 BulPs-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 hail of her fathers, and the ancient portion of it was levelled with the ground. It was one of the finest old relics of the sort in the county ; buiit of frame-work and plaster ; with pannels, carvings, and massy black beams, strong 223 MODERN SONGS AND enough for a mill floor. The yard was entered through a low wicket, at a ponderous gate ; the inte- rior was laid with small diamond-shaped flags ; a door on the left led into a large and lofty hall, hung round with matchlocks, steel caps, swords, targets, and hunt- ing-weapons, intermixed with trophies of the battle- field and the chase. But all disappeared before the spirit of vandalism which commanded the annihilation of that most interesting relic of an ancient line. With respect to the other personages and accessories in the story, it may be mentioned that "the withered crone" was in being in the author's days. " Owd Mai o' Cambeshur" was a name of terror to the children, and of questionable import to their elders. The "ruinous cottage" at Cambeshire has fared better than the bride's chamber at the lordly hall. It has been improved, and is now inhabited by the family of a weaver. The place is at Cambeshire, on the top of Bowlee, in the township of Heaton. Sometimes it is called " Katty Green." " The old woodlands of Bow- lee" have long since disappeared before the axe ; and all the best timber of the two townships of Middleton and 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. 229 A LEGEND OF THE HEART. By John Bolton Rogerson. The lights have vanish' d one by one, Till every taper's blaze hath gone ; The moonbeams through each casement creep, And all seems hush'd in death-like sleep. Young Imma lists with anxious ear, But not a single sound can hear ; She leaves the chamber of her rest And couch of snowy white unpress'd. With silent footsteps steals the maid, And starteth oft, as though afraid The beatings of her heart are heard, That flutters like a captive bird. With cautious step she treads each stair, Her light foot dwells a moment there ; Around a hurried glance is thrown, And then again she glideth on. Now she hath pass'd the winding stairs, And with a quicker pace repairs Along the wide and high-roof d hall, Till she hath gain'd the outer wall. The pale moon shines on dark-green tree, The low wind sighs its minstrelsy, And, shaken from the shrub and flower, The bright dew falls in silver shower. 230 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 rcadeth answers in her eyes. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 231 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 fled. 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. 232 MODERN SONGS AND THE CARRION CROW* By William Harrison Ainsworth. The carrion crow is a sexton bold, He raketh the dead from out of the mould ; He delveth the ground like a miser old, Stealthily hiding his store of gold. Caw ! caw! The carrion crow hath a coat of black, Silky and sleek, like a priest's, to his back ; Like a lawyer he grubbeth — no matter what way — The fouler the offal, the richer his prey. Caw ! caw ! the carrion crow ! Dig! dig! in the ground below ! The carrion crow hath a dainty maw, With savoury pickings he crammeth his craw ; Kept meat from the gibbet it pleaseth his whim, It never can hang too long for him ! Caw ! caw I The carrion crow smelleth powder, 'tis said, Like a soldier escheweth the taste of cold lead ; No jester or mime hath more marvellous wit, For wherever he lighteth he maketh a hit ! Caw ! caw ! the carrion crow ! Dig! dig! in the ground below ! * This song has been set to music by Mr F. Romer. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 233 BALLAD. By Charles Swain. Why leave you thus your father's hali, 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, But oh ! 'twas a tear of bliss ! 234 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 glittering bugle horn. He rode o'er hill, he rode o'er dale, He rode o'er barren moor, And sprung o'er crags where horse and hound Had never been before. The 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. 235 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 see ; * The supposed malignant influence of the mandrake is frequently al- luded to by our elder dramatists ; and with one of the greatest of them, Webster, (as might be expected from a muse revelling like a ghoul in graves and sepulchres,) the plant is an especial favourite. But none has plunged so deeply into the subject as Sir Thomas Browne, who tears up the fable root and branch. Concerning the danger arising from 236 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 that pull it up, that sonic evil fate pursues them, and that they live not very long thereafter." — Vulgar Errors, book ii., chap. vi. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 237 I know not ; yet if from the earth 'tis rent, Shrieks and groans from the root are sent ; Shrieks and groans, and a rweat 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 Mandragora ! Euthanasy ! THE HUNTER'S SONG. (A ballad supposed to have been written about thb BEGINNING OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.) By the late Rev. Richard Parkinson, D.D. With staff in hand, the hunter stood On Radholme's dewy lawn ; And still he watch'd in anxious mood, The first faint streaks of dawn. Faintly on Pendle's height they play'd, The thrush began to sing, The doe forsook the hazel shade, The heron left his spring. 238 MODERN SONGS AND He turn'd him east — the Ribble there In waves of silver roll'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 Bovvland 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. 239 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 welhf 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 J tassell'd horn, She shuns the bold Buccleugh.§ Old Rose 1 1 may rule by word and sigh, By magic art and spell ; But what are all her charms to thine, Sweet Anna of the dell ? " * Now corruptly called Fairoak. t The White WelL % Parker, of Browsholme. § Chief Forester. II A noted witch of the time. 240 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. 24 , 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 ! " 242 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, " my old Sylvans, ye 're bare ; But my minister Snow shall find robes for your wear ! " By the convent sped he — by the lone, ruin'd fane, Where the castle frown'd wild o'er its rocky domain ; And the warder grew pallid, and shook as in fear, As the monarch swept by, with his icicle spear ! Whilst his herald, the Blast, breathed defiance below, And hurrah'd for King Frost and his Palace of Snow! CLAYTON HALL. By Elijah Ridings. Clayton Hall is an old moated edifice, in the town- ship of Droylsden, once the residence of the baronial Byrons, and afterwards a favourite home of Humphrey Chetham. It is a quaint, half-timbered house, with bell-turret and bell, and in the olden time was duly provided, like most old halls of Lancashire, with its ghost, which was so regular in its visitations that it gave rise to the proverbial saying, " Here aw come agen, loike 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. 243 With pick and spade on shoulder laid, With rustic smockfrock gray, With hardy face ana homely grace, To work he hies away. Hath sentinel of old Cromwell E'er watch'd thine ancient hall ? Thine olden bower hath seen the hour Of royal Charles's fall ; O'er thy threshhold hath warrior bold E'er pass'd with manly tread ? 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 feather'd throngs, Whose varied wonders fall In all their powers o'er my lone hours, O ancient Clayton Hall ! 244 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. While 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. * Humphrey Chetham, Esq., founder of the Hospital, School, and Library in Manchester which bear his name. He resided at Clayton Hall, about three miles east of Manchester, and closed his useful life there in 1653. 245 BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. Fast as he speeds, his child appears Still distant as it was before ; At length, with bursting, grateful tears, He sees his young wife at the door. She takes the sweet child by the hand. She kisses him with loving joy ; The gazer deems in all the land There 's no such other wife or boy. She lifts him fondly to her cheek, Then leaves the narrow wicket gate ; The Wanderer thinks he will not speak, But gaze and wait — if love can wait. But from that gate, to open view, Come never more those feet so light ; There grew no covert, that he knew, Whose leaves might hide them from his sight, A sudden terror fills his veins, And chills the rapture in his eyes ; With eager spring the gate he gains, And calls, but not a voice replies. The door, it does not stand ajar, The casement, too, is closed and dark ; Across the path is thrown a bar, And all wears Desolation's mark. He shrieks in fear each name so dear — The garden plot is waste and wild ; O God ! why doth his wife not hear ? O Love ! why cometh not his child ? 246 MODERN SONGS AND He strains to catch the slightest trace Of form or raiment ; nought is seen, As with a wild and spectral face, The gray boughs groan and intervene. The leaves bend trembling to their root, The frail grass mutters to the flower ; With ghost-like wing the long rays shoot, While tolls the bell the vesper hour. He turns, bewilder'd at the sound — Again his wife, his child, appear ; They move across the churchyard ground, And beckon the pale Wanderer near. A few more steps and he may hold The twain within his trembling arms ; Why seems his sinking heart so cold ? What chokes him with those dread alarms ? Pale, in the dreary moonlight, gleams Each mound and monumental stone ; He stands distraught, as one that dreams — Was he again alone — alone ? Alone — they've pass'd, yet nothing stirr'd ! 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. 247 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. u For this," he cried, " for this was won My way through tempests — this to bear ; Still, still, O Cxod ! Thy wili 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. AGAINST tenfold his numbers on Agincourt's plain, The gallant King Henry the fight must maintain ; No knight like young Harry had England e'er knov/n, A pillar of fire to his army he shone ; His troops throng'd around him, they darken'd the field, And the Billmen of Bowland swore never to yield. 248 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 Bowland were best of the bold. There Yorkshire and Durham did courage evince, And the men of old Monmouth defended their prince ; The archers of Nottingham bent the long bow, And their arrows were dyed in the blood of the foe ; But with axes uplifted, that gleam'd in the light, The Billmen of Bowland were first in the fight. From the banks of Sabrina they rush'd to the plain, And Devon's proud heroes were found midst the slain ; And the children of Cornwall, as rude as their soil, Exultingly shared in the glory and spoil ; But the Billmen of Bowland, old Lancashire's pride, Stood firm as the hills, and the foemen defied. Resistance was vain ; neither falchion nor mail, Nor helmet, nor shield-cover'd arm could avail ; When our foresters struck, death 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. 249 BLACK BESS. By William Harrison Ainsworih.* 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 eyebalbglows 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 undisfigured by one lock of white ; That throat branch'd with veins, prompt to charge or caress ; Now is she not beautiful ? bonny Black Bess ! Over highway and byway, in rough and smooth weather, Some thousands of miles have we journey'd together ; * Set to music by Mr F. Romer. 250 MODERN SONGS AND Our couch the same straw, and our meal the same mess, No couple more constant than I and Black Bass ! 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 Ainsvvorth,) 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. 251 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 alfoiir ! — 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 ! For the sportsman unborn shall the memory bless Of the horse of the highwayman— bonny Black Bess ! 252 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. 253 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. 254 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 — and walk ! The story was told to a traveller bold, At an inn near the moor, by the host ; He appeals to each guest, and its truth they attest, But the traveller laughs at the ghost. " Now to show you," quoth he, "how afraid I must be, A rump and a dozen I '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 my mind an additional zest." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 255 Now midnight had toll'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 ?" " 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 stirr d, but no more the man heard — To his heels on the instant he took. 256 MODERN SONGS AND Over moorland he dash'd, and through quagmire he 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'e'tait un lieu de'sert, qu'une lande bornait, Ou le frisson vous serre, oil l'effroi vous opprime. La, sous le haut gibet, a bout de tours savanes, Tous les temps que Dieu fait le larron les essuie ; Le meurtrier Grindrod oscille a tous les vents, De'vore' du soleil, ou crible' par la pluie." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 257 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, recevra ma visite." THE YOUNG CID. (FROM "ANCIENT 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. s 258 MODERN SONGS AND His eyes were fix'd upon the floor In melancholy mood ; He could not sleep by night, he took No pleasure in his food ; He 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. 259 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, 1 'd tear the caitiff limb from limb, And quickly set me free." 26o 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 fiesh'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. 261 They 'd wander through the wooded glen, Or climb the mountain high, They'd cross the stabble 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 he saw his master bleed, The faithful dog, he cried ; He lick'd the wounds with tender care) Then by his side he lay, To keep his master's body warm On that October day. 'Twas very sad, for on that night, At dusk, John did agree To meet the miller's daughter Jane Beneath the chestnut tree. 262 MODERN SONGS AND She went and waited, but, alas ! She waited all in vain ; And tears were falling down her cheeks, As home she walk'd again. The wound was fatal, and poor John, He never 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, whoafter- wards became his queen. This king was assassinated at Perth in 1437. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 263 The moon sinking westerly, The stars from the zenith beaming, Silver'd each turre; 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 the richest charm of song. * Henry IV. of England. 264 MODERN SONGS AND Often his sweet lay pouring Through the twilight's stilly haze, Men thought to be angels adoring Their God in anthems of praise. And ever his pleasant fancies Dwelt on his promised queen, With blue eyes and passionate glances, And hair of a golden sheen. In visions of night and day, A glorious future gathers, Where he wields with princely sway The sceptred might of his fathers. And now Love's gentle hand Hath freed the fetters that bound him ; He is king in his own wild land, With its mountains and heather around him. With love ever true and tender, Never was monarch so blest ; It was sweet from state's thorny splendour To repose on his fond queen's breast. When he fell from the cruel wounds Of Graham, traitor disloyal ! In the convent's holy bounds, By Perth's proud city royal, — Thrice did the dagger pierce her ; Faster the fond queen clung To shield her lover, fiercer Than lioness shields her young. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 265 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 Getitlemaiis Magazine for June 1825, (page 4.89,) is a letter from a correspondent, signing G. H., accompanied by what he calls " An old song on the death of Radcliffe, Earl of Derwentwater, who was be- headed as a traitor on Tower Hill, February 24, 17 16. It was one of the most popular in its day in the north of England, for a long period after the event which it records had taken place. I took it down (says this correspondent) from the dictation of an old person, who had learned it from her father. In its oral descent from generation to generation, it had got a little cor- rupted. But a poetical friend of mine has assisted me in restoring it to something like poetical propriety. My dictator could not go further than the seventeenth verse, and supposed it ended there ; but it seemed de- fective. The last four verses are now added to give a finish. There is a pathetic simplicity in the song at 266 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 second, more alarming 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. 267 " 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. 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 ?" 268 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 the 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. 269 The Derwent's far-famed lake alone Its noble name retains ; And of the title, thence extinct, Sole monument remains. 1!. Eotje £>ong;0 ano prafcietf of tlje jfafr- 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. 271 LOVE'S EVIL CHOICE. Dr Whittaker, in his Whalley, speaking of the Ha- bergham 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 ^7000 being offered for this very estate ; and the coal-mine alone now bears a rent of £300 Mrs Fleetwood Habergham, [of Habergham, near Padi- ham,] undone by the extravagance, and disgraced by the vices of her husband, soothed her sorrows by some stanzas, yet in remembrance among the old people of the neighbourhood, in which the allusions to the triumphs of her early days and the successive offers she had rejected, under the emblem of flowers, are simple and not inelegant." Mrs Habergham died in 703, and was buried at Padiham. Dr Whittaker prints only part of this song, which has also been pub- lished in broadsides ; sung in the musical piece of " The Loan of a Lover;'" and copied into Bell's "An- cient Ballads, Songs, &c, of the Peasantry of Eng- land." The following is the version in the broad- sides : — 272 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 ! But 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. 273 My garden is run wild ! — where shall I plant anew ? For my bed, that once was cover 1 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 SPRIG OF THYME. (from a broadside in the greaves collection.) This is a song of the same character as " Love's Evil Choice." We copy it from a broadside in the Collection of Ballads made by the late John Greaves, Esq. of Irlam Hall. It will be seen that the last stanza but one is very similar to the first stanza of the frag- ment printed by Dr Whittaker. 274 MODERN SONGS AND You virgins far and near, That are just in your prime, I 'd have you keep your gardens clear, Let no one steal your thyme. Once I had a sprig of thyme, And it flourish'd night and day, Until there came a false young man, And he stole my thyme away. But now my thyme 's all gone, No more I can it see ; The man who stole my thyme away, He did prove false to me. Since now my thyme 's all gone, And I can plant no new, In the very place where grew my thyme, It's overrun with rue. Rue, rue, runs over all ; But so it shall not seem, For I '11 plant again in the same place, And call it the willow green. Willow, willow, I must wear, Willow, willow, is my doom, Since my false love 's forsaken me, And left me here to moan. A gardener standing by, Three flowers he offer'd me, The lily, pink, and red rose-bud, But I refused all three. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 275 The pink it is a flower that 's sweet, So is the rose in June ; The lily is the virgin flower, Alas ! oft cropp'd too soon. COLIN AND PHEBE. A PASTORAL. By John Byrom, MA., F.R.S. This pastoral song was written while its author was a student at Trinity College, Cambridge. It was first printed in 17 14 as No. 603 of the Spectator. The lady in whose praise it was written was Joanna, the youngest daughter of the celebrated Dr Bentley, Master of Trinity College. She was married to Dr Dennison Cumberland, Bishop of Clonfert, Ireland, and was mother of Richard Cumberland the dramatist. John Byrom was born at Manchester in 1691, and died September 28, 1 763. 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 276 MODERN SONGS AND With such a companion to tend a few sheep, To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep, So good-humour'd made me, so cheerful and gay, My heart was as light as a feather all day. But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, So strangely uneasy as never was known. My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd ; And my heart, I am sure, weighs more than a pound. The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phebe was there, 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear. But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And still as it murmurs do nothing but chide ; '• Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain ? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me com- plain." When round me my lambkins would oftentimes play, And Phebe and I were as joyful as they, How pleasant their sporting, how happy the time When spring, love, and beauty were all in their prime ! But now in their frolics, when by me they pass, I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass ; " Be still !" then I cry, " for it makes me quite mad To see you so merry while I am so sad." My dog I was ever well 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. 277 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, since she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone ; Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gave everything else its agreeable sound. Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue ? And where is the violet's beautiful blue ? Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile ? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile ? Ah ! rivals, I see what it was, that you drest And made yourselves fine for — a place in her breast ; You put on your colours to please her fine eye, To be pluck'd by her hand, on her bosom to die. 278 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. 279 SONGS. By William Rowlinson of Manchester. THIS rhymester was for some time a clerk in the employ of Messrs Cardwell & Co., in their cotton warehouse, Newmarket Buildings, Manchester, which employment he left about the end of 1828, and became a travelling canvasser for Pigot & Co.'s Manchester Directories. He was drowned while bathing in the river Thames, near Great Marlow, Bucks, on the 22d June 1829. He wrote " The Autobiography of William Charles Lovell," (himself,) and many poetical pieces in the local periodicals of the time, of Manchester, Liver- pool, Whitby, &c. We select four of his songs from what he called the " Lyrics of the Heart." THE MOON IS BRIGHT. AlR — " Row gently here, my Gondolier* The moon is bright, the soft starlight Has gemm'd the silver stream ; The silent flight of stars to-night, How beautiful they seem ; — And all around is flung a power To charm the silent heart ; The moon, stars, stream, dew, leaf, and flower, Proclaim how dear thou art. 280 MODERN SONGS AND The stream glides on, the moonlight's gene, 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. 2 8i I will love her whilst her mind Is pure and holy, good, refined, Whilst such lovely glances fly From the heaven of her eye ; Or pure feeling's ardent glow Shines upon her open brow ; I should not be won unless Her virtues match'd her loveliness. On my heart a seal is set, And on it graven — Margaret. REMEMBER ME. REMEMBER me ! remember me, when in the sapphire heaven The stars have glanced, like ladies' eyes, upon the dews of even ; And glistening on each silver flower the dew has hung a gem, Which dazzles like the diamonds in a kingly diadem. Remember me ! remember me, when in the western sky Sunset has woven, of bright clouds, a crimson canopy, And all her thousand golden hues sleep on the ocean's breast, As slow and calm he sinks to sleep, like a monarch to his rest. 282 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. 2 s 3 Oh, come when the night-dews glisten, And the star-beams glide on the sea, And look from their thrones to listen The wave rolling joyous and free ; When on her rich couch beauty slumbers, Within her loveliest bower, And music's wild thrilling numbers Float over each silvery flower. Oh, come with thy beauty glowing, Thy bright dazzling eyes of blue, Thy radiant locks wildly flowing, Round a neck of the purest hue ; With the noiseless foot of a fairy, Thine eyes sparkling wild with glee, And thy form so light and airy, I pray thee, love, come to me. KITTY AN' ROBIN. song in the east lancashire dialect. By the Author of " Scarsdale." " WHEAR hast teh been roaming, Kitty ? " " Oi'n nobbut been to th' well." " Whear didst get yon posy, Kitty ?" " Oi'n met wi' Robin Bell ; He wur sittin' top o' th' stele, Reet i' th' setting sun ; The dazzlin' glare it made me reel, Oi dropt my pail, an' run." 2S4 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 weel. He says he 's addled fifty pund, An' bowt a kist an' clock ; He's ta'en a farm wi' gradely grund, His feyther'll foind the stock." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 2 s 5 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. 286 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 novvt 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. 2 g ? Her dower is beauty, truth, an' grace, In gifts of nature rich, There is no sorcery loike the face Of Pendle's latest witch. Who 's the witch, or Meg or Jenny ? Shall we brun owd Meg ? Or, oh ! wilt wed meh, Jenny ? Meet wi' bowder face her charm ; Tell her yo' con match her art ; Smoiles an' beauty work no harm ; Nowt win boind bur heart wi' heart. The spell 'at howds a soul whoile death, Firm in danger's straitest hitch, Is troth for troth wi' honour's breath, Of Pendle's sweetest witch ! Thae 'rt the witch, moi dearest Jenny, Never brun owd Meg, For theau wilt wed meh, Jenny. OH, WELL I LOVE MY GENTLE MAID By J. B. Rogerson. Oh, well I love my gentle maid, For she is young and fair ; Her eye is as the summer sky, Like moon-clouds is her hair ; Her voice is tuneful as a bird's, Her step is light and free, And better far than all besides, She dearly loveth me. MODERN SONGS AND I chose my love from out the crowd Of beauty and of youth ; I chose her for her loveliness, I chose her for her truth ; I never cease to bless that hour, When first I chanced to see The graceful and the beauteous one Who dearly loveth me. 'Tis not amid a festive group My love doth seem most fair ; She best becomes the cheerful hearth, And well I love her there ; For, oh, 'twas in her quiet home — A maid's sweet sanctuary — That first I won her sinless heart, And knew her love for me. It may be wrong — I cannot brook That each rude eye should greet The brightness of her fawn-like glance, Her form and features sweet ; Oh, no ! I 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. 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. U 290 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 ; Nc* 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 wynder. t Finishing the weaving of a "cut," web, or piece. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 291 I 've call'd her on the darkest night, With wizard spells to bind her ; And when the stars arose in light, I 've wanderM 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 zuayve. 292 MODERN SONGS AND There is a bower on that peaceful spot, Which some fond hand hath wrought, Where the feet of the worldling enter not, Sacred to love and thought ; Full many fair flowers beside it sigh, And the myrtle around it creeps, The breeze becomes sweet as it floateth by, And the bee in its roses sleeps ; The stars alone will our secrets share, Unseen and unheard by all — Beloved one ! 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. 293 I bound my faith with Peggy Dill, Lone list'ning to the din Of the jogging of th t distant mill, 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, — 294 MODERN SONGS AND Eyes blue and bright with heaven's light, That kindle with devotion ; A cheek of rose, a heart that glows With every sweet emotion ! She's not so fair, &c. BERTHA. By Henry Kirk, of Goosnargh. Low, by Ribble's scaury side, Swept the soft, autumnal breeze ; Faint its 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. 295 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 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 weyver wur, They'd love it same's aw do. They'd nobbut wear't in better days, Then lay it nicely by ; John mixes love wi' everything, An' ma'es bread taste like pie. 2 96 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, I' 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. 297 Aw dunnot like to think o' that, An' yet it's gradely true : To be John's sweetheart o my life Aw think 'ud hardly do. TO MARY. By the Editor. A.S 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— 298 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. 299 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 I love the beaming stars, On English winter nights, Our bright coals flashing in the bars — Red lips that lips invite. 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. Linnaeus 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. 301 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 are quite still, and the winds hold their breath, Lest a leaflet disturb the hush'd quiet beneath ! I will come. I will come to thee, love, and the morrow shall find us In a world of our own, where no shackles may bind us ; I will come, love, ere yet the stars shrink from the skies, And my guerdon shall be the sweet thanks of thine eyes ! I will come— 1 will come ! 3 o2 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 live no more for me ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 303 MALLY. By R. R. Bealey. When fust aw seed thee, Mally, lass, Theaw knows 'twur near th' owd ho', I' Weshbruck-lone, tort Witches-neest, Wheere th' 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 derted quick away, While th' layruck, fairly eawt o' seet, 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. 3°4 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' when theaw'd pass'd me by Aw follow'd on, as near 's aw dar', An' heighved up monny a soigh ; BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 305 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 ; Aw seed nowt noice, not aw indeed, But purr'd aw th' stones i' th' way. A.w 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 o' me, My 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 yerd wur muffled 'uns. Just loike a berryin' bell ; Aw'd sitch a nowt and dummy feel, So numb aw conno tell. 3o6 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. 307 Aw felt as soft as buttermilk, Bo' wot wur th' wust uv o, Aw're welly lowfin' eavt mysel', They 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 o' th' winter too ; When thee an' me we met at last I' 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 yed so low. 308 MODERN SONGS AND We perted, an' aw sterted whoam, But aw'd no sleep that neet, Aw're loike a dug lost in a fair, No soide nor place wur reet. 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'll 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 hond shall stroke thy wrinkled cheek, While t' other 's held i' thoine ; BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 309 An' let us shut eawr een an' dream Uv yunger days an' spring. Nay, dunno' cry, owd iass, or else Th' brids in us winno sing. God bless thee, Mally ! good owd vvoife ! 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 'ull help thoose fleaw'rs. Aw 'm satisfied wi' th' loife we'n had, An' thankfu' for it, too, Although we'n walkt o'er roofish roads An' pood up mony a brow. We'n gone through every lond i' th' world, Booath weet an' cowd an' o ; Sometoimes beein' melted deawn wi' heat, An' sometoimes smoo'rt wi' snow. But, lookin' back, it 's plain enoof 'Twur nobbut shade an' leet, To make up th' pictur o' one's loife — It shows ut o comes reet. Bo' lift thy yed, neaw, Mally, woife, Toime 's slippin' fast away ; Let 's up, an' do that bit o' werk There 's left for th' close o' day. 3io 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. 311 I feel my dying hour is nigh, — The grave my love shall seal ; Then lay me in the grassy tomb, Where rests my Lucy Neale. Oh, my Lucy Neale ; my poor Lucy Neale ; 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 listen'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 cheek, of lily hue, Amidst the twilight falling. 312 MODERN SONGS AND She saw no star, she saw no flower, Her heart expanded to the hour ; She reck'd not of her lowly dower, Amidst the shades descending : With love thus fix'd upon a height That seem'd so beauteous to the sight, How could she think of wrong and blight, And sorrow without ending ? The hare-bell droop'd beneath the dew, And closed its eye of tender blue ; No sun could e'er its life renew, Nor star, in music calling : The autumn leaves were early shed, But earlier on her cottage bed The maiden's loving heart lay dead, Amidst the twilight falling ! 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. We praised, as only two can praise, That fear no flatteries ; Embraced, as oi.ly two embrace, Ere evil passions rise. We felt, as only two can feel, Whom equal wishes guide ; Reveal'd, what only two reveal, Who mutual trust confide. We loved, as only two can love, That know no fear or guile ; We 've proved, as only two can prove, That doubt each fear and smile. We own, with those, the vacant heart, That find their love in vain ; We part, as only two can part, That ne'er may meet again ! THE MAID OF DISS* By George Richardson. Fair maid of Diss ! with dark brown hair, That o'er a stainless bosom streams, And pensive eyes which touch the soul, And win the heart with gentle gleams ; Oh, peerless maid, though lovers false May wound thy breast with guileful kiss, Let moral worth and virtue rare Adorn thee still, sweet maid of Diss ! * Diss, a town in Norfolk. 314 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 bliss, And pure requited love be thine — For ever thine, fair maid of Diss ! Farewell, sweet maid ! 'tis fate's decree That thou must quit our much-loved shore ; Fond memory will picture still Thine image, though we meet no more ; And hope and love will fondly wake To wish thee happy years of bliss — Still happier if connubial joys Should bless thee, graceful maid of Diss ! I'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 '11 tell my mother !" BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 315 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 one kiss she forgave me, But, when I stole another, She cried out, yet not loudly, " Oh !— I '11 tell my mother 1" Mine, I said, she must be, Without more denying ; For all night I slept not, And all day was sighing ; She must answer me with " Yes I" That one word, and no other ; She only sigh'd and whisper' d, " Pray don't tell my mother !" 3 1 6 MODERN SONGS AND TH' SWEETHEART GATE. By Edwin Waugh. Air — " The Manchester Angel.'''' Oh, there 's mony a gate eawt ov eawr teawn-end- But nobbut one for me ; It winds by a rindlin' wayter side, An' o'er a posied lea : It wanders into a shady dell ; An' when aw ve done for th' day, Oh, aw never can sattle this heart o' mine, 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 wheer th' heart's content, Tho' wintry winds may blow ; An' theer 's never a gate 'at's so kind to th' fuut, As th' gate cne likes to go. When aw set off o' sweetheartin', aw 've A theawsan' things to say ; But th' very first glent o' yon chimbley-top, It drives 'em o away ; An' when aw meet wi' my bonny lass, It sets my heart a-jee ; — Oh, there's summut i' th' leet o' yon two blue een That plays the dule wi' me ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 317 When th' layrock's finish'd his wark aboon, An' laid his music by, He flutters deawn to his mate, an' stops Till dayleet stirs i' th' sky. Though Matty sends me away at dark, Aw know that hoo's reet full well; — An' it 's heaw aw love a true-hearted lass, No mortal tung can tell. Aw wish that Candlemas day were past, When wakin' time comes on ; An' aw wish that Kesmas time were here, An' Matty an' me were one. Aw wish this wanderin' wark were o'er — This maunderin' to an' fro ; That aw could go whoam to my own true love, An' stop at neet an' 0. 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 breath Hath placed its joys ! 318 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. Then learn to live, and cultivate The warmer feelings of the soul ; Fly empty follies, ere " too late " Thy reason call ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. J19 THE FAREWELL. By the Rev. Richard Parkinson, D.D. Here have I loiter' d many an hour, Beneath that oak, beside yon stream, And oft within this fragrant bower I 've shelter'd from the noontide beam ; And listen'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 thoit art, the stream will flow, The bower will bloom, the summer glow ! 320 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 at 65 Berkeley Street, Strangeways, Manchester, says, " I neither make a boast of poverty nor desire riches." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 321 MAGGIE. By Richard R. Bealey. Oh, thou bonny rose-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 ! Y 322 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 Helle ! 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. 323 But now I am far from the dear coast of Asia, Where milder suns beam on the Isle of the Free : Sweet scenes of my passion ! no more must I trace you, Or watch with Sulina thy glittering sea ! Perhaps still she there wanders, when daylight is over, And all the bright stars the blue heavens invest, — And turns from the lips of some eloquent lover, To breathe a low sigh for the son of the West ! 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. 324 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 green, 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. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 325 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, 'Twas her heart, and nothing more. Thus for weeks and months I woo'd her, And the joys that then had birth, Made an atmosphere of gladness Seem encircling all the earth. One bright morning at the altar A white bridal dress she wore ; Then my wife I proudly made her, And I ask for nothing more ! 326 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 ''■Patriotism" ©T., <5rV. 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. 327 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 ! 328 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 heavv 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. 329 Full sorely mony a lass would sigh, That chanced to wander near, An' peep into his eon, to spy Iv luv' wur lurkin' theer ; So fair an' free he stept o' 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 ; I' 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. 33° 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, I 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 Manchester rhymester, who published, some years ago, by sub- scription, a thin volume of Poems, &c, including a Drama in three acts, called, "M'Alpine; or, The Warlock Chieftain." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 331 MINONA. By Henry Kirk. AGAIN the soft season of spring Renews the sweet mantle of earth, The thrush and the wild linnet sing — The gay promise of autumn is forth. And thou wilt be roaming the wood, Where blossoms are decking the spray ; On the bank which the blue violets stud, As sweet and as peaceful as they. But the fiend of the storm may arise And blast all the beauties of spring ; The flowers now feasting thine eyes May shrink 'neath the blight of his wing. Yet there is a spring in my breast, A spot ever sunny and fair, Like the gardens prepared for the blest, And a bright flower ever blooms there. The tempests, the whirlwinds of 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 ; It cannot — it shall not, depart ! 332 MODERN SONGS AND For Hope is the sun ever beaming ; Remembrance the soil ever new ; And Love is the watcher undreaming ; The undying blossom is — You ! BUT I AM SAD. By R. 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. 333 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 oigold the brightest ; And her ruby lips below Are teeth of pearls the whitest. 334 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-homi 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. 335 POETS' 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 mineral lips he may snatch a cold kiss ! Then just think of the grief of a beautiful girl, To have soft " silken hair " that would ne'er keep in curl ; Or "bright golden ringlets" — namely, corkscrews in wire : She'd up-(5ra/^them, and cast them to melt in the fire. What fair lady, carrying the neck of a swan,f 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." 336 MODERN SONGS AND No " goddess," or " angel," or " nymph " could I love ; No compound of charms from the diamond-mine ; To woman my faith and affection I '11 prove, — To thee, dearest Mary, — for ever I 'm thine. " OH, MIRK AND STORMY." (FROM "THE WILD FLOWERS OF POETRY.")* By James Horton Groves. " Oh, mirk and stormy is the nicht ; So ope the door and let me ben ; Unto my sark I 'm dripping weet, An' a' my body 's stiffenen'. For sake o' thee, my bonnie lass, I cam' through storm o' hail an' snaw, An' ay agen for thee I'd pass A storm, to hae a kiss or twa." " I 'm sorry that ye hither cam', I daur na let ye ben, my joe ; Our auld folks are awa' frae hame ; To do so wad be sin, ye know. An' though ye cam' through snaw an' hail, To let ye ben wad be my wrang ; Nor tempt me, gif ye wish me hale ; So back again, my laddie, gang." * " The work," says the writer, "of a poor, self-taught, young man. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 337 " 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 bleezin' ingle's cheerin' warm, z 338 MODERN SONGS AND I meant na what I said, my dear ; So doff your clothes, I '11 dry them weel ; Then sit ye down in th' elbow'd chair, An' drive the cauld wi' th' gudeman's ale ' " Thy ruddy lips oh let me taste, Like simmer roses weet wi' dew ; An' o' the sweetness let me feast, Issuin' frae thy bonnie mou'. An' then the gudeman's ale I '11 try, Na hauf sae sparklin' as thine ee ; Nor in the 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 rippling brook, 'Tis there that my true love dwells ; 'Tis shaded with trees, and fann'd by the breeze, And laden with witching spells. There, there I recline 'neath the sweet woodbine, And 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 little cot, Where my true love resides ; May it contain love's rosy chain, And a fountain of pleasure-tides ! * The writer is a silk-weaver at Alkrington, near Middleton ; and author of "Th' Silk-Weaver's Fust Bearin'-home," and other lales, &c. t Play with. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 339 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 born 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 promotion of every 34° MODERN SONGS AND And by that cheek's delicious bloom, And by those lips 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 1814, 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. 34* 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 o tarry sengle for me. There's Robin a' Mill, — he's so fond of his brass, — Thinks to bargain like shoddy for me ; He may see a foo's face if he looks in his glass, An' aw 'd thank him to let me a-be, a-be, Aw 'd thank him to let me a-be. Coom a chap t'other day o i' hallidi' trim, An' he swoor he 'd goo dreawn him for me ; " Hie thi whoam furst an' doff thi," awsed, "bonny Jim ! Or thae '11 spuyl a good shute, does-ta see, does-ta see. Thae'll spuyl a good shute, does-ta see.". 342 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' "roifie 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. 343 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 '11 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 Heaw happy aw felt ; for, thae knows, One couldn't ha' axed him theirsel'. But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung, — To let it eawt wouldn't be reet, — For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung ; So aw towd him aw 'd tell him to-neet ; But, Mally, thae knows very weel, — Though it isn't a thing one should own, — If aw 'd th' pikein' o' th' world to mysel', Aw'd oather ha' Jamie or noan. 344 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.* Ml honds un mi faze ui^ quoite ceawd, Aw'm weet-shurt and weet to my skin, Wor pluff stilts they slid fro' mi grip, Bur it's neawt toart what's ailin' within. Aw care no' fo' weet nur fo' rain, Nur th' woind os it corns 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 US 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' nit mi tit's mannger un' rack. Aw shackert un' waytud till ten, Bu' Meary ne'er awst furt' com eawt ; Ut last aw gan t' whissle ut durr, When ther Sam he coom preawin' abeawt. Aw axt him iv Moll wur i' th' heawse ; " Yigh, yigh, bur hoo's noan wantin' thee, Fur a chap 'ut 's wuth plenty o' braass, Hus bin bur just neaw her furt' see. Iv o' Sunday to't chourch theaw wilt gang, Ther axins tha'll yer um coed o'er ; So tha'st no cageon ston' hanklin' theere, Fur Meary 'ull sithi no moor." Os he 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' the'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 e 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. 346 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 through 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. 347 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 ; For even should we multiply, We 'd live without division. " Thy beauty is superlative, So matchless in degree, That maids of every form and class Must all give place to thee. The finest figure of them all, If scrutinised with rigour, Would prove a cypher at thy side, And make, in fact, no figure. " Thy grace, too, is the general theme, For in thy walk is seen A style of carriage, that might be A copy for a queen ; In fact, thy charms are such that, like The ruler of the nation, Thy presence everywhere is hail'd With notes of admiration ! 348 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. £>ong# of ^ome anti ftss jaffecttong. 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 springing. * John Critchley Prince. 35o 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. 351 I envy no statesman his honours and fame ; The path of ambition is deck'd to ensnare ; The title most dear is a good honest name, And ambition may envy the man without care. It is but a cottage, a slight little place, Scarce worthy the glance of a traveller's eyes ; But, oh ! with content, and a friend's smiling face, Why, a cot is a palace that monarchs might prize. THE PLEASURES O' WHOAM. FROM " PHASES OF DISTRESS — LANCASHIRE RHYMES." By Joseph Ramsbottom. This faggin' on, this wastin' sthrife, This drudgin' wark, wi' scanty fare, This cheattin' dyeath 'at we co'n life,* Wi' ev'ry comfort dasht wi' care. To ate an' sleep, to fret an' slave, I' this breet warld o' sun an' fleawrs, — If this wur' o poor men could have, They 'd weary soon o' th' bitter heawrs. At th' eend o' th' day, mi wark o done, An' quite content, aw'm sat at whoam, Mi childher brimmin' o'er wi' fun, 'Ull singin' reawnd abeawt me come. * This cheating death that we call life. MODERN SONGS AND An' th' young'st 'ull romp up on mi knee, An' th' next between my legs 'ull get, An' th' owdest in his cheer 'ull be Hutcht close as it con weel be set. What merry laughs, what lispins then, O' wondhrous things they'n chanced to see What kissins reawnd an' reawnd agen ! It's busy wark to mind o three : What flingin' arms abeawt mi neck, What passin' fingers thro' mi yure, What neighsy fun witheawt a check, What rowlin' o'er an' o'er o' th' flure \ An' th' wife looks on wi' glist'nin' ee, An smile 'ut dhrives o care away ; Heaw preawd hoo feels, it 's plain to see, I' 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. 353 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 peep'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 seemeth strange, as if foreign the land, A place and a people I don't understand ; And as from the latter I turn me away, I think of old neighbours, now lost, well-a-day ! I think of my cottage full many a time, A nest among flowers at midsummer prime ; 2 a 354 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,t the dearest and best. But vain to regret, though we cannot subdue * A diminutive of Jemima, the Christian name of the poet's wife. t The child of a neighbour, who called the author and his wife "grondad" and "gronny." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 355 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 I 356 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 rcign'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," "Oui Turf, our Stage, and our Ring," &c. SONGS OF LANCASHIRE. 357 Why wonder that the great and good Should seek in after years The far away and sacred turf That infancy endears ; For o'er the soul emotions crowd Tumultuous as the waves ; And shades of dear departed joys " Flit shrouded from the graves." I go, loved scene, to distant strife, In air impure to pine ; And nevermore these pilgrim feet May wander to thy shrine ; Yet memory oft will haunt thy glades, Preserve them pure and free, To bless the little sinless hearts That follow after me. THE MUSIC IN OUR HOME. (from "songs of my leisure hours.") By Mrs Wm. Hobson.* 'Tis not the harp that fairy fingers Sweep, to charm us with its tone, Although its thrilling echo lingers Long and sweetly in our home. This lady is now Mrs Ft:rrand, and resides at Ashton-under-Lyne. 358 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 ! BA LLA DS OF LA NCA SHIRE. 3 59 THE OLD PLACE. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. By Henry Kirk, of Goosnargh. I 'M sitting again on the old mossy stone, And the old tree is shading the well, And the last purple beams of the sunlight are thrown On the peak and the heathery fell ; And the mists, white as snow, Wreath the valleys below, And the night-birds are flinging their wild rays around, As they sang ere my young steps departed From these calm, rural scenes, where old memories abound, Full of hope, free from fear, and light-hearted. Oh, I love these mementoes of days that are past, Still unchanged by the years as they roll ; So unlike the gay world, where my wild lot is cast, Where each day marks some loss of the soul, — Sees a cherish'd friend lost, Or a cherish'd hope cross' d. Oh ! had I but stay'd 'mid these fair scenes around, From the home of my youth never parted, I might never have wept as I view'd the old ground Half forlorn, spirit-broken, sad-hearted! 360 MODERN SONGS AND THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. By Mrs Hemans.* " Sing aloud Old songs, the precious music of the heart." WoRDSWOkTH. 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 very young, he retired with his family into Wales, and resided for some time at Gwrych, near Abergele. While here, a volume of verses by the young poetess, published in 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. 361 The songs that through our valleys green, Sent on from age to age, Like his own river'i. 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 unforgotten word, When far those loved ones roam, Call back the hearts which once it stirr'd, To childhood's holy home. five sons. For their better education, she subsequently (April 1828) fixed her residence at Wavertree, near Liverpool, and still later, (1831,) changed her abode to Dublin. She died on Saturday, the 16th May 1835. 362 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 WITH THE MUSES.") By J. C. Prince. THOUGH my lot hath been dark for these many long years, And the cold world hath brought me its trials and fears ; Though the sweet star of hope scarcely looks through the gloom, And the best of my joys have been quench'd in the tomb ; Yet why should I murmur at Heaven's decree, While the wife of my home is a solace for me ? Though I toil through the day for precarious food, With my body worn down, and my spirit subdued : Though the good things of life seldom enter my door, And my safety and shelter are far from secure ; Still, still I am rich as a poet may be, For the wife of my heart is a treasure to me. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 363 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 are, When youth's bright spell hath bound us ; But soon we 're taught that earth has nought Like Home and Friends around us ! 364 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 Of friendships 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. Linnaeus 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 Mothers breast, More calmly confiding than I do on thine ; I fly to thy arms, as a bird to its nest, For shelter and safety, dear Husband of mine ! * Formerly Miss Isabella Varley, of Manchester, Authoress of "Ivy Leaves," &c. Mrs Banks has also written a successful novel, entitled, " God's Providence House." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 365 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 ; 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. 366 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. 367 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 cometh 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 : — 368 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 ! 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. 369 THE POET TO HIS WIFE. By Williait 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 fear'd the spirit's rod Might smite me as the man was smote who touch'd the ark of God ! And back I shrunk within myself, like one who had madly striven To tread with mortal footsteps on the threshold of high heaven : 2 B 370 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. Bv 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. 37 r What hath the future 'neath those dreaming eyes ? Childhood's light joys, and babbling griefs and fears, And youth's bewildering thoughts, deep, wild, and wise, Bright flitting summer clouds that break in tears, And manhood's whirling night-mists, hurrying past ; The stormy wind, guiding to port at last. Hath Time some secret to disclose to thee, Thou with the tiny hands, that to the world Shall bring new light, making the darkness flee ? Perchance the cloak of ignorance to chaos 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 truth's gordian coil Perchance lies in those hands' allotted toil. 372 MODERN SONGS AND I would not ask that glory's clarion peal Should sound thy name loud through the wander- ing earth ; But that its accents human hearts should feel, When high was meeded honour, lauded worth ; Where'er the great and good, the pure and free Are found, — there in the shining midst, would I seek thee! " COME WHOAM TO THI CHILDER AN' ME." By Edwin Waugh. Aw've just mended th' fire wi' a cob ; Owd Swaddle has brought thi new shoon ; There 's some nice bacon collops o' th' hob, An' a quart o' ale-posset i' th' oon ; Aw've brought thi top cwot, does ta know, For th' rain 's comin' deawn very dree ; An' th' har'stone 's as white as new snow ; Come whoam to thi childer an' me. When aw put little Sally to bed, Hoo cried, 'cose her feyther weren't theer, So aw kiss'd th' little thing, an' aw said Thae 'd bring her a ribbin fro' th' fair ; An' aw gav' her her doll, an' some rags, An' a nice little white cotton bo' ; An' aw kiss'd her again ; but hoo said 'At hoo wanted to kiss thee an' o. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 373 An' Dick, too, aw'd sich wark wi' him, Afore aw could get him up-stairs ; Thae towd him thae 'd bring him a drum, He said, when he 're sayin' his prayers ; Then he look'd i' my faze, an he said, " Has th' boggarts taen houd o' my dad?" An' he cried whol his een were quite red ; — He likes thee some weel, does yon lad! At th' lung-length aw geet him laid still ; An' aw hearken't folks' feet 'at went by ; So aw iron't o my clooas reet weel, An' aw hang'd 'em o' th' maiden to dry ; When aw'd mended thi stockin's an' shirts, Aw sit deawn to knit i' my cheer, An' aw rayley did feel rayther hurt, — Mon, aw 'm otiely 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 feel 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 wheerever aw roam, Aw 'm fain to get back to th' owd greawnd ; 374 MODERN SONGS AND Aw can do wi' a crack o'er a glass ; Aw can do wi' a bit ov a spree ; But aw've no gradely comfort, my lass, Except wi yon childer an' thee." THE STAR OF THE HOUSEHOLD. By John Critchley Prince. An angel in the house ? Ah, yes ! 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. 375 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 foolish pride. One who can check, with saint-like power, Wild thoughts that spring to dangerous birth, And wake pure feelings, as the shower Of spring awakes the earth ; Bring forth the latent virtues shrined Within the compass of the breast, And to the weak and tortured mind Give confidence and rest. Good neighbour — not to envy prone ; True wife, in luxury or need ; Fond mother, not unwisely shown ; Blameless in thought and deed : Whoever claims so rare a wife, Thus should his earnest words be given — " She is the angel of my life, And makes my home a heaven ! " 376 MODERN SONGS AND "'TIS SWEET TO MEET THE FRIEND WE LOVE." By George Richardson. 'TlS 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 1 d maze — To love and live endear'd to mine, And pass in peacefulness my days ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 377 WELCOME, BONNY BRID 1 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 beawn to beigh another spoon — One for thee ; An' as tha's sich a pratty face, Aw '11 let thee have eawr Charley's place On mi knee. God bless thee, love, aw'm fain tha'rt come, Just try an' mak thisel awhoam : What ar 't co'd ? Tha 'rt loike thi mother to a tee, But tha's thi feyther's nose, aw see, Well, aw 'm blow'd ! 378 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. BALLADS OF LA NCA SHIRE. 3 79 Thi feyther 's noan bin wed so long, An' yet tha sees he 's middlin' throng Wi' yo' o : Besides thi little brother, Ted, We 'n one up-steers, asleep i' bed Wi' eawr Joe. But though we 'n childer two or three, We '11 mak' a bit o' reawm for thee — Bless thee, lad ! Tha 'rt th' prattiest brid we han i' th' nest ; Come, hutch up closer to mi breast — Aw 'm thi dad. THE LOST BROTHER. By William Mort. Mother, look forth on yon beautiful cloud, That sails o'er the bright blue sky, And flings to the winds its misty shroud As it maketh its course on high ; And 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 not thy brother, my love ! Look, mother, look at yon twinkling star, That glows like a light on the sea, And seemeth as though from its palace afar It were steadfastly gazing on me. 38o MODERN SONGS AND Is not that my brother who fled away From his home like a wild stock-dove, And left me all alone to play ? — That is not thy brother, my love ! List, mother, list to the soft low tone That comes on the evening breeze, Like the musical sounds some night-birds moan As it steals through the old elm-trees ; Is not that the voice of my brother, who's telling The joys of his home above — Where the throat of archangel with rapture is swelling ? — That is not thy brother, my love ! The clouds that flit o'er the sky so bright, Soon, soon have pass'd away ; And the star that cheereth the gloom of night Is gone ere the break of day. But thy brother — oh think not, my love, that he Doth change like the things of air ! The heaven of heavens no eye can see — > Thy brother, thy brother is there I BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 381 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 dear. 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 cheek would fall affection's holy tear, — Young mothers, rock, young mothers, rock, oh, rock your children dear. It is the heart-awakening time, when breezes rock the rose, Which drooping folds its vernal leaves in nature's soft repose ; 382 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. 383 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 1 death for me on that bright brow ? How I have kiss'd that calm and icy cheek, For all it wears a cold, repellant guise ! Thy nature was so loving and so meek, I seek in vain some message from those eyes. Why art thou here at mid-day, hush'd and still, With the light closed on thee ? Thy words do thrill Through the long passages, as last they fell, And thou art lying here. Is this Farewell? Why do we stand around thy silent bed Unwelcomed and unheeded ? Thou art dead ! 384 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. 385 Upon the mirror of his mind arise ? Will the dark gloss of that luxuriant hair Bring back the gentle face, so kind and fair ? Smiling upon him in his childish glee, Blending thy image with his infancy. The grave hath won thee, let it well take care ; Thou art but lent unto its keeping, like a gem Too precious for the world to fret and wear, Befitting rather Heaven's diadem. Take thy calm rest, beyond all earthly guile, Deepening upon thy face that moonlight smile. Ah ! thou hast pass'd the gates ; we drooping stand, Watching the vistas of the spirit-land ; And thou canst aid us not, canst give no signs To her who loved thee, and who wrote these lines. EAWR BESSY. (from "after -business jottings.") By Richard R. Bealey. Eawr Bessy's gone to th' Sunday schoo', What does t'a think o' that ? Hoo wesh'd her face, and comm'd her yure, An' donn'd her Sunday hat ; An' then hoo said, 'twur toime to goo — Aw couldn't get her t' stay ; Hoo said hoo wish'd 'ut Sunday schoo' Wur comin' every day. 2 c 386 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 V be eawt o' heaven lung ; An' mony a toime at neet aw 've dreamt 'Ut hoo wur ta'en away Bi th' angels, an' aw 've wakken'd up, An' fretted o that day. Aw couldno' help it, 'twur no use Heawever aw met try ; An' every neaw an' then hoo'd ax What made her mammy cry ; An' then hoo'd kiss me, th' little thing, An' sattle on my knee, An' cuddle me, an' ax me t' sing, Or else hoo'd sing for me. An' so hoo dried up th' sheawers o' rain, An' melted th' frost an' snow, An' brought back summer toime again, An' made th' sweet fleawers to grow ; BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 387 Aw wur so happy at thoose toimes, My heart were full o' glee, We 'd such a lot o' happiness, Had little Bess an' me. Aw recollect, one afternoon, When hoo wur sittin' still, An' readin' in hur little book, Bu' favvor'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 understond, Her face, it seem'd to me, Wur loike a tune upon a harp — A moulded melody. 388 MODERN SONGS AND An' as hoo sat, an' as hoo look'd, Aw winnot try to tell, Heaw happy an' heaw fear'd aw wur, Nor heaw my breast did swell. Aw couldn't tell it if aw would, But if aw could, thae sees, Aw 'd rayther keep it to mysel', For thee it metna please. Well, as aw stood a-lookin' so, An' watchin' her on th' sly, Aw seed a tear fo on her book, An' loike a diamond lie. An' then hoo sobb'd as if her heart Wur gooin' t' brast i' two, An' th' tears 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 seet As e'er a mortal seed ; An' of a bonnier, why aw'm sure, 'Ut th' angels ha' no need. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 389 Aw did thank God he 'd g'en me th' lass, An' couldna' help bu' pray, 'Ut if it wur His blessed will, He 'd let her wi' me stay. But here hoo comes, God bless her heart, Hoo's bin to th' Sunday schoo', An' looks as breet as summer-toime, An' beawt a shadow, too. Hoo 's getten summat in her yed To tell me, aw con see ; An' hoo '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' eawr Bill ; And bless eawr Sally too ;" An' then hoo '11 goo to bed an' sleep, As nobbut good folk do. Aw 've lots o' trouble day by day, A bit aboon my share ; Bu' little Bessy seems to say, " Yo'n joy as weel as care." An' so I have, I know it weel, An' if I met but choose, Aw 'd stond another load o' care If Bess aw shouldna' lose. 39° 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 tak' her fro' me yet— He sees we 're lovin' so. THE CHILD AND THE DEWDROPS. IN MEMORY OF A LOST SON. (FROM " AUTUMN LEAVES.") By J. C. Prince. w O DEAREST mother ! tell me, pray, Why are the dewdrops gone so soon ? Could they not stay till close of day, To sparkle on the flowery spray, Or on the fields till noon ?" The mother gazed upon her boy, Earnest with thought beyond his years, And felt a sharp and sad annoy, That meddled with her deepest joy ; But she restrain'd her tears. u 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. 391 " Behold yon rainbow, brightening yet, To which all mingled hues are given ! These are thy dewdmps, 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. 392 MODERN SONGS AND EDITH. (from "after-business jottings.") By R. R. Bealey. Two years old, and so bonny and fair, With thy light blue eyes and flaxen hair, With thy laughing face and chattering tongue, Thy warm embrace and affection strong ; Thou art indeed as lovely a child As ever the heart from itself beguiled. Two years old, like a bud just blown, Showing the colour and shade alone ; But if, even now, such beauty we see, What may we hope the full flower to be ? A gem from the hand of the Florist Divine, In which both the rose and the lily combine. Oh that thy future may never destroy That bright merry laugh and innocent joy ! But, pure as the lily, and sweet as the rose, May thy heart be still fresher as life nears its close. And at last, when thy summons to leave this earth is given, May angels transport thee to bloom on in heaven. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 393 MOI OWD MON. SONG IN THE EAST LANCASHIRE DIALECT. By the Author of " Scarsdale." The storm that ma'es eawr chimley reek, Is wild on Derpley Moo-ur ; The gusts that on the casement breek, Flood o the kitchen floo-ur. Eawr Reuben rode to Brough yestreen, An' o'er yon moors the wynt is keen ; Fro' Shap it roars to Bowland Fell, An' deawn the Whaarfe fro' Kettlewell. He moight deawn t' Lune an' Ribble roide, An' so miss hafe the blast ; Nur whoile he reyched the Calder soide, When Derpley mun be past. He'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 childer's wed, We 're aged, an' wait Thoi will ; Sin' we were bairns together bred, We'n lived through well an' ill. And if the Lord would grant moi prayer, He would this neet moi owd mon spare ; That oi moight cloas his eyes mysel', And then lig deawn and wi' him dwell. 394 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 I question'd thee in earnest Of thy life in days of yore, As I may not ask thee more. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 395 Yet I cannot think thee absent, But as near me as before ; Or at most, that thcu hast shifted To the other side the door — Lost to sight, and nothing more. May I not in spirit meet thee, When the night is coming o'er ? May I not in shadows greet thee, While the breezes softly pour Tones of thine from yonder shore ? May I not in dreamland see thee Smiling as in days of yore ? Only fairer, and more lovely ; And although I mayn't adore, I still will love thee more and more. Yes ! for death is not a parting, Only darkness coming o'er ; Soon our eyes shall all be 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. 396 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, Once more I 'd commune with thee ere I yield me to the blow ; Long, long we've lived together since thy maiden heart I won — Come hither, I would speak with thee ere yet my course is run ! Oh, well hast thou perform'd the vows upon the altar made, And kindly tended me when God afflictions on me laid ; Ay, truly hast thou cherish'd me, my own, my faith- ful wife — Come hither, I would speak with thee ere yet I part with life ! My sons, too, and my darling girl — my Kate — oh, bring them all, And let me gaze upon you till in death's cold arms I fall ;— My little ones ! nay, do not mourn — I leave your mother here ; And God who cheers the widow's heart will dry the orphan's tear ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 397 My son, my oldest one, approach, — to thee my charge is great, For thou alone of all my fl ock hast wrought to man's estate ; Oh, look thou on my children with a brother's watch- ful eye, And lead them up in holiness — oh, promise, ere I die ! Thy sister, too — remember, son, thou art her father now ; Protect her, that no bitter thought may cloud her maiden brow ; Guard thou her name with jealousy — each sorrow strive to quell — Cling to her with a brother's love — oh, shield thy sister well! But most, oh, most, my son, support thy 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 grave am laid! 398 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-shaped 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' seech'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. 399 A. rare foine owd fellow mi gronfeyther wur, Wi' a regular big Roman nose ; An' though nearly eighty, he look'd strong an' hale, An' his cheeks wur'n as red as a rose. There wur nowt abeawt him 'at wur shabby or mean ; An' he wur no' beawt brains in his skull : He wur alius 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 seawer. Mi gronfeyther — bless him — reet doated o' me — He'd tell me aw geet a foine lad ; An' mony a toime say, when aw'rn sit on his knee, " Eh, bless thee ; tha favvers thi dad ! " 4 oo 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. ^ Sweet are the spice-trees of the East ; The banyans give perpetual feast ; But the sweetest of all trees to me, Is the fragrant, home-deck'd Christmas tree ! Then let who will through forests rove, Or wander 'mid some orange grove ; The acacia love, or the linden-tree — The evergreen Christmas tree for me ! In parents' love it hath its root — And what other tree e'er bore such fruit ? Since first I knelt by a mother's knee, I have ever loved the Christmas tree ! It blooms not in Summer, like fickle friends. But a charm to hoary Winter it lends ; It blossoms best 'neath the old roof-tree : Each child delights in that love-fruit tree ! Its boughs a wondrous burden bear; Its varied blossoms are rich and rare ; Oh, a glorious sight for children to 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 ! 2 D 402 MODERN SONGS AND " GOD BLESS THESE POOR WIMMEN THAT'S CHILDER!" By Thomas Brierley. God bless these poor wimmen that 's childer ! 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's dealing o th' childer a fist full, Un' plenty on table t' put by. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 403 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 'um, 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. 404 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 HEEN, 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. 405 " Aw connut read to-neet, Robin, Aw connut read to-neet ; Thir's a feaw un fearful seet, Robin, Comes atwixt mi un' the leet — It's the seet o' th' childer starvin', Un' the beds thi sleep on gwon, Fur yon chap, to th' latest farthin' He '11 sell up stick un' stwon. " Oh ! it 's weel mi heart mey break, Robin ! 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-cheer, 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." 406 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 I' yon spot wheer wi mun lay; Fur thoose natives mun ha' slain him, Or else he 's dreawn'd i' th' say. " Thae '11 see his picthur sowd, Robin, Un' th' mug wi' his name on too ; Aw 'd raythur part wi' loife, Robin, Than thoose two things should goo. Un' oh ! sin' Willy started, Its six long year, un' moar, Not a letthur sin' wi parted — But thir 's sumb'dy knocks at th' dur !" " Come in ! come in ! who con it be ? Not Nancy, come a borrowin' th' maiden ! Nay, Nancy wouldn't knock, not she — Eawr Willy's lass is summat made on." But in coom Nancy, trippin' leet, Un said, " A felli 'ud lost his way; Could thi lodge a stranger theer that neet, 'Ut had corned fro' Omerika?" BA LLA DS OF LA NCA SHIRE. 407 " 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'll ha sin eawr Wiily, 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 live 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 owd mon wur soarly sobbin', As he kneelt him deawn o' th' floor. " Aw connut howd — aw connut bide, It's him! It's him, hissel!" Poor Nancy sobb'd, un' laugh'd un' cried, Un' Willy's muffler fell. " Aw 'm fit to dee wi' joy, Robin ! Though aw couldn't kneel nur pray, Un' th' One that yerd mi greet, Robin ! Browt him fro' Omerika." 4 o3 MODERN SONGS AND " 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, Heawin 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 foo ; — BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 409 He's tried three different maks o' trades, An' olez miss'd his tip ; But, then, he's th' pr?ttiest 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-full 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 gettin' in wi' th' quality, An' when his clarkin 's done, He 's olez oather cricketin', Or shootin' wi' a gun. 4 io 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. 4 n LINES TO MY WIFE DURING HER RECOVERY FROM A LONG ILLNESS. By Samuel Bam ford. 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 ; Though health do fail, and charms do fly, Thy husband will thee bless ! 412 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 trustfully entwine : BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. a,n And through the night, all still and stark, No other footsteps near, We stray'd ; and, lcve, it was not dark, — My light of life was there ! Oh, light of love ! oh, early born ! 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. 4H 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. 415 Death came, and found upon her face Strange, wondrous beauty there ; A light 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 little 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 s:one. 4i6 MODERN SONGS AND But oh ! 'twas grief, deep grief, to watch Beside the little bed — To gaze upon the household pet, And know that she was dead ! MY IDEAL HOME. By Mrs William Hobson. " A thing of beauty is a joy for ever." — 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 ^Egean 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. 417 A river, winding like a silver thread, Should roll its ever-dancing waves along, And spangling o'er its sinaous, 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, bright star, Of ages past, of minds with beauty rife ; The chisell'd form, cut from the tinted stone, The sighing shell, the flowerets of the sea, Rare gems of art, from climes beyond our own, Cluster'd around, in fairy groups should be. 2 E 418 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. »>ongtf of %\tz and Brotljcrljootu 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 :— 4 2o 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 the sorrowful hour, And quicken the labour of hand ; They gladden the shepherd on mountain and plain, And the sailor who travels the sea ; The poets have chanted us many a strain, But the songs of the people for me. The artisan, wandering forth early to toil, Sings a snatch of old song by the way ; The ploughman, who sturdily furrows the soil, Meets the breeze with the words of his lay : The man at the stithy, the maid at her wheel, The mother with babe at her knee, Oft utter some simple old rhymes, which they 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. 421 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 the world has too much of thy heart. * This piece, written for an anniversary celebration, has been set to music and arranged as a full-choir glee, by Mr E. J. Loder, the com- poser of the opera of " The Night Dancers," &c. 422 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 believes it is best on the whole. The world is a scene, thou art sensible. Upon which, if we do but our best, On a wisdom that 's incomprehensible, We may safely rely for the rest. Then trust to its kind distribution, And, however things happen to fall, Prithee, pluck up a good resolution To be cheerful and thankful for all. LIFE. By Charles Swain. 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. 423 Why should Time thus fail to cherish All that lends existence worth ? Wherefore should Love droop and perish As but doom'd to woe on earth ? Love, and Life, and Time together, Better friends we trust may be ; If Time 's of unconstant feather, Love and Hope should still agree : — Life is lost between the three ! — Oh, the lot of Life, how sad ! THE CHILD. By the late John Briggs.* See the nurse her charge attending, Hear the darling's lisping prattle ; How its little eyes are blending O'er the pretty jingling rattle ! Quickly vexed, soon appeased, Laughing, crying, waking, sleeping ; Chid and grieved — kiss'd and pleased ; All its cares express'd by weeping. On the flower'd carpet playing, Sitting, creeping, rolling, lying, — Now a sunny cheek displaying, — Now o'erspread with clouds, 'tis crying ! * Mr Briggs resided at Cartmel, and edited the Lonsdale Magazine. He published, in 1818, a volume of " Poems on various Subjects," from which we borrow this and other pieces. 424 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 go 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-fool child refuses ; Yet no name can please a poet Like " the elfin of the Muses." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 425 "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 orTt to-day ; Though care is a rum 'un to kill, Aw '11 feight, bu' aw '11 have him away. It's no use to simper an' sob, An' fret, because all isna' square, It '11 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 sattlin' kick ; Aw ne'er knew him play " ace o' trumps ; " He loses, wi nowt for a trick. 426 MODERN SONGS AND There 's no chap should ever lose pluck ; By th' mon, if he does, lad, he 's lost ; He '11 slither deavvn th' hill loike a truck 'Ut's gotten no break, in a frost. There 's nowt loike a will to foind th' way, An' nowt 's hauve so strong as a try : That 's what my owd granny used t' say, An' granny ne'er towd me a lie. THE HERMIT. By John Byrom, M.A., F.R.S., &c. A HERMIT there was and he lived in a grot, And the way to be happy they said he had got ; As I wanted to learn it, I went to his cell, And when I got there, the old hermit said, " Well, Young man, by your looks you want something, I see ; Come, tell me the business which brings you to me." " Why, hermit," I answer'd, "you say very true, And I '11 tell you the business which brings me to you ; The way to be happy they say you have got, — As I wanted to learn it I came to your grot ; Now I beg and I pray, if you 've got such a plan, That you'll write it down for me as plain as you can." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 427 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; Weeping Willow, mourning; Amaranth, immorta'ity. — J. B. R 428 MODERN SONGS AND The primrose of our childhood soon outlives its little day, The fragile snowdrop of our hopes will hasten to decay, The daisy-buds of innocence all vanish from our view, And the pure and modest violet droops its leaves of lustrous hue. The tulip and the lilac-flower a little longer cling, And the tendrils of the rose and pink abroad their beauty fling ; The vervain of enchantment, and the heart's ease, soon are gone, Though the jasmine and the daffodil may yet a while live on. The wall-flower, though it be the type of friendship in distress, Falls from the wreath when come the days of pain and wretchedness ; The acacia, with its friendly buds, forsakes the hour of gloom, And the honeysuckle fadeth with its incense and its bloom. We gaze upon the garland with a sad and tearful eye, And muse upon the 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 garland fair. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 429 One only flower survives the buds of summer and of spring, And telleth the repining heart that it to hope must cling ; 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 village of Priest Hutton, near Lan- caster, on the 3d December 1747- He died 3d March 1813, aged sixty- five. He was rector of Claughton, incumbent of the parochial churches of Clitheroe and Downham, head master for thirty-eight years of the Free Grammar School of Clitheroe, and a j ustice of peace for the county. 430 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 a silk-weaver at Alkrington, near Middleton. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 431 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 friend 's 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 childer, as birds love th' spring ; Yet deoth con fly off wi' their souls on his wing. 432 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-furrovv'd brow, In chambers of clangour and gloom. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 433 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 like a dower, And give and receive as we ought. THE GOOD SPIRIT. By Mrs G. Linnaeus Banks. Of all the good spirits that brighten the earth, Good temper is surely the best ; And luckless the hearth where she 's seldom at home, Or comes but a casual guest ; Where the plumage is torn from her delicate wings, And little is thought of the blessings she brings. Good temper can give to the lowliest cot A charm with the palace to vie, For gloomy and dark is the loftiest dome Unlit by her radiant eye ; And 'tis she who alone makes the banquet divine, Gives for viands ambrosia, and nectar for wine. The world would be dreary and barren indeed. Our pilgrimage weary and sad, Did the strife-seeking spirit of Sullenness reign, To trample on hearts that were glad ; 2 F 434 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 Sullenness, discord, and sadness, and night. Let who will, give the demon a place in his breast, May Good Temper preside over mine ; She will lighten my sorrows, and whisper to Care Fewer thorns in my chaplet to twine : Then, be mine this Good Spirit who comes at our call, And would come, were she welcome, to each and to all ! THE SUN AND THE FLOWERS: A SONG OF LIFE. By James Watson, " The Doctor." * The sun the early 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. 435 So enters man life's giddy maze, Fearless of future harms ; Pleasure her wily path displays, And lures him by her charms. The sun pursues his eager flight, The 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 the 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 1S20, to which he prefixed a memoir of the poet, and entitled the book "The Spirit of the Doctor." 436 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. 437 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. 438 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- sess'd. Fled seven days of happiness — and, lo ! the eighth she lay A thing of love and beauty still, but life had pass'd away ! The fairy foot was motionless, the voice of music hush'd, The spirit, like a 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. 439 AVARICE. By the late Rev. Thomas Wilson, B.D. What man in his wits had not rather be poor, Than for lucre his freedom to give ? Ever busy the means of his life to secure, And for ever neglecting to live ! 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. 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 ! 440 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. 4+1 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 agen ; Thae 'rt lookin' wur for th' wear, for sure ; Bo' thae'rt so loike, for owt aw know, Thae 's bin i' th' meawt, aw dunno deawt ; Come, sit thee deawn an' tell me o. 442 MODERN SONGS AND This mornm, when I lee i' bed, Aw thowt, " Well, Jone '11 come to-neet ; " An' this owd heart, ut 's fought an' bled, Beawnc't loike a bo, an' felt as leet ! Aw 'd rayther ha' thee i' mi heawse Than owt i' th' lord or lady line ; Ther 's moor i' th' fruit than what 's i' th' root — I' 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 Ashton-under-Lyne. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 443 DO A GOOD TURN WHEN YOU CAN. By Charles Swain. It needs not great wealth a kind heart to display,— If the hand be but willing, it soon finds a way ; And the poorest one yet in the humblest abode May help a poor brother a step on his road. Oh ! whatever the fortune a man may have won, A kindness depends on the way it is done ; And though poor be our purse, and though narrow our span, Let us all try to do a good turn when we can ! The bright bloom of pleasure may charm for a while, But its beauty is frail, and inconstant its smile ; Whilst the beauty of kindness, immortal in bloom, Sheds a sweetness o'er life, and a grace o'er the tomb ! Then if we enjoy life, why, the next thing to do, Is to see that another enjoys his life too ; And though poor be our purse, and though narrow our span, Let us all try to do a good turn when we can ! LOVE, HONOUR, AND DEATH. By Henry Kirk. Oh, gladly the breeze over sweet Devon's lands Bore the sound of the bells in the morning, As a loving young pair, who had plighted their hands, From the altar with glad eyes were turning ! 444 MODERN SONGS AND And many a noble, warm heart that was there, Shower'd on them its rich store of blessing, While, the soldier bent 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 few 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. 445 Our course is rough, the way is long, The light 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. 446 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. 447 THE WEAVER OF WELLBROOK. By B. Brierley* Yo gentlemen o with yor heawnds an' yor parks, — Yo may gamble an' sport till yo dee ; Bo a quiet heawse nook, — a good wife an' a book, Is mooar to the likins o' me — e. Wi' mi pickers an' pins, An' mi wellers to th' shins ; Mi linderins, shuttle, and yealdhook ; — Mi treddles an' sticks, Mi weight-ropes an' bricks ; — What a life ! — said the wayver o' 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' straddle i' th' lone ; Bo when aw 'm wheelt or carried — it'll be to get berried, An' then Dicky-up wi' Owd Jone — one. — &c. * The graphic writer in dialect of " Daisy Nook," the " Chronicles of Waverlow," (from which this song is taken,) "The Layrock of Lang- ley Side," and " Tales and Sketches of Lancashire Life," &c. 448 MODERN SONGS AND Yo may turn up yor noses at me an' th' owd dame, An' thrutch us like dogs agen th' wo ; Bo as lung 's aw con nayger aw '11 ne'er be a beggar. So aw care no' a cuss for yo o — o. — &c. Then, Margit, turn reawnd that owd hum-a-drum wheel, An' mi shuttle shall fly like a brid ; An' when aw no lunger can use hont or finger, They'n say — while aw could &o aw did— id. — &c. THE LESSON OF THE LEAVES. By Mrs G. Linnaeus 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. U9 Hanging in the branches, Drooping in the shade, Mark the autumn leaflets How they pine and fade ; Rustling — as the storm-blast Sweeps across the moor — Driven by the whirlwind To the cottar's door ; Dark, and thick, and heavy, With the dust of Time, Weary of existence, List their wintry chime, As the mournful cadence Rings in human ears, A never-ending moral For the coming years, This the parting chorus — " Leaves, our course is run • Death is now before us — but our work is done I " "MY PIECE IS 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 " treddled " at it day by day, Sin' th' toime 'ut aw begun. 2 g 450 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 '11 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. 45 , Bu' now it's nee' to th' eend o' th' week, An' close to th' reckonin' day : Aw '11 tak' my " piece " upon my back, An' yer what th' M ester '11 say : An' if aw nobbut yer His voice Pronounce my wark " weel done," Aw '11 straight forget o th' trouble past I' th' pleasure 'ut 's begun. OUR DAILY PATHS* By Mrs Hemans. " Nought shall prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith that all which we behold Is full of blessings." Wordsworth. There's beauty all around our paths, if but our watchful eyes Can trace it 'midst familiar things, and through their lowly guise ; We may find it where a hedge-row showers its blos- soms o'er our way, Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red light of day. * The admiration which the late Mr Dugald Stewart always expressed for Mrs Hemans's poetry was mingled with regret that she so generally 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 Gainful and depressing. In reply, Mrs Hemans sent to 452 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 the few remaining weeks of his life. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 453 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 ; 454 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. 455 Beware if it happens to thaw, When th' wayter comes trickling deawn, For th' ice will impair in its strength, Un' theawsands are sartain to dreawn. But recollect 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 gull'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. 456 MODERN SONGS AND SONGS OF THE PEOPLE. no. i. — the gathering. * By William Mort. HARK ! to the hurried trampling Of the many thousand feet, As they hasten to the rendezvous Along the crowded street ! No martial music heralds them, No lordling leads them on ; Their trumpets' notes are wild " hurrahs ! " — Plumed chieftain they have none ! Yet firm are they in purpose From thraldom to be freed ; They have sworn a mighty oath to God, To battle for their creed ! And who, among created men, 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 1834, and appeared thirty years ago in Tait's Magazine. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 457 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 His proud success proclaim ! 458 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 full-fang'd boar ? As well, expecting bread, might they Go forth and ask a stone, As seek redress from men whose hearts Are callous to their groan ! O ye who dress in purple robes, And daily eat a meal ; Who have no wrongs to be avenged, No starving pangs to heal ; Plead ye for those who have not gold To pay the pleader's fee ; And let it be no more a taunt, That British men are free I BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 459 BOWTON'S YARD. By Samlel 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 — hoo weshes clooas for folk ; Their Billy, that's her son, goes reawnd a beggin' wi' a poke ; They sen hoo cooarts wi' Sam o' Neds, at lives at number three, — It may be so, aw conno' tell, it matters nowt to me. At number three, reet facin' th' pump, Ned Grimshaw keeps a shop ; He's Eccles-cakes, an' gingerbread, an' treacle beer, an' pop ; He sells oat-cakes an' o, does Ned, he has boath soft an' hard, An' everybody buys of him 'at lives i' Bowton's yard. At number four Jack Blunderick lives ; he goes to th' mill an' wayves, An' then at th' week-end, when he 's time, he pows * a bit, an' shaves ; * Polls, cuts hair. 460 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 they'll 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' mon an' woife, Aw think aw ne'er seed noicer folk nor these i' o my loife ; BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 461 Yo '11 never yer 'em foin' eawt, loike lots o' married folk, They allis seem good-tamper' 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 Turn, He goes to concerts, up an' deawn, an' plays a kettle- drum ; I' 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 0' th' row, Joe Stiggins deals i' ale ; He's sixpenny, an' fourpenny, dark-colour'd, an' he's pale; 462 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 lives i' Bow- ton's yard. An' neaw aw've done aw '11 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. 463 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. Welcome, with thy life-breeze springing, Wafting round us health and joy ; To each care-worn spirit bringing Pleasures bearing no alloy — Freshening Whitsuntide. Welcome, with thy pleasant rambles By the ocean and the stream, Through the heath-wood and the brambles, Glowing as a poet's dream — Fairy Whitsuntide. Welcome, with thy laugh of childhood, Mingling with each zephyr's sigh ; Ringing through the 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. 464 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 LANCASHIRE. 465 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 radiant light of the skies. STANZAS WRITTEN TO MUSIC. By the late Rev. Richard Parkinson, D.D. 'TlS 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. 2 H 466 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 — Oime" ! I heard it on my bridal day, And felt the happier for a lay At once so tender and so gay — Oime"! But death has taken from my side The fondly loved and loving bride, Who sang it in that hour of pride — Oime ! And now the sweetest songs appear Unto my disenchanted ear A discord, which I loathe to hear — Oim£ ! And even in this simple air, Though sung by one so young and fair, There breathes no feeling save despair — ■ Oime"! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 467 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 unconfined, And o'er the hearts of half mankind Thy lying flag waves, glorious. In childhood's purest, simplest walks, The truant schoolboy oft invokes Thine aid, his faults to cover. Wrapp'd in a tender billet-doux, Thine artful smile can Delia woo, — And thus befriend the lover. The noblest name below the sky, Touch'd by thy poisonous breath, will die, And Scandal make a feast on 't. The reputation of the fair Beneath thy frown will disappear — Will fade— to 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 ? 468 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 — are all thy pupils. BALLADS OF LANCASHLRE. 469 That, but for thee, the poet 's 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 — " 1 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 sung I' th' winter neets, at th' " Gowden Fleece," When thee an' me wur yung. An' may thae never need to cringe Before a titled Sur ; An honest workin' mon is th' hinge, A lord is nobbut th' dur. Be guided still, through weal or woe, By thy dear spousie's tung ; For then, though foo's deny, aw know Thae never con be wrung. 470 MODERN SONGS AND This world, thae knows, is full o' snares To tangle honest men ; Thae rises, but ther's scores o' stairs To help thee deawn ogen. Just wipe thi specs, an' rub thi een, An stretch thi up, owd mon ! Look where thae will, some 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 syne." BALLA DS OF LA NCA SHIRE. 47 1 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 fair, " 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 determined 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. 472 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 brilliant rainbow, magic wand, That 's made a thousand warriors brood, And slain so many poets grand ; This never-to-be-finger'd gem, This soul and pleasure-swealing flame, This wreath and rosy diadem ? — 'Tis nought but bubbling, windy Fame ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 473 "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 — returned! 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. 474 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 eyelids vainly swell ; Heart from heart the world is stealing : We must feel thy pangs — farewell ! High in hope and golden dreaming, Still at home we all would dwell ; Parting comes, and tears are streaming, Hot, wrung out by our farewell. There's a youth just by yon dwelling, Wherein first his accents fell ; What emotions he is quelling As his hand waves his farewell ! * John 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. 475 Near the door there stands his mother, Mute with grief unspeakable, — Sisters sobbing, and his brother Sunk in soul — at his farewell. But, ah ! who 's she he now is meeting, Pale and sad, within the dell ? As 'twould break her heart is beating, — Keen as death is her farewell. Fondest hopes she '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. 476 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 ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 477 THE SONG OF NIGHT.* By Mrs Hemans. " O night, And storm, and darkness I ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength t" Byron. I COME to thee, O earth ! With all my gifts ! — for every flower, sweet dew In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew The glory of its birth. Not one which glimmering lies Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves, But through its veins of beauty so receives A spirit of fresh dyes. I come with every star ; Making thy stream, that on their noon-day track, Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back, Mirrors of worlds afar. I come with peace : — I shed Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee, The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee, The hyacinth's meek head. On my own heart I lay The weary babe ; and sealing with a breath Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath The shadowing lids to play. * Suggested by Thorwaldsen's bas-relief of Night, represented under the form of a winged female figure, with two infants asleep in her arms. 478 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 crush'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 ! — fill'd with anguish vain, Or tenderness too piercing to sustain, They smite with agonies. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 479 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 Ni^ht ! SONG FOR THE BRAVE* By Samuel Bamford. Say, what is the life of the brave ? A gift which his Maker hath given, Lest nothing but tyrant and slave Remain of mankind under heaven. And what is the life of the brave, When staked in the cause of his right ? 'Tis but as a drop to a wave — A trifle he values as light. And what is the death of the brave ? A loss which the good shall deplore ; His life unto freedom he gave, And free men behold him no more. * This song is most respectfully inscribed by the author to Colonel Peard, honourably known and greatly esteemed in Britain as "Gari- baldi's Englishman." 4 8o 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. 481 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 Swain. There are moments in life — though alas for their fleet- ness ! — As brilliant with all that existence endears, As if we had drain'd the whole essence of sweetness That nature intended should last us for years ! They pass — and the soul, as it swells with emotion, Believes that some seraph hath hallow'd the clime, For never were pearls from the bosom of ocean So precious and dear as those moments of time ! 2 I 482 MODERN SONGS AND That moment when hearts which have long been divided First meet, after absence hath tried them in vain ; Oh, years of affection, when smoothly they 've glided, Can yield not a moment so blissful again ; When friends, that a word had estranged, have 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. 483 But let the angry sun From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those wnose task is done !— There slumber England's dead. The hurricane hath might Along the Indian shore, And far by Ganges' banks at night Is heard the tiger's roar. But let the sound roll on ! It hath no tone of dread, For those that from their toils are gone There slumber England's dead. Loud rush the torrent floods The western wilds among, And free in green Columbia's woods The hunter's bow is strung. But let the floods rush on ! Let the arrow's flight be sped ! Why should they reck whose task is done ?— There slumber England's dead ! The mountain storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine boughs through the sky, Like rose leaves on the breeze. But let the storm rage on ! Let the fresh wreaths be shed ! For the Roncesvalles' field is won,— There slumber England's dead. 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 was 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. 485 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 never forget. -♦ THE PASS OF DEATH.* (WRITTEN shortly after the decease of the right HON. GEORGE CANNING.) By Samuel Bamford. Another 's gone, and who comes next, Of all the sons of pride ? And is humanity perplex'd Because this man hath died ? * This piece was written long before the " King Death" of Barry Cornwall, which resembles it.— Ed. 486 MODERN SONGS AND The sons of men did raise their voice, And cried 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. 487 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 died 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 ! 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 ! V. Hapsf of tlje Cotton famine* 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- 490 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. 49* 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.f Aw'm seechin' wark to help us thro' : — Aw 'd scorn a beggar's cringin' part ; — Bo' sthrivin' hard an' clemmin' too, It welly breaks a body's heart. * We copy extracts from this anil several other pieces from a volume having the above title, 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 familiar with the various features of their everyday life as any one can be. His knowledge is not that of an outsider, who simply looks on at a new phase of life, and describes what he sees ; — it is the knowledge possessed by one who is closely related to the people themselves, and who has himself shared their wants, their struggles, and their plea- sures." The editor speaks of his friendship with the author — " a friend- ship which has lasted from the time when we were both lads, toiling in the same dye-house " — to the present day. Most of the pieces in Rams- Lottom's volume are too long to present entire. We have therefore selected what we think the best and most graphic verses in each. The 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. 492 MODERN SONGS AND Yo knawn what mills abeawt are stopt ; An' beawt trier's wark, what con one have ? Eawr two-three* things we'n sowd or popt,+ 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 weel ; 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 'ull mend, An' be just loike it wur before. Aw 'm quite content 'ut th' facthory lass Shall bear her mother's weight o' care- Shall help her when hard thrials pass, An' in her quiet pleasures share. Neaw, lady, mi short tale aw 've towd, If wark for wages yo can give, Aw 'd rayther have it than your gowd ; Aw '11 bless yo for it while aw live. Two-three, i.e., two or three. f Pledged, pawned. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 493 "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 Ramsbottom. Brother Jim, — It's bo' sad news aw send, An' aw dun' know heaw to write it, aw 'm sure ; For to tell folk o' one's own disthress Con be no pleasant task for th' poor. 494 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 sthraw, for their beds have bin sowd, An' their blankets too, bless thee, for bread. Heaw aw hush-a-be-bo'd little Bob, An' his mother, eh, Lord ! heaw hoo soik't, Wi' greet tears runnin' whot deawn her face, As eawr little thing yammer't an' skroik't.* * Fretted and screamed. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 495 Som'dy sent Will an ar'nt t' other day, An' they gan him a cake to bring whoam ; So he shared eawt \vi' Nanny an' Bob, An' a bit he put by for eawr Tom ; An' their mother an' me, whoile they ate, Stoode an' watcht, and so fed second-hond ; — Nibblin' close enoof this side o' th' grave, Let us hope for good pasther beyond. "When they'd eaten their meawthful a-piece, They 'd a notion o' mankin' * a bit ; Bo' then Famine 'ud mate noan wi' Fun, An' they couldno' mak' grim Sorrow t' flit ; So they keawrt 'em deawn upo' th' floor, An' they talk't abeawt th' stoppin' o' th' mill ; An' they towd o'er their sthring o' complaints, As ther 's childher o'ergrovvn sometoimes will. An' o' thattens t their little tongues ran ; Bo' sich prattlin' o went agen th' grain ; When misfortins are bad o' thirsels, Frettin' childher 'ull lessen no pain. Heaw we look back to th' past wi' regret, Wi' a present so bleak and so 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. t In that way. 496 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' clem 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 popular name for the new Poor-law Union Workhouse. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 497 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. * These stanzas were written by a lady in aid of the Relief Fund. They were printed on a card and sold, principally at the railway stations. Their sale, there and elsewhere, is known to have realised the sum of ^160. Their authoress is the wife of Mr Serjeant Bellasis, and the only daughter of the late William Garnett, Esq. of Quemmore Park and Bleasdale, Lancashire. 2 K 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. 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. 499 500 MODERN SONGS AND Rather pray that, peace soon bringing Work and plenty in her train, We may see these smokeless chimneys Blackening all the land again. "CHEER UP A BIT LONGER." By Samuel Laycock. Cheer up a bit longer, mi brothers i' want, There 's breeter days for us i' store ; There '11 be plenty o' tommy an' wark for us o, When this 'Merica bother gets o'er. Yo 'n struggled reet nobly, an' battled reet hard, While things han bin lookin' so feaw ; * Yo 'n borne wi' yor troubles an' trials so long, It's no use o' givin' up neaw. It's hard to keep clemmin' an' starvin', it's true ; An' it 's hard to see th' little things fret Becose there's no buttercakes for 'em to eat ; But we'n alius kept pooin' through yet. As bad as toimes are, an' as feaw as things look, One's certain they met ha' bin worse ; For we 'n getten a trifle o' summat, so fur, — It's only bin roughish, of course. * Foul, bad. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 501 God bless yo, mi brothers, we're nobbut on th' tramp ; We never stay long at one spot ; An' while we keep knockin' abeawt i' this world, Disappointments will fall to eawr lot ; So th' best thing we can do, iv we meon to get through, Is to wrastle wi' cares as they come ; Iv we're teighert an' weary, — well, let's never heed, We can rest us weel when we get whoam. Cheer up, then, aw say, an' keep hopin' for th' best, An' things '11 soon awter, yo '11 see ; There '11 be oachans o' butties* for Tommy an' Fred, An' th' little uns perch'd on yor knee. Bide on a bit longer, tak heart once agen, An' do give o'er lookin' soa feaw ; As we 'n battled, an' struggled, an' 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 toimes are these, There's nob'dy ever knew 'em wur' ; For honest wortchin' folks one sees By scores reawnd th' Poor-law Office dur. * Oceans of pieces of bread and butter. 502 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. 503 TICKLE TIMES. (from "lancashire songs.") By Edwin Waugh. HERE'S Robin looks fyerfully gloomy, An' Jamie keeps starin' at th' greawnd, An' thinkin' o' th' table 'at's empty, An' th' little things yammerin' reawnd ; It's true, it looks dark just afore us, — But, keep your hearts eawt o' your shoon, — Though clouds may be 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' areawnd, Have at it again ; and keep scratchin' As lung as your yed's upo' greawnd. 504 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 0' 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, — I' 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 feart hunger nor covvd ; And there 's mony a miserly nowmun 'At 's deed ov a surfeit o' govvd. One feels, neavv '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. 505 FRETTIN'. (FROM " PHASES OF DISTRLSS — 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 agen, To see folks earn whate'er they need ; O God ! to think 'ut wortchin' men Should be poor things to pet 'un feed ! Ther's some to th' Bastile han to goo, To live o' th' rates they 'n help'd to pay ; An' some get dow * to help 'em thro', And some are ta'en, or sent away. Whot is ther here, 'ut one should live, Or wish to live, weigh'd deawn wi' grief, Thro' weary weeks an' months, 'ut give Not one short heawr o' sweet relief? A sudden plunge, a little blow, At once 'ud eend mi care an' pain ! An' why noa do 't ? — for weel aw know Aw lose bo' ills, if nowt aw gain. * Dole, relief from charity. 5o6 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 0' Afore. Confeaund it ! aw ne'er wur so woven afore, Mi back's welly brocken, mi fingers are sore ; Avv'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 Notes and Queries of June 3, 1S65, (3d series, vol. vii., p. 432,) and BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 507 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 1 mi loife. is there stated to be a great favourite amongst the old " Deyghn Lay- rocks," {Anglice, " The Larks of Dean," in the forest of Rossendale,) "who sing it to one of the easy-going psalm-tunes with much gusto." 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 befal a heart, To think about these hard-sized warps !" Another song, called " The Surat Weyver," was written by William Billington of Blackburn. It is in the form of a lament by a body of Lancashire weavers, who declare they had " Borne what mortal man could bear, Affoore they 'd weave Surat." But they had been compelled to weave it, though " Stransportashun 's not as ill As weyvin rotten Su." This song concludes with the emphatic execration — " To hell wi' o t' Surat." 5o8 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. Hea'W slow these weary weeks drag on ! Th' hard toiines 'ull ne'er be o'er, aw 'm sure ; Eawr mill's bin stondin' idle yon' For these last eighteen months, or mooar. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 509 We walk abeawt i' the leet o' the day I' clooas 'ut som'dy else has bowt ; Think o'er it when ?n' heaw we may, We're like to own it's up to nowt. To thrust to som'dy else for bread, An' by th' relief keep torin' on,* Maks honest folk to hang their yead, An' crushes th' heart o' th' preawdest mon. We know 'n it 's not eawr bread we ate ; We know 'n they 're not eawr clooas we wear ; We want agen eawr former state, Eawr former dhrudgin' life o' care. It's fro' no faut o' eawrs, it's true, An' folks han met eawr wants like men, Like brothers and like sisters too, — May th' great God pay 'em back agen. Heawe'er aw grum'le 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' ABC, For o aw'd turnt o' forty-two. 'Twur rayther hard at fust to sit An' stare at things aw couldno tell, 'Cose when owt puzzl't me a bit, O th' lads 'ud lough among thersel'. * Labouring and living hardly. 5 1 o MODERN SONGS A ND 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'll mak eawr sewin'-schoo' to ring, and stitch away loike mad ; We '11 try an' mak' th' best job we con, o' owt we han to do, We read an' write, an' spell and kest, while here at th' sewin'-schoo'. CHORUS. — Then, lasses, let 's cheer up an' BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 511 Eawr Queen, th' Lord Mayor 0' London, too, they send us lots o' brass, An' neaw, at welly every schoo' we'n got a sewin'- 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. 512 MODERN SONGS AND HARD TIMES; OR, TH' WEYVUR TO HIS WIFE. By "a Lancashire Lad," (James Bowker.) Draw up thy cheer, owd lass, we'n still a bit o' fire, An' I 'm starv't to deoth \vi' 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' quarrelin' an' struggling 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, ther 's welly twenty foos. But better chaps nor me an' thee hes hed to live o' nowt, An' we 'n hed a tidy time on 't afoor th' war brok' out ; BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 513 An' if I 'm gerrin' varra thin, it matters nowt o' me, Th' hardest wark is sittin' here schaming for th' choilt an' thee. Tha'art gerrin' ter'ble pale too, but fowk wi' nowt. to heyt Con't luk as nice an' weel as them as plenty hes o' meyt. Ther's lots o' hooams areawnd us whear wot they waste i' th' day, 'Ud sarve for thee an' th' choilt an' me, an' some to give away ; An' as I passes by their dooars, I hears their music sweet, An' I con't but think o' thee till th' teears dim mi seet ; For if I 'd lots o' brass, thae shud be diff 'rent, never fear, For th 'art nooan so feaw, yet, wench, if thae 'd gradely 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 heve its way ; And if what 's i' this heart o' moine cud nobbut cum to pass, Hoo shud bi' th' happiest woman, as hoo is th' bonni- est lass. 2 l 514 MODERN SONGS AND I'm a foo wi' clammin' soa, or I shudn't toke like this, It nobbut meks wer teeth watter to think o' sich like bliss ; An' th' winter cummin' on so fast, wi' th' dark, an' th' snow, an' th' cowd, For I heeard th' robin sing to-day as I heeard him sing of owd, When thee an' me wur younger, an' i' wur soft cooartin days, An' I cum whistlin' thro' the fields to yoar owd woman's place. Thea loved me then, an' as wimmen 's soft enuff for owt, I do believe thae loves me neaw, mooar nor ever I 'd hae thowt, An' tha' hes but one excuse, if I 'm ragg'd, I 'm fond o' thee, An' times, though hard, I connot think '11 change thee or me, For if we're true an' reet, an' as honest as we're poor, We 's never hev no wos chap nor poverty at th' dooar. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 5*5 "GOD BLESS 'EM, IT SHOWS THEY'N SOME THOWT!" By Samuel Laycock. Is there nob'dy to thank these good folk ? No poet, to scribble a line ? Aw wish aw could write yo' a song, Aw 'd mak' yo' reet welcome to mine. There 's Waugh, he 's bin writin' for years, An' mony a good tale, too, he's towd ; But he says nowt abeawt these bad times ; Aw wonder, neaw, heaw he con howd. Iv aw could draw pickturs loike him, An' ceawer deawn an' write hawve as weel, Aw 'd tell folk heaw thankful aw am ; But aw couldn't tell th' hawve 'at aw feel. When aw tak' up a papper to read, Aw can see theer heaw ready folk are At helpin' poor creatures i' need, An' givin' us o they can spare. We'n gentlemen, ladies, an' o, As busy i' th' country as owt, Providin' for th' Lancashire poor ; . God bless 'em, it shows they 'n some thowt ! 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. 516 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' them 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 larnin' for nowt. God bless 'em for o 'at they've done, An' aw hope they '11 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, Aw' 11 thank 'em, iv nob'dy else will XV VI. ea »>ongtf* 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 ; * See note on paee 131. 5 i8 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'd face, While he folds his loved Kate to his breast — While his little ones, trooping to share his embrace, Contend who shall first be caress'd ! View them 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. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 5*9 To the hold of a tender, deep, crowded, and foul, Now view your brave seaman confined, And on the bare planks, all indignant of soul, All unfriended, behold him reclined. The children's wild screams still ring in his ear : He broods on his Kate's poignant pain ; He hears the cat hauling— his pangs are severe ; He feels, but he scorns to 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! think how your death-dealing bulwarks are mann'd, And learn to respect human rights. Like felons, no more let the sons of the main Be severed from all that is dear ; If their sufferings and wrongs be a national stain, Oh, let the foul stain disappear. 5 20 MODERN SONGS AND THE FAREWELL. By the late Edward Rushton. The shivering topsails home are sheeted, And cheerily goes the windlass round ; " Heave, heave, my hearts ! " is oft repeated, And Mary sighs at every sound. The yellow fever, scattering ruin ; The 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 rolling, 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. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 521 Where'er he moves, alert and glowing, Her beauteous azure eyes pursue — Those eyes that sho>v, with grief o'erfiowing, Like violets wet with morning dew. Unmoved, 'midst regions wild and dreary, Poor Will had pass'd through woes severe ; Yet now from far he views his Mary, And turns to hide a falling tear. The biting winds blow strong and stronger, And the broad waves more wildly swell : Will hears the boat can wait no longer, And springs abaft to bid farewell. " O my sweet girl !" with strong emotion, The tar exclaims, " now — now — adieu ! I go to brave the changeful ocean, Yet thou shalt ever find me true." With quivering lip and deep dejection, " Heaven shield my Will," she cries, "from harms." His look bespeaks extreme affection, And now he locks her in his arms. Again the boatmen, hoarsely bawling, Declare they cannot, will not stay ; And though the crew the cat are hauling, Yet Will must see his love away. Now at the side, expression ceases : She gains the skiff — she makes for land, And 'twixt them, as the brine increases, They gaze, they sigh, they wave the hand 522 MODERN SONG ANDS ABSENCE. By the late Edward Rushton. When through the wild unfathom'd deep, Wet with the briny spray, we sweep, To Kate, to lovely Kate, and home, My anxious thoughts unceasing roam. Again I see her on the pier — Again behold the falling tear ; Again I view her bosom swell, And hear the sorrowing word " Farewell." When all is calm, and the bleach'd sails Are furl'd, or hanging in the brails, The wide expanse of glassy sea, And sky from cloudy vapours free, While thoughtless o'er the side I lean, Bring to my mind the placid mien Of that dear girl whom I adore, And left in tears on Albion's shore. Or when the fierce tornadoes howl, And nerve the fearless seaman's soul, The towering surges, as they break, Display the whiteness of her neck ; The petrels, too, that seem to tread The foaming brine, with wings outspread Oft bring the ebon locks to mind Of that dear girl I left behind. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 523 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. 524 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 ; BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 525 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 ! 525 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 BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 5 2 7 "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 published. 528 MODERN SONGS, ETC. Yes, ye men of old Lime, 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. VII. Miscellaneous Songs ano 33allaos. The following miscellaneous selection has been added to the present edition. Most of the pieces are charac- teristic, either of the authors, the localities, or the varying dialects of different parts of Lancashire. The " In Memoriam " forms a graceful tribute to the late Charles Swain, one of Lancashire's most gifted poets ; and fitly closes the volume which contains his life-like portrait as its leading attraction. WILLY'S GRAVE. By Edwin Waugh. The frosty wind was wailing wild, Across the moorland wold ; The cloudless vault of heaven was bright With studs of gleaming gold ; The weary cotter's heavy lids Had closed with closing day ; And, on his silent hearth, a tinge Of dying fire-light lay. 2 m 530 MODERN SONGS AND The ancient hamlet seemed asleep Beneath the wintry sky ; A little river, sheathed in ice, Came gliding gently by ; The old church, in the graveyard Where " the rude forefathers lay," Stood, like a mother, waiting till Her children came from play. No footsteps trod the tiny town : The drowsy street was still ; Save where the wandering night-wind sang Its requiem wild and shrill. The stainless snow lay thick upon Those quaint old cottage eaves ; And wreaths of fairy frost-work hung Where grew last summer's leaves. Each village-home was dark and still, And closed was every door ; For gentle sleep had twined her arms Around both rich and poor, — Save in one little cot, where, by A candle's flickering ray, A childless mother sighing sat, And combed her locks of grey. Her husband, and her children all, Were in the last cold bed, Where, one by one, she'd laid them down, And left them with the dead ; Then, toiling on towards her rest, — A lonely pilgrim she,— BALLADS OF LANCASHLRE. 531 For God and poverty were, now, Her only company. Upon the shady window-sill, A well-worn Bible lay ; Against the wall, a coat had hung, For many a weary day ; And, on the scanty table-top — With crumbs of supper strewn — There stood, beside a porringer, Two little empty shoon. The fire was waning in the grate ; The spinning-wheel at rest ; The cricket's song rang loudly in That lonely woman's nest ; As, with her napkin, thin, and worn, And wet with many a tear, She wiped the little pair of shoon Her darling used to wear. Her widowed heart had often leaped To hear his prattle small, He was the last that she had left — The dearest of them all ; And, as she rocked her to and fro, While tears came dreeping down, She sighed and cried, " Oh, Willy, love,— These little empty shoon !" With gentle hand she laid them by, — She laid them by with care ; For, Willy, he was in his grave, And all her thoughts were there : 532 MODERN SONGS AND, She paused before she dropped the sneck, That closed her lambless fold, — It grieved her heart to bar the door, And leave him in the cold. A thread-bare cloak she happed around Her limbs, so thin and chill ; She left her lonely cot behind, While all the world was still ; And through the solitary night, She took her silent way, With weeping eyes towards the place Where little Willy lay. The pallid moon had climbed aloft Into the welkin blue ; A snow-clad tree, across the grave, Its leafless shadow threw : And, as that mournful mother sat Upon a mound thereby, The bitter wind of winter sighed To hear her lonely cry ! * * * * * My little Willy's cowd an' still,— He's not a word for me ! Th' last tiny leaf has dropt away Fro this owd withered tree ! Oh, my poor heart ! He's gone ! He's gone Aw'm lonely under th' sky ! He'll never clip my neck again, An' tell me not to cry ! My darlin' lad ! He's laid i'th dust ! My little Willy's dead ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 533 An' o' that made me care to live, Lies in his frosty bed ! He's gone ! He's gone ! My poor bare neest ! Oh, what's this world to me ? My little love ; aw'm lonely neaw ! When mun aw come to thee ! He's crept into his last dark nook, An' laft me pinin' here ! An' never-moor his two blue e'en For me mun twinkle clear ! He'll never say his prayers again At his poor mammy's knee ! Oh, Willy ; Oh, aw'm lonely now ! When mun aw come to thee ? 4 * * * * The snow-clad yew-tree stirred with pain To hear that plaintive cry ; The old church listened ; and the spire Still pointed to the sky ; With kindlier touch the wintry wind Played in her locks of grey ; And the queenly moon, upon her head, Shone with a softened ray. She rose to leave that lonely bed ; Her heart was grieving sore ; One step she took, and then, her tears Fell faster than before : She turned and gave another look, — One lingering look she gave, — Then sighing, left him lying in His little snowy grave. 534 MODERN SONGS AND THE OLD MAN'S REVERIE. By T. T. Wilkinson, F.R.A.S. An old man sat on the low porch seat, And he grieved for his help-meet gone, Then his grandsons nestled around his feet, And a smile on his pale face shone. The west wind wafted its balmiest breeze, And the brooklet babbled hard by, The sun lit up the quivering trees, As he sank in the western sky. Then the old man mused on days of yore, Of the time when his cares were light, When merry feet danced the greensward o'er, And his every hope was bright. Then thoughts of youth — and his manhood's pride, As the fitful breeze passed on, Till they circled round a faithful bride, By his worth and affection won. The clouds now passed o'er the sun's bright face, And they shadowed each hill and dale ; 'Twas an emblem just of the old man's race, As he pressed through his life's rough vale. Then to one dark spot his thoughts now turned — When the battle was well nigh won — He closed his eyes, which the salt tears burned, As he whispered — " Thy will be done." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 535 Tow'rds the Future next his musings bent ; And a smile o'er his calm face passed : — Faith saw the crown of a life well spent, For the haven was reached at last. Then the children clasped their grandsire's knees ; — But the world had vanished from sight ; — And soft winds sped through the bending trees, As they murmured his last " Good Night." HEALEY HEIGHT. By Henry Nutter, of Burnley. Tune — Jenny Jones. One morning I strayed on the heights of old Healey, When song-birds with music the spring-time did greet ; The skylark above me was chanting so freely, The voice of the blackbird was mellow and sweet, The throstle's song filled all the valley before me, The robin poured out his fine song in mine ear ; These dear, charming warblers appeared to adore thee, Oh, balm-breathing Healey, sweet Healey so clear. The bells of St. Peter's were ringing so sweetly, Each heart on Mount Healey with rapture did glow, And Burnley's fair damsels were tripping so neatly, On the hill where the daisies and buttercups grow. They may tell of Olympus, the Alps, and Parnassus, And snow-covered peaks far away in the west, But the mountain I sing of is one that surpasses — Tis Healey, sweet Healey, the hill I love best. 536 MODERN SONGS AND 'Twas here the fair daughters of Burnley stood gazing Whilst husbands and sons were engaged with the foe ; Yes, there were the matrons, with beacon fires blazing When Brunanburh's battle 1 was raging below. Old Venice may boast of her pleasant gondola, And Rome may be proud of her palaces bright, The Darkie may dance in the groves of Angola, But give me old Healey, yes, sweet Healey height. There's joy in the song of the lark as he rises, There's joy for his mate as she bathes in the dew ; There's joy for the boy with the girl that he prizes, There's joy in sweet friendship that ever proves true. Then sing, ye fair maids in the valley before us, And shout, ye brave boys, your loud songs in the gale ; Ye sweet feathered songsters, still join in the chorus, And chime, ye delightful old bells, through the vale. TH' BOGGART O' GORTON CHAPELYORD. By the Late John Higson, of Lees, Author of the " History of Droylesden," etc. There stood insoide the chapelyord, A little heawse un skoo, Wheere Billy Hardy thresht the lads ; — He clerkt un cobblet too. 1 The battle of Brunanburh is said to have been fought on the slopes of Saxifield, within sight of Healey. It forms the " Waterloo " of Anglo- Saxon history, and furnishes the subject of a paper by the present editor in the " Historic Society's Transactions." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 537 Across the yord o'er th' creawded graves, A footroad wonst passed through, Which, freely trc velt up by day, At neet no mon dust goo. E'en Billy Hardy, it wur said, Though reckont cute un larnt, As soon as th' settin' sun at neet, Tho woald o' darkness warnt, He lowert th' bloinds, un bowted th' dur, Un up tho feighur he beat, Nor sturred areavvt fro candle-toime Tin morn wur commin' leet ; For th' nayburs reawnd ud often tell Heaw, at tho close o' day, A boggart wandert through th' churchyord, Un freetent foaks away. It peorcht on th' lichen gate, or steel, Fair fearfo to be seen, Wi' bristlin' main, lung hums, un tail, Un great big starin 5 een. Sometoimes 'twur loike a lady grand, Drest up i' rustlin' silk, Or skimmed alung tho tomes un stones, I' clooas white as milk. Whence coom tho sperrit mon ne'er know'd, Nur th' paason could foind eawt ; Bu' this wur plain un sartin sure, Aich neet it roam'd abeawt. 538 MODERN SONGS AND Bur if ut th' cock ere midneet crow'd, Or else, mitch wuss, 'twur th' hen, That minnit th' boggart darted off, Nur coom that neet ogain. One Setturday wur welly o'er (Or Sunday it wur, t' one), A fuddlin' chap fro Lungseet Wakes Wur commin' up th' Back-lone. Maybe to some it's gradely queer, Bur aw con prove it true, Ut muddled, dateless, country sot, Fro boggart never flew. When yerrin' Billy's hommer fo On some owd farmer's shoon, He thowt ut actin' th' boggart's pranks He'd try his hont reet soon. He rubbed a breek on th' gable wo, Then run to th' dur fur t' see ; He cowert un pept through th' finger-hole, When fear bedim'd Bill's ee. Bur in a bit his courage coom, Tho lapstone did reseawnd ; When th' breek ogain it leawder still On th' gable did rebeawnd. This toime tho cobbler's yure stood up, His meawth wur drawn aghast ; Bur listenin' on, un yerrin' nowt He courage took ut last. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 539 To finish th' job he hawsed wunst mooar, Un sawfly tried fur t' knock ; When th' boggart wi its might un main, It gan another shock ! Tho conscience-stricken cobbler neaw, Aware 'twur Sabbath Day, Wur freetont th' boggart had bin sent To fot him reet oway. Not wishin' in tho feighurs below His carcus fur to roast, Tho candle eawt he sharply puff'd, Un off to bed did post. As up tho chamber stairs he scrawms As fast as mon con peg, Tho floors wi rap-a-taps reseawnd Of his owd wooden leg. Weel pleost th' fuddler whom'urts go's, Whoile Billy swat i' bed ; He vow'd fur t' mend his wicked ways, Un ow his prayers he said. Un never sin that fearfo' bout Wur Billy known fur t' stael A minnit fro tho Sabbath heawrs — Un this neaw ends my tale. 54Q MODERN SONGS AND THE SNOWDROP'S MELODY. By R. W. Procter, Author of " The Barber's Shop," etc. The voice of old Christmas had pass'd into air, With its loud ringing laughter, its wail of despair ; The rich had retired from their wassail and yule, The urchin crept back to the terrors of school ; The thirster for fame had rekindled his oil, The struggler for bread had return'd to his toil ; — In brief, the New Year was staid-footed and mild, And Time was admiring and teaching his child ! The night was fast yielding its hours to the day, While the ice-seat of Winter was melting away, And leaving him throneless, no longer a king — When a Snowdrop peer'd forth from a fairy-form'd ring, And the pure little Harbinger whisper'd of Spring. She gaz'd o'er the landscape with maidenly pride, For no rival in loveliness bloom'd by her side ; She unfolded her leaves 'neath a sheltering tree, And caroll'd her hopes to the greenwood and me : — " Oh ! joy thrills my heart in pale beauty to reign, Like an empress, supreme o'er this hopeful domain ; How soon at the coming of Spring I'll rejoice, How soon will I list to the cuckoo's stray voice, How soon view the shepherdess trip to the hill, Soon bless the lone music that wakes with the rill, When its fetters are burst by the life-giving ray, And the bondman of winter bounds chainless away." So bloom, bonnie gem, may thy pleasures be long, Though selfish thy wish, thou art dear unto song, BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 541 And welcome to me, as my hope-yielding theme, Brave, beautiful venturer, born of a beam! Time travell'd : fresh odours were borne on the breeze, The cuckoo's stray note floated o'er the full trees, The blythe-hearted shepherdess tripp'd to the hill, Soft melody reign'd in the voice of the rill, All nature was deck'd in Spring's holiday suit — But the bloom of the Snowdrop had fail'd in the fruit ; The day-dreaming beauty had bow'd her weak head, And a thousand gay rivals exulted instead. She had lived in wild visions that never came true, She had pined on poor hope when the world never knew, And had died when the glories which sunbeams unfold Were bliss to inherit, were joy to behold. Lonely outcast of Nature, foredoom'd to the shade, How many frail dreamers in thee are portray'd, Whose hopes gaily bound, like some sun-gilded wave, But whose joys are o'ershadow'd by grief and the grave. Too much hath the world — cold experience has shown That an emblem in thee, little floweret, must own ; Meek hearts, that are strangers to falsehood and scorn, Are the snowdrops of life — the unfoster'd and lorn ; And souls that are noble, fair shrines of true worth, That would emulate heaven while dwelling on earth, That would place their proud names on the scroll of the free, Gaunt spirit of Want ! are as slaves unto thee. Peer forth, with each year, from thy nook in the vale, To whisper pure truths in the ear of the gale ; And when the world-wearied droop o'er thee unknown, Still prove to each bosom it grieves not alone ; 542 MODERN SONGS AND Still gently remind us, when pausing to rue, " What shadows we are, and what shades we pursue," And long will bards love thee, long make thee their theme, Brave, beautiful venturer, born of a beam ! O'ER AGAIN. By Septimus Tebay, B.A., Head Master of Rivington Grammar School. Owd Tummus hed bin eawt one neet Wi' bacchanalian friends, sirs, Un Sarah Jane hed set up late, Omost at hor wits' ends, sirs ; For when the husband stays eawt late, Un keeps his woife i' waitin' He little knows the trouble he Is in hor moinde creatin'. Fal da lu ra laddie O, Fal da lu ra lido. But when at last he did cum whomme He wer a gradely felley, Un squeezed owd Jane, who obut thowt He hed gone off it, welley ; For barleycorn had made him reet, He hed no care or sorrow ; Un little thowt o' th' after claps, That would cum on to-morrow. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 543 Ses he, " owd wench aw feel quite young ; " " Tha. favvurs bein' young, mon ; It's nobbut drinh what's i' thi'-yed, Aw wish tha'd howd thi tongue, mon ; Cum doff thi shoon un get to bed, Tha'lt feel it in the mornin', Un grunt as ta wer gooin' to dee When tha should get thi corn in." " It's welley forty year sin neaw Aw used to knock at th' window ; Aw wer sum gradely fain, owd wench, As soon as aw hed sin thee ; Aw cud so loike it o'er again, Sich toimes are worth repeatin', Fur thee t' get up un oppen th' dur, Un gi' me th' gradely meetin'. It's o' yed wark, it's nuthin' else ; Aw loikes yed wark sometoimes, lass ; We talk o' what we han bin once, Un what eawr youthful proime was ; Cum gi's a cuss for owd lung soine ; Well owder it's un th' madder, Aw'll just goo eawt, thee fassen th' dur, Whoile aw look eawt fur th' ladder." Then Jane went reet away to bed, Un Tummus knocked at th' window, But Jane lee still, un Tummus cried — " Cum Jenny, let me in, doo ; " But Jenny thowt hoo'd sarve him eawt As he hed bin so cunnin', 544 MODERN SONGS AND Un cure him of sich silly tricks As in his yed were runnin'. At last hoo coom to th' window, Un saw Tummus in the moonlight, — For it wer gradely leet that neet, As leet as it wer noon, quite ; " Whoy Jenny what's ta meean by this, Aw'm welley starved to deeuth ; It sarves thee reet, tha should ha' sense, Un not caare theere o' t' eearth." Hoo leet him in ut last, un then Theere coom the explanashun ; Ses he "it is a peevish trick, Un nuthin' but vexashun ; Aw'll sarve thee eawt before it's lung," He sed in voice the sternest, " If tha begins to tomfoo' me When aw'm i' gradely yearnest." Ses she, " owd lad, when fost tha coom A coortin' here aw feared thee, Un leet thee knock un goo away As if aw'd nevvur yeard thee ; Un as tha wished to try th' owd mank, 'Fore aw went in for winnin', Aw thowt as it wer nobbut reet To start at the beginnin'." " Aw don't believe a word tha ses, It's o' my wark to please thee, Un when tha sees me th' reet soide eawt, Tha olis tries to tease me ; " BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 545 Ses Jane, " whoy will ta ne'er be lowd, Aw loikes thee weel as evvur, But when tha'st geet a gill or two, Tha wants to be so clevvur." l WHEN I RETURN FROM SEA. By R. W. Procter, Autl ->r of " The Streets of Manchester," etc. Yol TG Gideon left the verdant plain, A seaman's life to view ; He bade farewell to each fond swain, He sigh'd " Sweet Rose, adieu : Yet banish, love, thy maiden fears, This heart beats true to thee, And joy shall chase those tender tears, When I return from sea." Long years he sail'd where Ocean flows, A valiant British tar ; And fought against his country's foes, And braved the ills of war. But still his thoughts were thus express'd — " Sweet Rose, I think of thee ; And joy shall cheer thy gentle breast, When I return from sea." At length the reign of war was o'er. Mild peace controll'd the main, 1 The above furnishes an excellent example of the West Lancashire dialect. 2 N 546 MODERN SONGS AND And booming cannons ceas'd to roar, The knell of Britons slain. Then constant Rose forgot to mourn, Hope fill'd her breast with glee, And painted fair her love's return : — But he was wreck'd at sea. He fell, the victim of a storm, As falls the forest pride ; And soon came death, in gentlest form, To win the sailor's bride. Where low that village maid doth sleep, Friends mourn and flowers bloom free But only weeds and monsters creep, O'er him that's wreck'd at sea. AWAY FROM THEE. By James Bowker. The moonbeams fall on golden sheaves, And in the west there gleams a star, The zephyrs wander through the leaves With dying odours from afar ; And hush'd and low 1 hear the call Of nightingale unto her mate, In notes which through the dim light fall Melodious and desolate. But moon and star and wand'ring wind The blissful peace give not to me, BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 547 Which floods my soul and calms my mind, Whene'er, belov'd, I'dream of thee ! And in my heart thy dear notes dwell, Sweeter than those upon the breeze, Like music in a Southern shell, For ever exiled from its seas. TH' OWD BELLMAN. By Samuel Laycock. They may talk o' Turn Breawn bein' as " soft as a cawve," But aw'll warrant th' owd Bellman to be softer bi th' hawve ; Scarce a day passes o'er but he's pooin' his face, An bleth'rin' an' " cryin' " all up an' deawn th' place. Th' other day Snuffy Bet ud th' bumbailys i' th' shop, Gettin' ready for sellin' her besoms an' pop ; An' among other sundries wur th' owd woman's cat ; Well, aw'm blest iv th' owd softy didn't " cry " abeawt that. He " cried " when Dick Whiteside sowd off at his farm ; Aw met him th' same day wi' his bell on his arm, Soa aw ax'd heaw it wur he wur bawlin' so leawd, Iv th' things belonged him 'at wur beawn to be sowd. " Now, indeed, 'em," he said, " cryin's part o' my trade, An' aw dar' say tha'd yeawl a bit, too, iv tha're paid." "Well," aw said, "there's no tellin' what one may ha' t' do, Aw know aw once cried o'er an onion or two." S4§ MODERN SONGS AND A day or two sin' aw wur goin' deawn th' street, On a bit ov an arrand, when whoa should aw meet, But owd Jammie wi' th' bell, so says I, " What's up neaw ? " " Oh nowt, nobbut Jonathan Smith's lost a ceaw, An' he's gan me a shillin' to go reawnd an' ' cry ; ' Aw'm 'on duty' tha sees, so excuse me, good-bye." " Stop a bit, mon," aw said, "as aw've nowt mich to do, Iv tha'll gie me th' tone hawve on't aw'll 'cry' a bit too." "Not to-day," Jammie said, "aw can manage misel'," — Tong tingle-tum, tingle-tum, tingle-tum-dell ! " Law-st a ceaw, 'at belongs unto Jonathan Smith, Thoose 'at foind it mun bring it to th' bellman forth- with, At number nineteen, Betty Singleton's yard, Wheer th' foinder ull meet wi' a hon'some reward. Neaw, yo' chaps, here's a job, mak' good use o' yo're een, Foind Jonathan's ceaw ogen. God save the Queen ! " Well, aw seed him ogen a week after or so, He wur plasterin' some mack o' bills on a wo ; " Oh, Jammie," aw said, " what becoom o' that ceaw, Wur it feawnd th' other day when tha cried it, or heaw ? " " Feawnd ! aye to be sure, mon ; aw knew wheer it wur, Aw'd had it ole th' toime hud at eawer back dur ; When aw'd done goin' reawnd aw went whoam wi' mi bell, Took th' ceaw, said aw'd feawnd it, geet th' brass for misel'." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 549 "Eh, theaw rascal!" aw said, "to do tricks sich as these ; Wheerever does t' think tna'll ha' t' goa when tha dees ! Here, aw think aw con manage to foind thee a job." Soa aw towd him aw'd lost one o' th' childer — eawer Bob; An' aw gan him a papper o' what he had t' say, An' a shillin' or two, an' then sent him away. Th' furst corner he coom to he up wi' his bell, Tong-tingle-tum, tingle-tum, tingle-tum-dell ! " Law-st, oather to-day or else sometoime to morn, As pratty a babby as ever wur born ; It has cheeks like red roses, two bonny blue een, Had it meawth daubed wi' traycle th' last toime it wur seen ; It's just cuttin' it teeth, an' has very sore gums, An' it's getten a habit o' suckin' it thumbs ; Thoose 'at foind it may keep it, there's nob'dy ull care, For thoose 'at han lost it han lots moor to spare ! " Eh, there were some rare laffin' when Jammie had done ; Some o' th' women reet skreomed they thowt it sich fun. But th' owd chap wur some mad, he threw th' papper on th' floor, An' swore he'd ne'er "cry" o'er lost childer no moor. Sin' that toime he's tried hard to keep eawt o' my seet, Still aw neaw an' then drop on him somewheer i' th' street, An' I allis enquire iv he's wantin' a job, Iv he is he can go reawnd a seechin' eawer Bob. 55o MODERN SONGS AND ODE TO TH' SUN. By Samuel Laycock. Hail, owd friend ! awm fain to see thee : Wheer has t' been so mony days ? Lots o' times aw've looked up for thee, Wishing aw could see thi face. Th' little childer reawnd abeavvt here Say they wonder wheer tha'rt gone ; An they wanten me to ax thee T' shew thisel' as oft as t' con. Come an' see us every mornin'; Come, these droopin' spirits cheer ; Peep thro' every cottage window ; Tha'll be welcome everywheer. Show thisel' i' o' thi splendour ; Throw that gloomy veil aside ; What does t' creep to th' back o' th' cleawds for ? Tha's no fauts nor nowt to hide. Flashy clooas an' bits o' foinery Help to mend sich loike as me : Veils improve some women's faces, But, owd friend, they'll noan mend thee. Things deawn here 'at we co'n pratty, Soon begin to spoil an' fade ; But tha still keeps up thi polish, Tha'rt as breet as when new made. Tha wur theer when th' hosts o' heaven Sweetly sang their mornin' song ; BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 551 But tha looks as young as ever, Tho' tha's bin up theer so long An' for ages tha's Vr'n shinin' — Smilin' o' this world o' eawrs ; Blessin' everythin' tha looks on Makin' th' fruit grow — oppenin' th' fleawers. It wur thee 'at Adam looked on, When i' th' garden bi hissel'; An' tha smoiled upon his labour — Happen helped him — whoa can tell ! It wur thee 'at Joshua spoke to On his way to th' promised land ; When, as th' good owd Bible tells us, Theaw obeyed his strange command. Tha'll ha' seen some curious antics Played deawn here bi th' human race ; Some tha couldn't bear to look on, For tha' shawmed an' hid thi face. Mony a toime I see thee blushin', When tha't leavin' us at neet : An' no wonder, for tha's noticed Things we'n done 'at's noan bin reet. After o' tha comes to own us, Tho' we do so mich 'at's wrong ; Even neaw thar't shinin' breetlv, Helpin' me to write this song. Heaw refreshin' ! heaw revivin' ! Stay as long as ever t' con ! We shall noan feel hawve as happy, Hawve as leetsome, when tha'rt gone. 552 MODERN SONGS AND Oh ! for th' sake o' foalk at's poorly, Come an' cheer us wi' thi rays ; We forgetten 'at we ail owt When we see thy dear owd face. Every mornin' when it's gloomy, Lots o' foalk are seen abeawt — Some at th' door steps — some at th' windows- Watchin' for thee peepin' eawt. IN MEMORIAM.— CHARLES SWAIN. BORN JANUARY 4, 1803. DIED SEPTEMBER 22, 1S74. By Benjamin Brierley. ANOTHER vacant chair ! Another guest Hath left my threshold with his last " Good night \" 'Twas but an hour ago, ere yet the west Had lost the amber of its fading light, One other friend departed ; and he said— " Good bye ! " then sought his everlasting bed. And gone before were others of the throng, Who round my board at noon were full of thought And feeling that found utterance in song. Th' Eternal Watchman's call their ears had caught ■ And autumn leaves around their footsteps fell, As they, in tones that linger, sang " Farewell ! " And there are others glancing towards the door, As though they saw a shadow on the stair, With finger pointing to Heav'n's glitt'ring floor, And beck'ning to a festal gath'ring there. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 553 These shall arise ere yet the night be gone, And one — but which of us ? — be left alone. He who last left the scene where none can stay, Woke with his touch the bosom's tenderest chord, And sang with fervid lips that noblest lay — The love of man and glory of the Lord. He "breathed of beauty, and eternal youth ;" The " Mind," its "grace, divinity, and truth." And as he moved his fingers o'er the lyre, His eyes were ever streaming with a light Caught from the glow of some celestial fire, Shining on worlds beyond the reach of night. And grew the melody most sweet and clear, When felt the hand the final touch was near. As sings the nightingale when all is hushed, His song was never heard at noontide hour Among the crowd of warblers ; but when blushed The Night at Day's soft wooing, he his bower Would seek, and from some solitary spray Awake the echoes with his roundelay. But never more shall voice of his be heard At our sublunar festivals, nor thought Flash from his soul in glance as well as word. A spell upon his ear the angels wrought ; And whispering 'neath their pinions, " Brother, come," They bore the minstrel to his heav'nly home. Say not you miss him from his chair to-night, Ye who have but another hour to stay, But watch the flick'ring of the taper's light — A symbol of the close of Life's brief day — 2 n 2 534 MODERN SONGS, ETC. And be ye ready, brethren, one and all, That none may hurry at the Watchman's call. Say, " Peace to the departed ! " He, ere now, Hath heard the song we list for in our dreams, But only faintly hear. Around his brow The lustre of immortal glory beams, In which the smiles of kindred spirits shine, The scintillations of a light divine. Oh, why this emptiness of earthly boasts — These songs in praise of perishable wine ? Our friend the guest is of the Host of Hosts, And sips the juice of an eternal vine. The picture change — the mourners are the dead, Who wait our coming. — Which of us shall lead? THE END. Printed by R. &. R. Ct.ARk", Edinburgh. Recently published, VOLUME I. OF THE NEW EDITION OF DR. WHITAKER'S WHALLEY, Edited by John Gough Nichols, Esq., F.S.A., and the Rev. Ponsonby A. Lyons, B.A. Subscription Prices for the Two Volumes, Small Paper, Medium ¥o, £z ■ J 3 : 6 ; Large Paper, Royal tfo, £$ '■ 5- "Volume II., completing the "Work, will shortly be ready. The First Volume of this important book being now ready, the Publishers desire to call attention to a few of the new features that characterise this portion of the Work. A Biographical Memoir of Dr. Whitaker, extending to 44 pages, by John Gough Nichols, Esq., F.S.A., is given, which it is believed will be deemed to be a feature of special interest. A New Plan of the Abbey is included, besides some New En- gravings on Wood, and Dr. Whitaker's Plates of the Roman Antiquities are now for the first time explained. The Seal of the Abbey, which was unknown to Dr. Whitaker, has been discovered, and this interesting relic is now engraved for the first time. Considerable additions are made in reference to the Chapel of Clitheroe and the Customs of Clitheroe, and new information is given respecting Newchurch in Pendle, Pendle Forest, New- church in Rossendale, Musbury, Tottington, etc. etc. Altogether, the First Volume has received an accession of more than one-fourth of New Matter. The Pedigrees, which form such an interesting feature in the Book, it is intended to bring down to the present time, thus giving a lasting value to this Edition. They, for the most part, will come in the Second Volume. The Second Volume, now in progress, amongst other valuable accessions, will contain some New Plates of the Mansions of the Resident Gentry, and a New and Comprehensive Index, a feature in which former Editions of the Work were deficient. In fact, so many additions and improvements are made in this New Edition that the former ones may be deemed obsolete. LONDON : G. ROUTLEDGE & SONS AND L. C. GENT Lancashire History, Legends, Antiquities, Topography, dc. BAINES' HISTORY OP LANCASHIRE, Edited by John Harland, F.S.A., and the Rev. Brooke Herford. In Two thick 4to Volumes, printed on the best paper, Price £3 : 13 : 6, a New Edition, brought down to recent date. Besides the Local Histories of the different Lancashire Towns, all of which are dealt with more or less exhaustively, a large mass of valuable, statistical, and other information is given, rendering the book a most important addendum to the libraries of the Nobility, Gentry, and the Inhabitants generally of the County Palatine. GREGSON'S PORTFOLIO OF FRAGMENTS, Relative to the History and Antiquities, Topography, and Genealogies of Lancashire. (Foolscap Folio, ^4 : 4 : ; Large Paper Copies, £6 : 6 : 0.) Embellished with numerous Engravings of Views, Seats, Seals, Arms, and Antiquities. Third Edition, with additions and improvements. Edited by John Harland, F. S.A. This well-known work contains the largest collection in print of Engraved Coats of Arms of Lancashire Families, as well as many of Cheshire and Yorkshire and other Counties. Comprehensive Indexes are published, for the first time, in this Edition, the want of which in former editions renders them, for referential pur- poses, comparatively valueless. In the Press, a New Edition of ROBY'S TRADITIONS OF LANCASHIRE, In Two Volumes, small 8vo. This new edition will be issued in two thick small 8vo volumes, and will contain all the Copperplates engraved by Finden, after Drawings by Pickering, as well as the Woodcuts which appeared in the Library Edition published several years ago, which was out of print as soon as published, and has become very scarce. This Edition, like the Library Edition, will be complete, as several Legendary Tales are incorporated in it which were not included in the earlier editions. LONDON : G. ROUTLEDGE & SONS AND L. C. GENT. ' THE "H. B." CARICATURES (THE ORIGINAL PICTURES.) Messrs. Routledge & Sons having, in conjunction with Mr. Gent, purchased the remainder of these Interesting Sketches, they have been made, as far as was practicable, into half-bound volumes, each containing a certain number of pictures, and in this form they are offered to the Public, who can procure them from the Booksellers. When the " H. B." Political Sketches appeared they formed an epoch, both in Politics and in the history of the Fine Arts. Scarcely any political celebrity of the time, from Canning to Mr. Disraeli, Mr. Cobden, and Mr. Bright, was omitted from this amusing collection, and hardly any incident of interest in the political world has escaped record ; they may be considered valuable adjuncts to the Political History of the country. Not only were the merit and value of these Sketches recog- nised in Great Britain by the highest classes of society, but they had a lengthened popularity in all the chief cities of Europe. DR. SYNTAX'S THREE TOURS, In Search of the Picturesque, Consolation, and a Wife. With the 80 Coloured Illustrations by Rowlandson. Three vols., royal 8vo, cloth, ,£1:11:6. This Edition contains the THREE Tours, and is rendered valuable by Rowlandson's Pictures. LONDON : G. ROUTLEDGE & SONS AND L. C. GENT. SPORTING BOOKS, Embellished with finely Coloured Pictures, after Drawings by H. Alken and Others. THE NOBLE SCIENCE. A Few General Ideas on Fox-Hunting for the use of the rising generation of Sportsmen, by F. P. Delme Radcliffe, Esq., with numer- ous Coloured Illustrations. 21s. THE LIFE OF A SPORTSMAN. By Nimrod. A New Edition, with 38 Coloured Illustrations by Alken (being Two more than the former Edition contained). £2 : 2s. LIFE AND DEATH OF JOHN MYTTON, Esq. Containing the 18 original Coloured Illustrations by ALKEN and Rawlins, and Memoir by Nimrod. 21s. JORROCKS'S JAUNTS AND JOLLITIES. 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