¥im -i'r. 'mm -\>' ).^- ^>f:;s •r ■^^ V ^.r -■^ * 5T^f*K ^f* A^^-<" -?^ y^ ^ •ftWflWV vM . u LANCASHIRE LYRICS. HARLAND'S LANCASHIRE LYRICS. HARLANDS OLDER LANCASHIRE BALLADS. THE BOOK OF FAMILIAR QUOTATIONS. CHOICE POEMS AND LYRICS. CHOICE THOUGHTS FROM SHAKSPERE. GOLDEN GLEANINGS FROM THE POETS. WISE SAYINGS OF THE GREAT AND GOOD. THE BOOK OF HUMOUR, WIT, AND WISDOM. ROBIN HOOD, with Illustrations. THE ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS, arranged by the Hon. Mrs Sugden. Printed on Toned Paper, price 5^. each. LANCASHIRE LYRICS: MODERN SONGS AND BALLADS OF THE COUNTY PALATINE. EDITED BY JOHN HARLAND. F.S.A.. EDITOR OF "ballads AND SONGS OF LANCASHIRE, CHIEFLY OLDER THAN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. ._,,, t» LONDON: WHIITAKER & CO., AVE MARIA LANE. 1866. ONE OF ONE HUNDRED COPIES Printed on Large Paper. PREFACE. In the Preface to a former volume of " Ballads and Songs of Lancashire, chiefly older than the Nineteenth Centuiy," a promise was given— should that book find favour^to pub- lish another of the "■Modern Songs and Ballads of Lanca- shire;" and, in fulfilment of that promise, the present volume is offered to the public. In the course of its pre- paration, however, it was found that its materials were too extensive to be compressed into a single volume. More- over, they separated themselves, both in character and garb, into two broadly distinct classes. Most of the pieces in this volume are expressions of the deep affections and aspirations of humanity ; and in elevation of thought and sentiment, no less than in rhythmical and poetic qualities, they are not to be classed with the ordinary street ballad. Many of them rise into the region of true poetry ; and in this respect, it is hoped, the present volume may be accepted in refutation of the notion, especially rife at a distance, that Lancashire is altogether too hard, cold, and sterile a soil to bear kindly the flowers and blossoms of poesy. So far from this collec- tion being an exhaustive one, the writings of many Lanca- shire authors of both sexes have, from various circumstances, been excluded. The pieces in this volume appearing to the Editor to be susceptible of some classification, he has thus arranged them : — I. Romantic and Legendary Ballads. II. Songs of Love and Praises of the Fair. III. Songs of Home and its Affections. IV. Songs of Life and Brotherhood. V. Lays of the Cotton Famine. VI. Sea Songs. There still remain, in reserve, Songs of the Volunteers of the Eighteenth and Nine- 8'lJi*>1 ^? vi PREFACE. teenth Centuries; Political and Party Songs; Songs Descrip- tive of Local Scenes and Events ; Songs of Factory Life ; other Trade Songs ; Songs of Field Sports, Poaching, Races, &c. ; and Songs of Humour. Many of these are in the Lancashire dialect, and have the stamp of that diy yet racy humour, which the writings of Edwin Waugh, Benjamin Brierley, the Wilson Family, and others, have made extensively known as indigenous to Lancashire. It is proposed to produce here- after another volume of selections from the mass of materials in the Editor's possession, under some such title as "Lan- cashire Local and Humorous Songs, many in Dialect." The pleasurable duty remains of thanking all those to whom, far more than to the Editor, this volume owes its ex- istence. He has merely gathered the flowers of Lancashire song into a garland. Theirs is the fragrance of these poetic blossoms ; theirs the rich and varied tints that delight Ihe eye. To thank each individually by name would be simply to repeat the table of contents ; and he can therefore only tender to one and all, his most grateful thanks for the court- eous and ready kindness with which they have acceded to his request. To the surviving representatives of deceased writers, and to various publishing firms holding copyrights, he must take leave, in like manner, to tender his sincere acknowledgments. SwiNTON, October iZ^s- *^* In songs with a chorus, refrain, bourdon, or burden, the Editor has either wholly omitted the repetition after the first verse, or indi- cated its place by "&c." In songs in the Lancashire dialect, he has left each writer to his own mode of spelling, to convey the pronuncia- tion ; only marking the distinction between the sound of all, represented by the vowel o standing alone, and the elision (in speech) of the words e'/and on, marked by o' with an apostrophe,— as in " o maks o' things," —all makes of things. " Hoc" (Anglo-Saxon, keo, the feminine oi he) is she. Most really difficult words and phrases are explained in the notes. CONTENTS. I— ROMANTIC AND LEGENDARY BALLADS. Introduction, The Last Wolf, The Eve of St John, The Wild Rider, . A Legend of the Heart, The Carrion Crow, Ballad — "Why Leave you thus," The Maiden's Fate, The Mandrake, The Hunter's Song, Ballad — "Cast the gay Robes from off thy Form," King Frost, . Clayton ILm.l, The Wanderer, The Billmen of Bowland, Black Bess, . Gypsy Ballad, AUTHOR. . . • " Tristram,^'' Charles Swain, Samuel Bamford, yohn Bolton Rogerson, William Harrison Ains'iuoi-th, PAGE I 2 9 12 21 24 Charles Swain, . . 25 John Bolton Rogerson, . 26 William Harrison Ainsworth, 27 Rev. Richard Parki7ison,D.D., 29 John Bolton Rogerson, . 32 Charles Swain, . . 33 Elijah Ridings, . -34 Charles Sivain, . . 36 From " Ned 0/ the Fell," . 39 William Harrison Ainr.i'orth, 41 Charter Sivaiit, . . 44 Vlll CONTENTS. AUTHOR. PAGE Old Grindrod's Ghost, . VVilliam Harrison Ainswoith, 45 The Young CiD, . . Robert Rockliff, . . 49 The Keeper's Son, . . Richard R. Beaky, . . 52 Ballad of James and Jane, Henry Kirk, . . 54 Derwentwater's Fate, . Anonymous, , • 57 II.— LOVE SONGS AND PRAISES OF THE FAIR. Introduction, Love's Evil Choice, The Sprig of Thyme, Colin and Phebe, . Songs — " The Moon is Bright," Margaret, "Remember Me," The Invitation, Kitty and Robin, The Lover's Call, . Meg or Jenny ? " Oh, Well I Love my gentle Maid," My Wynder, . Canzonette — "There is a Place," . Peggy Dill, . "She's not so Fair," Bertha, My Johnny, . To Mary, "Come, Love, and Sing," . Airs Habergham, From the Greaves Collection John Byrom, M.A., F.R.S. William Rowlinson, Author of '■^ Scarsdale" John Critchley Prince, Author of " Scarsdale" John Bolton Rogerson, Samuel Bamford, . John Bolton Rogerson, Henry Kirk, Charles Swain, Henry Kirk, Richard R. Bealey, . The Editor, John Bolton Rogerson, 62 63 65 67 71 72 73 74 75 77 78 79 81 83 84 85 86 87 89 go CONTENTS. IX England's Maidens, Deceived ! . Serenade, Canzonette— '* I know a Star," Mally, Lucy Xeale, . Love's History, " We Met," . . ' . The Maid of Diss, . " I 'll tell my Mother," . Th' Sweetheart Gate, The Loved and Lost, The Farewell, Lovely Susannah, Maggie, SULINA, Better than Beauty, Nothing M.re, Nuptial Lines, The Faithless, Chirrup, " I Gazed o'er the Blue Still Waters," Minona, "But I am Sad," To Miss M. B., ' Poets' Fictions, "Oh, Mirk and Stormy," "In a Snug Little Nook," The Ardent Lover, The Lancashire Witch, . "TiieDule's i'tiiis Bonnet o' Mine," . AUTHOR. Henry Kirk, Mrs G. LinncBHs Banks, IVilUaDi Mori, yohtt CritcJdey Prince, Richard R. Beaky, . The Editor, . Charles Sivain, Henry Kirk, George Richardson, . John Bolton Rogersoit, Edwin IVaiigh, Henry Kirk, Rev. Richard Parkinson, D. Thomas Nicholson, . Richard R. Bealey, , Henry Kirk, Charles Swain, John Bolton Rogerson, George Richardson, . Henry Kirk, Edwin Watigh, yames Horton Groves, Henry Kirk, Richard R. Bealey, . Hejiry Kirk, The Editor, . James Horton Groves, Thomas Brier ley, Edward Riishton, John Scholes, D Edzuin IVaiigh, PAGE 91 92 93 94 95 1 02 103 104 105 106 108 109 , III 1X2 "3 114 115 116 lis 119 120 1 22 123 124 125 127 128 130 131 133 • 135 CONTENTS. Th' Heart Brokken, The Love-Draught, The Dominie's Courtship, John Higson, Robert Rockliff^ PAGE 136 138 138 III— SONGS OF HOME AND ITS AFFECTIONS. Introduction, and Lines by It is but a Cottage, The Pleasures o' Whoam, " Farewell to my Cottage," Home, Early Haunts Visited, The Music in our Home, . The Old Place, The Songs of our Fathers, Domestic Melody, . Home and Friends, Mine! The Woodman's Ballad, . " As Welcome as Flowers in May," . The Poet to his Wife, The First-Born, " Come Whoam to thi Childer an' Me," The Star of the Household, "'Tis Sweet to Meet," . '* Welcome, Bonny Brid ! " The Lost Brother, Evening Song, John Critchley Prince, Charles Swain, Joseph Ramshottom, . Sanmel Baniford, Charles Swain, R. W. Procter, Mrs Wm. Hobson, . Henry Kirk, Mrs Hemans, John Ci'itchley Prince, Charles Sivain, Mrs G. Linnceiis Banks, R. W. Procter, John Critchley Prince, William Mart, Mrs Trafford Whitehead, Edwin Wangh, John Critchley Prince, George Richardson, . Samnel Laycock, William Mort, John Critchley Prime, 141 142 143 145 147 148 149 151 152 154 155 156 157 158 161 162 164 166 168 169 171 173 CONTENTS. XI Loved and Lost, Eawr Bessy, . The Child and the Dew- drops, Edith, " Moi OWD MON," . To Little Angel " Charlie," The last Behest, . Mi Gronfeyther, . The Christmas Tree, •• GodBless these poorWim- MEN that 's ChILDER ! " . The Kiss beneath the Holly, "Aw coNNUT Dry my Heen, Robin," Eawr Folk, . Lines to my Wife, Angel Annie, My Ideal Home, AUTHOR. PA(JK Mrs Trafford Whitehead, , 175 Richard R. Bealey, . 177 John Critchley Prince, 182 Richard R. Bealey, . . 184 Author of " Scarsdah; " . 18S Richard R. Bealey, . 186 William Mori, 188 Savmel Laycock, 190 The Editor, . 192 Thomas Brierley, 194 Mrs Williain Hobsoit, 195 John Scholcs, . 196 Edwin Waiigh, 200 Samiul Bamford, • 203 Mrs William Hobson, 206 208 IV.-SONGS OF LIFE AND BROTHERHOOD. Introduction, The Songs of the People, Festive Strains, " Why, PRITHEE now," Life, .... The Child, . "There's No Chap should EVER Lose Pluck," The Hf.rmit, John Critchley Prince, George Richardson, . John Byrom, M.A., F.R.S., Charles Suoain, John Briggs, 211 212 213 213 214 215 Richard R. Bealey, . . 217 yohn Byrom, M.A., T.R.S., 218 xu CONTENTS. The Garland of Life, The Toper's Plea for Drinking, . " Heaw Quareis this Loife ! ' Human Brotherhood, The Good Spirit, The Sun and the Flowers, Song of the Exile, The Bride, . Avarice, Think not of Failure, A Welcome, . Do A Good Turn when you Can, Love, Honour, and Death, Lines Written in a Boat, Hope and Perseverance, . The Weaver of Wellbrook, The Lesson of the Leaves, " My Piece is o bu' Woven Eawt," Our Daily Paths, . Help One Another, Songs of the People — The Gathering, . Bowton's Yard, Welcome Whitsuntide, Lowly Worth, Stanzas Written to Music, The Song of Other Days, To Falsehood, Good Neet, . The Friends of " Auld Lang Synf," AUTHOR. I'AGB John Bolton Roger son, 219 Rev. Thomas Wilson, 221 ' Thomas Brierley, 222 John Critchley Prince, 224 Mrs G. Linno'its Banks, 225 James Watson, 226 Rev. Richard Farki7ison,D.D., 227 William Mort, 229 Rev. Thomas Wilson, B.D., ■ 231 Mrs Williai7i Hobson, 232 James Dawson, j'wt.. 233 Charles Strain, . -235 Henry Kirk, , .235 Rev. Richard Parkinson, D.D., 236 John Critchley Prince, . 238 Benjamin Brio'ley, . -239 Mrs G. Limicens Banks, . 240 Richa7-d R. Bealey, . . 241 Mrs Hemans, • 243 Thomas Brierley, , . 246 William Mort, . 248 Samuel Lay cock. • 251 Mrs William Hobson, • 254 The Editor, • 256 Rev. Ricliai-d Parkinson,D.D., 257 Robert Rockliff, . . 258 John Brings, . . 259 James Daivson, pm., . 261 Mrs William Hobson, 262 CONTENTS. xiii AUTHOR. PAf;E Fame, .... Thomas Brierley,. , 263 "Be Kind to Each Othkr !" C/iar/es S^aahi, 265 Farewell, John Jitst, . 266 Kindly Words, yohn Critchley Prince, 268 The Song of Night, Mrs Hemans, 269 Song for the Brave, Samuel Bamford, . 271 Friends do not Die, Richard R. Beaky, 272 "There are Moments in Life," Charles Swain, 273 England's Dead, Mrs Hemans, 274 The Tried and the True, . Mrs G. I.innczus Banks, 276 The Pass of Death, Samuel Bamford, 277 Finis, .... Charles Swain, . 280 V.-LAYS OF THE COTTON FAMINE. Introduction, The Mill-Hands' Petition, The Factory Lass, . "Short Time, Come again NO More," . Eawt o' Wark, The Smokeless Chimney, . "Cheer up a bit longer," Philii' Clough's Tale, Tickle Times, F RETT in', Th' Shurat Weaver's Song, Coin' t' Schoo'. Skwin'-class Song, . • • • 281 From a Broadside, . 282 Joseph Ramsbottom, 2S3 From a Broadside, . 285 Joseph Rantsbottom, 285 Mrs Bcllasis, 2S9 Samuel Laycock, 292 Joseph Ramsbottom, 293 Edwin Waugh, ■ 295 Joseph Ramsbottom, 297 Samuel Laycock, 298 Joseph Ramsbottom, 300 Samuel Laycock, 302 XIV CONTENTS. Hard Times ; or, The Weyvur to his Wife, . James Bowker, "God bless 'em, it shows THEY 'n some Thowt ! " . Saiiiiul Laycock, FAGB VI.-SEA SONGS. Introduction, Will Clewline, The Farewell, Absence, The Neglected Tar, The Lass of Liverpool, " When the Broad Arci OF Heaven," E(hi)ard Riishtov, 309 309 312 314 315 317 0^9 "i^k^ • &-^' ^ ^"^ MODERN SONGS AND BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. I. laomantfc anti ILeg:ent«iirp Ballaticf* As we approach the present time, we find this class of ballads becoming more rare. The present age is so literal, practical, and matter-of-fact, and withal has brought with it so many material cares and struggles for the people of Lancashire, that it cannot be matter for surprise that old legendary marvels and ballads of the imagination and the fancy have become "kw and far between." The flame is, however, still" kept alive by the poet ; and the few examples we are able to give are almost all derived from some of those who have added lustre to the literary annals of Lancashire. 2 MODERN SONGS AND THE LAST WOLF: A LEGEND OF HUMPHREY HEAD.* By "Tristram." {Ahrido;ed from the ^^ Lotisdale Magazine " Feb. 1S21.) At a remote period, a bold and intrepid knight, named Harrington, fixed his residence at Wraysholme Tower, near Humphrey Head, on the northern shore of Morecambe Bay. The remains of the tower, dark and gloomy, are still visible, sheltered by clumps of old trees, with deep green foliage of sombre hue. The knight, in erecting the tower, constructed the walls of stone, cemented with lime and ox-blood, designing them to endure for ages. His strange, wayward fancy is manifest in the shape of the present struc- ture, which is considerably wider at the top than the bottom. In his days a few wolves still remained in the extensive forest of Cartmel, and these he hunted with a determination to exterminate. In one of these excursions, Harrington had ridden away from his companions, and had ascended the summit of Hum- phrey Head, in order, if possible, to regain a sight of his fellow-sportsmen. While traversing the forest on a fleet horse, he heard shrieks, and on reaching the spot from whence they proceeded, he beheld a young and lovely female, crouching in a cleft of the rock, while an enormous wolf was endeavouring to reach her ; barking loudly, and with fierce, flashing eyes. The knight succeeded in transfixing the ferocious * The great length of this interesting ballad (seventy-five verses) pre. chides our giving it entire ; but we have preserved the more salient fea- tures of the story. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 3 animal with his hunting-spear ; and then, dismount- ing, he assisted to release the lady from her rough and precarious asylum. The result may be antici- pated. Gratitude was quickly succeeded by love ; for the knight was young, handsome, brave, graceful, eloquent, and kind. The neighbouring chapel soon received their exchanged vows. They lived long and happily, and a numerous progeny crowned their union. This wolf, says the tradition, was the last ever seen in England ; on which account the knight assumed it as his crest. The happy pair, when they passed away, were laid together in a niche in Cartmel church. Their effigies were cut in stone, with a figure of the wolf at their feet. A few Runic knots, to mark the descent of the knight, were carved on the walls ; but, without a word of inscription, their monument remains to perplex the modern antiquary. The ballad varies considerably from the tradition. The sun hath set on Wraysholme's Tower, And o'er broad Morecambe's Bay, — The moon from out her eastern bower Pursues the path of day. Within those walls may now be seen The festive board display'd ; And round it many a knight, I ween, And many a comely maid. For know, that on the morrow's dawn, With all who list to ride, Sir Edgar Harrington hath sworn 'l'(j hunt the country side. MODERN SONGS AND A Wolf,— the last, as rumour saith, In England's spacious realm, - Is doom'd that day to meet its death, And grace the conqueror's helm. And he hath sworn an oath, beside, Whoe'er that wolf shall quell, Shall have his fair niece for a bride, With half his lands as well. But two there are who httle feel The mirth abounding there. Yon red-cross knight, Sir John Delisle, And Adela the fair. An orphan maid was Adela, Sir Edgar's cherish'd ward. For beauty famous wide and far, And bounteous deeds adored. Though oft by neighb'ring swains besought. She ne'er had wooed but one. Now dead in foreign lands, 'twas thought, Whose name was Harrington, 'Tis whisper'd that in happier times They plighted mutual troth. And then the youth sought other climes, Beneath his father's wrath. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. But as he scans yon stranger knight, You hear old Hubert vow, That love-lorn wanderer meets his sight, Whate'er his name be now. Beyond him, by Sir Edgar's side, Sits Layburne at the board, Close suitor for the bonny bride, But from her soul abhorr'd. With morn comes the great chase — Full threescore riders mount with speed : Lo ! Layburne there bestrides A stalwart steed of Flemish breed. That well his weight abides. Whilst mounted on an Arab white, Of figure lithe and free. Rides young Delisle, the stranger knight. So wrapt in mystery. [The wolf, scared from his covert on Humphrey Head, leads the hunters a long and weary chase, even reaching and swimming over a part of Windermere ; and then, being headed, makes for his lair on Hum- phrey Head, which he reaches at even-tide.] Of all that goodly companie. Rode forth at break of day, But two bold riders now are nigh, Delisle and Layburne they. MODERN SONGS AND And left of all the gallant pack That swell'd their lusty cheer, Two tireless bloodhounds keep the track, As evening's shades appear. But these, unspent in limb and wind, Now press the quarry home ; It hears their hollow pants behind, And feels its hour is come. Thus slow they strain o'er Humphrey's height, When, lo ! a chasm appears, That dips in darkness from the sight, And fills the heart with fears. First Layburne nears the giddy brink. With spur and slacken'd rein. And then his steed is seen to shrink, Nor face the chasm again. Now, bold Delisle ! ah, well I wot. Though manfully thou strive. No rider may explore that grot And leave its shades alive ! Vain care ! he crests its craggy brow And, spurring down amain. Cries, " Adela, I 'II win thee now, Or ne'er wend forth again." A while from side to side it leapt, That steed of mettle true ; Then, swiftly to destruction swept, Like flashing lightning flew. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. The shingles in its headlong course With rattling din give way ; The hazels snap beneath its force, The mountain savins sway. Meantime, upon her palfrey light The ladye waits beneath ; When lo ! the wild wolf bursts in sight, And bares its glistening teeth. Her ejes are closed in mortal dread, And ere a look they steal. The wolf and Arab both lie dead, And scatheless stands Delisle. Full promptly from the slaughtcr'd prey He plucks his reeking spear, And cries, " O beauteous Adela ! Behold thy true love here ! " Rcmcmberest thou thy early vow. Thou ne'er wouldst wed but one ? He comes, I trow, to claim it now, Thine own John Harrington. " Though many a day hath pass'd away Since those bright times we knew. This heart, though not so light and gay, Is still as warm and true. " Oh lovely star of auld lang syne ! That long hast ruled its core, This day at last hath made thee mine, To part, I ween, no more." MODERN SONGS AND " Now, by my troth," Sir Edgar cried, " Right welcome back, my son ; Full surely shalt thou wed the bride Thou hast so bravely won." Even as the sire his son embraced, (By chance it so befell,) The Prior of St Mary's pass'd To drink the Holy Well. Sir Edgar straight the priest besought To tarry for a while ; Who, when the lady's eye he caught, Assented with a smile. • ••••* The monk he had a mellow heart, And, scrambling to the spot, Full blithely there he play'd his part, And tied the nuptial knot. And hence that cave on Humphrey Hill, Where these fair deeds befell, Is call'd Sir Edgar's Chapel still, As hunters wot full well. And still that holy fount is there To which the prior came ; And still it boasts its virtues rare, And bears its ancient name. And long on Wraysholme's lattice light A wolf's head might be traced. In record of the red-cross knight Who bore it for a crest. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. In Cartmel's church his grave is shown, And o'er it, side by side, All graved in stone, lie brave Sir John, And Adela his bride. THE EVE OF ST JOHN: a legendary ballad. By Charles Swain. She waiteth by the forest stream. She sitteth on the ground ; While the moonlight, like a mantle, Wraps her tenderly around ! She sitteth through the cold, cold night, But not a step draws near ; Though his name is on her trembling lips. His voice meets not her ear ! Hist ! was't the haunted stream that spoke? What droning sound swept there ? She listens ! — Still no human tone O'erhears she anywhere ! Oh ! was 't the forest bough that took That sad and spectral mien ? She looketh round distractedly. But there is nothing seen ! Dark, in the quiet moonlight. Her shadowy form is thrown ; With a strange and lonely mournfulness, // seems not like her own / lo MODERN SONGS AND She glanceth o'er her shoulder fair, The moon is gleaming wide ; She turneth — Jesu ! what is there Pale sitting by her side ? She pauseth for a single breath — She hearkens for a tone ; And terror pains her chilling veins, For breath or sound is none ! The silence — oh ! it racks her brain, It binds it like a cord ; She 'd given worlds, though but to hear The chirping of a bird. The shadow rose before her, It stood upon the stream : " O blessed shadow, ease my soul. And tell me 'tis a dream ! Thou tak'st the form of one they vow'd Mine eyes should see no more !" The shadow stood across the stream, And beckon'd pale before. The shadow beckon'd on before, Yet deign'd her no reply ; The lady rose, and straight the stream To its pebbly breast was dry. It pass'd the wood, it cross'd the court, The gate flew from its chain ; The gentle ladye knew she stood Within her own domain ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. ii And still the awful shadow glid, Without or breath or tone, Until it came to a sullen sluice, 'Mid yellow sand and stone ; But rock and sand disdain'd to stand, The water scorn'd to flow ; Thus blood was seen down the rift between, And the dead reveal'd below. The dead was seen, in the space between. And the ladye knew it well ! She kiss'd its cheek, with a piercing shriek, With a woe no tongue may tell. The gory shadow beckon'd on, And still her steps implored ; But she follow'd not, for on that spot She found a shiver'd sword. She grasp'd the hilt, its silken thread Her own fair skill had wove ; A brother's hand had struck the dead — His sword had slain her love ! She took the corpse upon her knees, Its cheek lay next her own ; Like sculpture fair, in the moonlight there, Like misery turn'd to stone ! No food to seek for the ravens' beak, The gibbet serves them true. With young and sweet and dainty meat, As e'er the ravens knew ; 12 MODERN SONGS AND And few they see near the gibbet tree, For a bleeding form ghdes on, From the haunted stream, in the moon's cold beam On the eve of good Saint John ! THE WILD RIDER, (a legendary tale.) By Samuel Bamford. part first. Now unto fair Alkrington tidings there came, And the gallant young knight he soon heard of the same, That a gentle young damsel had passed that morn, And was gone up a hunting with hound and with horn ; "And oh !" said Sir Ashton, " if that be the case, Methinks I would fain join the maid in the chase. And so bid my groom-boy, withouten delay, Bring forth my white hunter, I '11 ride her to-day." And soon his white hunter was led to the gate, Where, neighing and pacing, she scarcely would wait ; She champ'd the steel bit, and she flung her head high. As if she would fain snuff the air of the sky, And wist not to breathe the low wind of the plain, Which spread like a white cloud her tail and her mane ; " And oh ! '' thought the knight, as he view'd her with pride, " The game should be love when my Arab I ride." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 13 The knight he rode south, over Blakeley's high land, But tidings he heard not of maid or her band ; The knight he rode east, towards the uprising sun. But the broad heaths of Moston lay silent and dun ; And then he sped north, but she did not appear ; The cry of the hunter came not to his ear, Till o'er lonely Syddall awoke a far strain, And he rode till he join'd the fair maid and her train. And who was the maiden that, plumSd so gay, Went forth with the hounds and good hunters that day ? And why did the damsel make slight of all heed. Or whither she went with her hound and her steed ? And why reck'd she little of all that gay band. But still cast her long-looking gaze o'er the land ; And smiled not, though often she turned and sigh'd, Till a snowy-white courser afar she espied ? Sweet Mary, twin rose of the Asshfeton line. Was she who came forth like a Dian divine ; And often the knight and the damsel, of late, Had met at the hunting, through love or through fate ; And now she bade welcome with maidenly pride — The knight waved his hand and rode on by her side ; But ere the old woodlands of Bowlce were cross'd, Both knight and fair maid to the hunters were lost. For there, while the chase hurries on like the wind. The twain of young lovers have tarried behind ; And leaving their steeds, the deep woodlands they pace. His arm round the maid, and his looks on her face ; 14 MODERN SONGS AND He whispers sweet words from his heart's inmost core, He would love her through life and through death, — could he more ? And fondly, in tears, she emplighteth her vow, " In life and in death I'll be faithful as thou ! " PART SECOND. Now unto fair Alkrington tidings there came, And soon was the knight made aware of the same, That Mary, his loved one, was held in deep thrall, Close bolted and barr'd, down at Middleton Hall ; And that her old father had sworn by his life, His daughter should ne'er to Sir Ashton be wife ; And that one Sir Morden,* a knight from South-land, Had come down to claim Lady Mary's fair hand. Oh ! woe unto true love, when kindred severe Would stifle affection and chill its warm tear ! And woe unto true love, when trials come fast, And friendship is found but a shadow at last ! And woe to the heart that is reft of its own, And bidden to languish in sorrow alone ! But woe beyond weeping is that when we prove That one we love dearly hath ceased to love ! Thus mournful the fate of the maid did appear ; Her sire, though he loved her, was stern and austere, And friends who came round her when bright was her day. Were silent, or doubtful, or kept quite away. * This is a misnomer, as the monument of the last of the Asshetons in MidJleton church testifies. The name should be Harbord. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 15 But Hope, like an angel, bright visions still drew, And pictured her knight ever constant and true. Till one came and told her he 'd ta'en him a bride ;— Her young heart then wither'd, her tears were all dried. How sweet is the music of wedding-day bells, On sunny bright uplands, and down the green dells ; All gaily melodious it comes in the air. As if undying pleasure were carolling there ; Like golden-wing' d seraphs all broken astray, And playing on cymbals for bright holiday ! E'en such was the music one gay morning time, Which the bells of St Leonards did merrily chime. And why rang St Leonards that merry-mad tunc ? And why was the church path with flowers bestrewn ? And who was that marble-pale beauty that moved As nothing she hoped for, and nothing she loved— Who gave her white hand, but 'twas clammy and cold? Who sigh'd when she look'd on her ring of bright gold ? O Mary ! lost Mary ! where now is thy vow, " In life and in death I 'II be faithful as thou ?" PART THIRD. In a ruinous cottage, at Cambeshirc barn, An old wither'd crone sat unravelling yarn ; A few heaped embers lay dusty and white ; A lamp, green and fetid, cast ominous light ; A cat strangely bark'd, as it hutch'd by the hob ; A broody hen crow'd from her perch on a cob ; The lamp it burn'd pale, and the lamp it burn'd blue, And fearfully ghast was the light which it threw. i6 -MODERN SONGS AND " And who cometh here ?" said the mumbhng old crone, " And why comes a gentleman riding alone ? And why doth he wander areawt* such a night, When the moon is gone down and the stars not alight ; When those are abroad would stab a lost child, And the wind comes up muttering, fearful and wild. And the hen 'gins to crow, and the dog 'gins to mew. And my grave-fatted lamp glimmers dimly and blue ? "When the dog 'gins to mew, and the cat 'gins to bark, And yon musty old skull snaps its teeth in the dark, And the toad and the urchin crawl in from the moor, And the frightful black adder creeps under the door. And the hapless self-murder'd, that died in her sin, Comes haunting the house with her dolorous din, And stands in the nook like an image of clay. With the sad look she wore when her life pass'd away." A knocking was heard at the old hovel door, And forth stepp'd a dark muffled man on the floor ; He threw back his mantle of many a fold. And he cross'd the wan palm of the sibyl with gold. " Now Sir Knight of Alkrington, what wouldst thou know, That, seeking my home, thou entreatest me so ? The world-sweeping mower thy heart-wound must cure. But she who lies mourning hath more to endure ! " But warning I give thee, a sign from afar — There's a cloud on thy sun, there's a spot on thy star. Go, chmb the wild mountain, or toil on the plain. Or be outcast on land, or be wreck'd on the main ; * Areawt —out of donrs — abroad. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 17 Or seek the red battle, and dare the death-wound, Or mine after treasure a mile under ground ; For, sleeping or waking, on ocean or strand, Thy life is prolong'd, if thou hold thine own hand." What further was said 'twixt the knight and the crone, Was never repeated, and never was known ; But when he came back, to remount him again, One, fearful and dark, held his stirrup and rein — His horse, terror-shaking, stood cover'd with foam ; It ran with him miles ere he turn'd it towards home ; The gray morning broke, and the battle-cock crew, Ere the lorn-hearted knight to his chamber withdrew. PART FOURTH. And who hath not heard how the knight, from that day Was alter'd in look, and unwont in his way ; And how he sought wonders of every form. And things of all lands, from a gem to a worm ; And how he divided his father's domain. And sold many parts, to the purchasers' gain ; And how his poor neighbours with pity were sad, And said. Good Sir Ashton, through love, was gone mad .'' But strangest of all, on that woe-wedding night, A black horse was stabled where erst stood the white ; The grooms, when they fed him, in terror quick fled. His breath was hot smoke, and his eyes burning red ; He beat down a strong wall of mortar and crag ; He tore his oak stall, as a dog would a rag, And no one durst put forth a hand near that steed. Till a priest had read ave, and pater, and creed. B 1 8 MODERN SONGS AND And then he came forth, the strange, beautiful thing, With speed that could lead a wild eagle on wing ; And raven had never spread plume on the air, Whose lustreful darkness with his might compare. He bore the young Ashton — none else could him ride — O'er flood and o'er fell, and o'er quarry-pit wide ; The housewife she bless'd her, and held fast her child. And the men swore both horse and his rider were wild. And then, when the knight to the hunting-field came. He rode as he sought rather death than his game ; He hallooed through woods where he'dwander'd of yore, But the lost Lady Mary he never saw more ! And no one durst ride in the track where he led, So fearful his leaps, and so madly he sped ; And in his wild frenzy he gallop'd one day Down the church-steps at Rochdale and up the same way. This story (says Mr Bamford) is mainly founded on traditionary reminiscences, many of which are current amongst the old people of the district. Sir Assheton Lever, of Alkrington, is still represented in these old stories as the accepted lover (accepted by the lady) of Miss Assheton, eldest daughter, and (with her sister Eleanor) co-heiress of Sir Ralphe Assheton, who was lord of all the lands of Middleton, Thornham, Pils- worth, Unsworth, Radcliffe, Great and Little Lever, and Ainsworth. Sir Ashton Lever was the first knight of his name, and the last. He was of a line not as anciently titled as the Asshetons, and consequently, BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 19 as is supposed, his attentions were not quite agreeable to the proud old baronet. Some stories impute his rejection to a personal difference betwixt the two families. However it was, the breaking off of the match has always been considered by the residents of the district as unfortunate to both the properties ; that of Middleton might certainly as well have been annexed to Hanover as to Gunton. Sir Ashton Lever, in after years, expended vast sums in forming and establishing the Leverian Museum. He was an excellent bowman, and a fearless rider ; and tradition has handed down stories of feats of horsemanship analogous to those re- cited in the ballad, accompanied with sage insinua- tions that no horse could have carried him save one of more than earthly breed or human training. That he performed the daring feat of riding at full gallop down the long and precipitous flight of steps leading from Rochdale churchyard into Packer Street, and up again, is still considered as doubtless as is the exist- ence of the steps which remain there. He latterly sold many farms and plots of land, for sums to be paid yearly during his life ; and, soon after, died suddenly at the Bull's-head Inn in Manchester. Rumour said, at the time, that he died by his own hand. The lady was married to Harbord Harbord, Esq., nephew and heir of Sir William Morden, of Gunton, Norfolk, and afterwards the first Lord Suffield, who took, with her, the estates of Middleton and Thornham. After mar- riage, the lady seldom visited the hall of her fathers, and the ancient portion of it was levelled witli the ground. It was one of the finest old relics of the sort in the county ; built of frame-work and plaster ; with pannels, carvings, and massy black beams, strong 20 MODERN SONGS AND enough for a mill floor. The yard was entered through a low wicket, at a ponderous gate ; the inte- rior was laid with small diamond-shaped flags ; a door on the left led into a large and lofty hall, hung round with matchlocks, steel caps, swords, targets, and hunt- ing-weapons, intermixed with trophies of the battle- field and the chase. But all disappeared before the spirit of vandalism which commanded the annihilation of that most interesting relic of an ancient hne. With respect to the other personages and accessories in the story, it may be mentioned that "the withered crone" was in being in the author's days. "Owd Mai o' Cambeshur" was a name of terror to the children, and of questionable import to their elders. The "ruinous cottage" at Cambeshire has fared better than the bride's chamber at the lordly hall. It has been improved, and is now inhabited by the family of a weaver. The place is at Cambeshire, on the top of Bowlee, in the township of Heaton. Sometimes it is called " Katty Green." " The old woodlands of Bow- lee" have long since disappeared before the axe ; and all the best timber of the two townships of Middleton and Thornham has shared the same fate : the country has, in fact, been pretty well swept out. [Mr Bamford denies that the "black horse" in the ballad was de- rived from the horse " Darkness" in the poem of Fes- tus, of which he knew nothing till January 1843.] BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. A LEGEND OF THE HEART. By John Bolton Rogerson. The lights have vanish'd one by one, Till every taper's blaze hath gone ; The moonbeams through each casement creep, And all seems hush'd in death-like sleep. Young Imma lists with anxious ear, But not a single sound can hear ; She leaves the chamber of her rest And couch of snowy white unprcss'd. With silent footsteps steals the maid, And starteth oft, as though afraid The beatings of her heart are heard. That flutters hke a captive bird. With cautious step she treads each stair, Her light foot dwells a moment there ; Around a hurried glance is thrown, And then again she glideth on. Now she hath pass'd the winding stairs, And with a quicker pace repairs Along the wide and high-roofd hall, Till she hath gain'd the outer wall. The pale moon shines on dark-green tree, The low wind sighs its minstrelsy. And, shaken from the shrub and flower, The bright dew falls in silver shower. * 22 MODERN SONGS AND She hurries on, the lovely one, Around her form a mantle thrown ; Whilst pours the sweet-voiced nightingale Upon her ear its mournful tale. She passeth, as a star when driven Along the cloudless face of heaven ; Her fair hair floating in the wind : Tree, shrub, and flower are left behind. A bounding tread is heard, a rush. And to her face upsprings the blush ; To earth are cast her fawn-like eyes, Whilst to her arms a dear one flies. Yes ! they had chosen that still hour. When all was hush'd in hall and bower, To meet — no witness to their love, Save gleaming moon, that smiled above. But who is he that meeteth there That lady, graceful, proud, and fair } Why doth she leave her father's hall, And steal beyond the outer wall } The youth is one of low estate, The maiden's sire is rich and great ; But what cares love for high degree ? He laughs at wealth and ancestry. Ever are secret raptures sweet — The youth is at the lady's feet ; He poureth forth impassion'd sighs, And readeth answers in her eyes. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 23 Oh ! would that you had never met, For watchful spies are round you set ; The aged sire, in furious mood, Is bent upon a deed of blood. There comes a swift and winged dart, Which cleaves its way through beating heart, And he who lately blest her charms Lies dead within the lady's arms ! And shall I tell the maiden's fate ? She lived on long, though desolate ; Better had she been with the dead, For reason's guiding-star had tied. Though by her kindred guarded well. When shades of night around her fell, She ever left her father's hall, And wander'd round the outer wall. It is a legend of old date. Which ancient gossips oft narrate. And some who tell the mournful tale, Say they have heard the lady's wail. They tell that still her form is seen, ._, Gliding the moon's white rays between, That she may mourn the hapless fate Of him who died through love and hate. 24 MODERN SONGS AND THE CARRION CROW* By William Harrison Ainsworth. The carrion crow is a sexton bold, He raketh the dead from out of the mould ; He delveth the ground like a miser old, Stealthily hiding his store of gold. Caw ! caw! The carrion crow hath a coat of black, Silky and sleek, like a priest's, to his back ; Like a lawyer he grubbeth — no matter what way — The fouler the ofifal, the richer his prey. Caw ! caw ! the carrion crow I Dig! dig! in the ground below ! The carrion crow hath a dainty maw, With savoury pickings he crammeth his craw ; Kept meat from the gibbet it pleaseth his whim, It never can hang too long for him ! Catv ! cawi The carrion crow smelleth powder, 'tis said, Like a soldier escheweth the taste of cold lead ; No jester or mime hath more marvellous wit, For wherever he lighteth he maketh a hit ! Caw ! caw ! the carrion crow ! Dig! dig! in the ground below ! * This song has been set to music by Mr F. Romer. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 25 BALLAD. By Charles Swain. Why leave you thus your father's hall, And hie to the gate so oft .? 'Tis only to watch the moonlight fall O'er the waves that sleep so soft. And why do you seek one small blue flower Through every sylvan spot ? Oh, 'tis but a gem for a maiden's bower, A little " forget-me-not ! " Why wear you that wreath so dim and dry, With its leaves all pined and dead ? The maid look'd up with a tearful eye, But never a word she said. And why for every word you speak Have you twenty sighs of late ? The maiden hath hied, with a blushing cheek, Again to the moonlit gate. Hark ! Is it a sound, indeed, that rings ? A hoof o'er the wild road press'd ? Oh, is it her own true knight that springs And folds her to his breast .'' And is it that wreath so dark and dry That meets her knight's fond kiss ? Again was a tear in the maiden's eye, JUit oh ! 'twas a tear of bliss ! 26 MODERN SONGS AND THE MAIDEN'S FATE: A LEGEND. By John Bolton Rogerson, It was Sir Hugh, the baron bold, Rode out at break of morn, With hound, as though to chase the deer, And ghttering bugle horn. He rode o'er hill, he rode o'er dale. He rode o'er barren moor. And sprung o'er crags where horse and hound Had never been before. The morn was fair, the sun shone forth, The rivers flash'd like gold. And all was gay that met the eye Of the joyful baron bold. Oh, it was not so much to chase the deer Or to brush the dew away. That the baron had left his downy couch, And mounted his courser gray. The baron he loved a maiden bright, Yet she was of lowly race. And he rode to meet her at break of day, As though he had follow'd the chase. The baron he spurr'd his goodly steed, And rode with might and main ; And when he had ridden a mile or two, A deer sprang o'er the plain. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 27 Then drew the baron his fatal bow, Swift flew the feathery dart ; The arrow it miss'd the bounding deer, But it pierced his true love's heart ! The baron leap'd from his foaming horse, And clasp'd unto his breast The dying form of the lovely maid, And her cold, cold lips he press'd. " And must thou die, mine own true love ? And art thou slain by me ? Thou wert my life, my hope, my all, And I have murder'd thee !" The baron return'd unto his hall A changed and sorrowing man ; And never from that hour a smile Pass'd o'er his features wan. THE MANDRAKE* By William Harrison Ainsworth. The mandrake grows 'neath the gallows tree, And rank and green are its leaves to sec ; * The supposed malignant influence of the mandrake is frequently al- hided to by our elder dramatists ; and with one of the greatest of them, Webster, (as might be expected from a muhc revelling like a ghoul in graves and sepulchres,) the plant is an especial favourite. But none has plunged so deeply into the subject as Sir Thomas Browne, who tears up the iable root and branch. Concerning the danger arising from 28 MODERN SONGS AND Green and rank as the grass that waves Over the unctuous earth of graves, And though all around it be bleak and bare, Freely the mandrake flourisheth there. Maranatha — Anathema ! Dread is the curse of Mandragora ! Euthanasy ! At the foot of the gibbet the mandrake springs, Just where the creaking carcase swings ; Some have thought it engendered From the fat that drops from the bones of the dead ; Some have thought it a human thing ; But this is a vain imagining. Maranatha — Anathema ! Dread is the curse of Mandragora ! Euthanasy ! A charnel leaf doth the mandrake wear, A charnel fruit doth the mandrake bear ; Yet none like the mandrake hath such great power. Such virtues reside not in herb or flower ; Aconite, hemlock, or moonshade, I ween, None hath a poison so subtle and keen. Maranatha — Anathema ! Dread is the curse of Mandragora ! Euthanasy ! And whether the mandrake be create Flesh with the flower incorporate, eradication of the mandrake he thus writes: — "The last assertion is, that there follows a hazard of life to them tliat pull it up, that some evil (.\\.^ pursues them, and that they live not very long thereafter." — Vulgar Errors, book ii., chap. vi. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 29 I know not ; yet if from the earth 'tis rent, Shrieks and groans from the root are sent ; Shrieks and groans, and a sweat like gore, Oozes and drops from the clammy core. Maranatha — Anathema ! Dread is the curse of Mandragora ! Euthanasy ! Whoso gathereth the mandrake shall surely die ! Blood for blood is his destiny. Some who have pluck'd it have died with groans, Like to the mandrake's expiring moans ; Some have died raving, and some beside. With penitent prayers — but all have died. Jesu ! save us, by night and by day ! From the terrible death of Mandnigora ! Euthanasy ! THE HUNTER'S SONG. (a ballad supposed to have BEEN' WRITTEN ABOUT TIIIC BEGINNING OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.) V By the late Rev. Richard Parkinson, D.D With staff in hand, the hunter stood On Radholme's dewy lawn ; And still he watch'd in anxious mood, The first faint streaks of dawn. Faintly on Pcndlc's height they play'd, The thrush began to sing. The doe forsook the hazel shade. The heron left his spring. 30 MODERN SONGS AND He turn'd him east — the Ribble there In waves of silver roU'd, While every cloud that sail'd in air Just wore a tinge of gold. There Waddow's meads, so bright and green, Had caught the early ray, And there, through shadow dimly seen. Rose Clid'row's Castle gray. He turn'd him west, and hill o'er hill, Fair Bowland Knotts were seen, Emerging from the mists that fill The winding vales between. The thorns that crown'd each verdant crest, Look'd greener to the eye, While vistas, opening to the west, Display'd a crimson sky. But most he turn'd where, 'neath his feet, The Hodder murmur'd by, And yon low cot, so trim and neat. Still fix'd the hunter's eye. He gazed, as lovers wont to gaze, Then gaily thus he sang, — From Browsholme Heights to Batter Heys The mountain echoes rang. " Fair is my love, as mountain snow, All other snows excelling. And gentle as the timid roe That bounds around her dwelling ; BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 31 With other maids I oft have roved, And maids of high degree, But none like her have look'd and loved — My Anna still for me ! " When at her door she sits to sing Some simple strain of mine, The lark will poise him on the wing To catch the notes divine ; And when she speeds her love to meet Across the broomy lee ; The dew that sparkles round her feet Is not so bright as she. "Around the Fairy Oak* I 've seen The gentle fairies dancing, And, mounted light, in robes of green, O'er Radholme gaily prancing ; On moonlit eve I 've seen them play Around their crystal well,t But lovelier far than elf or fay Is Anna of the dell ! " And still, though poor and lowly born. To me she 's kind and true ; She flies the Bowman's t tassell'd horn, She shuns the bold Bucclcugh.§ Old Rose|| may rule by word and sigh. By magic art and spell ; But what are all her charms to thine, Sweet Anna of the dcll ? " • Now corruptly called Fairoak. t The Wliite Well, t Parker, of Browsholme. § Chief Forester. II A noted witch of the time. 32 MODERN SONGS AND A BALLAD. By John Bolton Rogerson. " Cast the gay robes from off thy form, And cease thine hair to braid ; Thy love to thee will come no more, He wooes another maid ; And broken are the many vows That he hath pledged to thee — He wooes another maid, and this His bridal morn will be ! " " False unto me ! Oh, say not so ; For if thy tale be true, And he I love be lost to me, I shall not live to rue ; If he do take another mate Before the holy shrine ; Another ne'er shall have my heart, — Death will be mate of mine ! " She cast the gay robes from her form. And donn'd a snow-white gown : She loosen'd from her locks the braid. And let them droop adown ; She flung around her lovely head The thin shroud of her veil. To hide her fast-descending tears, And cheek as moon-ray pale. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 33 With feeble, yet with hurried steps. Unto the church she hied, And there she saw the false of heart Receive another bride ! The bridal pageant swept along Till all the train had fled— Why stay'd the lone, deserted one? She slumber'd with the dead ! KING FROST. By Charles Swain. King Frost gallop'd hard from his Palace of Snow, To the hills whence the floods dash'd in thunders be- low ! But he breathed on the waters that swoon'd at his will, And their clamour was o'er, for the torrents stood still ! " Ho ! ho ! " thought the king, as he gallop'd along, " I have stopp'd those mad torrents a while in their song." With pennons high streaming, in gladness and pride, A fair vessel moved o'er the billowy tide ; But, whilst bold hearts were deeming their perils all past, King Frost struck the billows, and fetter'd them fast ! "Ho! ho!" cried the monarch, "their homes may long wait, Ere aught, my fine vessel, be beard of your fate ! " c 34 MODERN SONGS AND Through the forest rode he, and the skeleton trees Groan'd, wither'd and wild, 'gainst the desolate breeze ; And shook their hoar locks, as the Frost King flew by. Whilst the hail rattled round, like a volley from high ! " Ho ! ho ! " shouted he, " rny old Sylvans, ye 're bare ; But my minister Snow shall find robes for your wear ! " By the convent sped he — by the lone, ruin'd fane. Where the castle frown'd wild o'er its rocky domain ; And the warder grew pallid, and shook as in fear, As the monarch swept by, with his icicle spear ! Whilst his herald, the Blast, breathed defiance below. And hurrah'd for King Frost and his Palace of Snow ! CLAYTON HALL. By Elijah Ridings. Clayton Hall is an old moated edifice, in the town- ship of Droylsden, once the residence of the baronial Byrons, and afterwards a favourite home of Humphrey Chetham. It is a quaint, half-timbered house, with bell-turret and bell, and in the olden time was duly provided, like most old halls of Lancashire, with its ghost, which was so regular in its visitations that it gave rise to the proverbial saying, " Here aw come agen, loike Clayton Ho Boggart." • The bell doth call, in Clayton Hall, The labourer from his bed ; The day hath dawn'd, blithe Hodge hath yawn'd, And from his cot hath sped ; BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 35 With pick and spade on shoulder laid, With rustic smockfrock gray, With hardy face and homely grace, To work he hies away. Hath sentinel of old Cromwell E'er watch'd thine ancient hall ? Thine olden bovver hath seen the hour Of royal Charles's fall ; O'er thy threshhold hath warrior bold E'er pass'd with manly tread ? Have drums e'er beat around thy seat, Or martial banners spread ? Let fancy float around thy moat, Which since his day hath been ; Thy looks are gray, to time a prey, A melancholy scene ; Thy ruin'd tower, thy lonely bower, To thoughtful minds recall The civil wars, rebellion's jars, O venerable Hall ! Those days are gone, but their dread tone Reviveth at my call, And doth mingle in the dingle That blooms around the Hall, With the loud songs of feathcr'd throngs, Whose varied wonders fall In all their powers o'er my lone hours, O ancient Clayton Hall ! 36 MODERN SONGS AND With grateful grace may I retrace The merchant prince,* whose name And pious, charitable face, Are dedicate to fame ; While there is either book or stone To tell that he hath been, His venerable name alone Shall consecrate this scene. THE WANDERER. By Charles Swain. Three dreary years in peril tost, Three years upon a polar sea, Ice-wreck'd, and half his comrades lost. Once more his native land treads he. IVhile westward from the sandy height, He views where, far, his cottage lies, A father's transport fills his sight, A husband's joy o'erflows his eyes. He speeds by each remember'd way, Each turning brings him still more near ; He sees his first-born child at play. And calls, but cannot make him hear. * Humplirey Chetham, Esq., founder of the Hospital, School, and Library in Manchester which bear his name. He resided at Clayton Hall, about three miles cast of Manchester, and closed his useful life there in 1653. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 37 Fast as he speeds, his child appears Still distant as it was before ; At length, with bursting, grateful tears, He sees his young wife at the door. She takes tlie sweet child by the hand. She kisses him with loving joy ; The gazer deems in all the land There 's no such other wife or boy. She lifts him fondly to her cheek, Then leaves the narrow wicket gate ; The Wanderer thinks he will not speak, But gaze and wait — if love can wait. But from that gate, to open view. Come never more those feet so light ; There grew no covert, that he knew, Whose leaves might hide them from his sight. A sudden terror fills his veins. And chills the rapture in his eyes ; With eager spring the gate he gains. And calls, but not a voice replies. The door, it does not stand ajar. The casement, too, is closed and dark ; Across the path is thrown a bar. And all wears Desolation's mark. He shrieks m fear each name so dear — The garden plot is waste and wild ; O God ! why doth his wife not hear ? O Love ! why cometh not his child? 38 MODERN SONGS AND He strains to catch the slightest trace Of form or raiment ; nought is seen, As with a wild and spectral face, The gray boughs groan and intervene. The leaves bend trembling to their root, The frail grass mutters to the flower ; With ghost-like wing the long rays shoot, While tolls the bell the vesper hour. He turns, bewilder'd at the sound — Again his wife, his child, appear ; They move across the churchyard ground, And beckon the pale Wanderer near. A few more steps and he may hold The twain within his trembUng arms ; Why seems his sinking heart so cold ? What chokes him with those dread alarms ? Pale, in the dreary moonHght, gleams Each mound and monumental stone ; He stands distraught, as one that dreams- Was he again alone — alone ? Alone— they've pass'd, yet nothing stirr'd ! He thought that through the spectral air There rose one low, one little word. Faint echo of some infant prayer. He thought that name which erst had moved His pulses with a parent's joy, Came softly, as in hours beloved. When on his glad knee sat his boy. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 39 Yet all had fled ; and on the stone, Beneath his feet, two lines were read, Sad lines, that to the eyes once shown, Do break the heart that 's better dead. He press'd his hot lips to each name, He kiss'd each letter o'er and o'er ; They scorch'd his sight, as if with flame, They sear'd his worn heart to the core. " For this," he cried, " for this was won My way through tempests — this to bear ; Still, still, O God ! Thy will be done ! Yet one — not one ! — not one to spare !" Morn stepp'd from out the mists of heaven, And coldly lit each hallow'd spot ; Another morn to him was given, Another world where death was not ! THE BILLMEN OF BOWLAND. FROM " NED OF THE FELL "—A LANCASHIRE ROMANCE. AGAIN.ST tenfold his numbers on Agincourt's plain. The gallant King Ilcnry the fight must maintain ; No knight like young Marry had England e'er known, A pillar of fire to his army he shone ; His troops throng'd around him, they darken'd the field, And the Billmcn of Bowland swore never to yield. 40 MODERN SONGS AND His red-hair'd Northumbrian vassals were there, And Durham and Cumberland brandish'd the spear ; The Londoners, too, in their trimmest array. And the yeomen of Kent, who delight in a fray ; But from father to son old tradition hath told That the Billmen of Bov/land were best of the bold. There Yorkshire and Durham did courage evince. And the men of old Monmouth defended their prince ; The archers of Nottingham bent the long bow. And their arrows were dyed in the blood of the foe ; But with axes uplifted, that gleam'd in the light, The Billmen of Bowland were first in the fight. From the banks of Sabrina they rush'd to the plain, And Devon's proud heroes were found midst the slain ; And the children of Cornwall, as rude as their soil, Exultingly shared in the glory and spoil ; But the Billmen of Bowland, old Lancashire's pride. Stood firm as the hills, and the foemen defied. Resistance was vain ; neither falchion nor mail, Nor helmet, nor shield-cover'd arm could avail ; When our foresters struck, death follow'd each wound. The steed and his rider alike bit the ground. There was glory for England on Agincourt's day, But the Billmen of Bowland the palm bore away. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 41 BLACK BESS. By William Harrison Ainsworth.* Let the lover his mistress's beauty rehearse, And laud her attractions in languishing verse ; Be it mine in rude strains, but with truth to express The love that I bear to my bonny Black Bess. From the West was her dam, from the East was her sire, From the one came her swiftness, the other her fire ; No peer of the realm better blood can possess, Than flows in the veins of my bonny Black Bess. Look ! look ! how that eyeball"glows bright as a brand ! That neck proudly arches, those nostrils expand ! Mark that wide-flowing mane ! of which each silky tress Might adorn prouder beauties — though none like Black Bess. Mark that skin sleek as velvet, and dusky as night, With its jet undisfigurcd by one lock of white ; That throat branch'd with veins, prompt to charge or caress ; Now is she not beautiful ? bonny Black Bess ! Over highway and byway, in rough and smooth weather. Some thousands of miles have wc journey'd together ; * Set to music by Mr F. Romer. 42 MODERN SONGS AND Our couch the same straw, and our meal the same mess, No couple more constant than I and Black B^ss ! By moonlight, in darkness, by night, or by day, Her headlong career there is nothing to stay ; She cares not for distance, she knows not distress : Can you show me a courser to match with Black Bess ? Once it happen'd in Cheshire, near Dunham, I popp'd On a horseman alone, whom I suddenly stopp'd ; That I lighten'd his pockets you '11 readily guess — Quick work makes Dick Turpin when mounted on Bess. Now it seems the man knew me ; " Dick Turpin," said he " You shall swing for this job, as you live, d'ye see." I laugh'd at his threats and his vows of redress, I was sure of an alibi then with Black Bess. The road was a hollow, a sunken ravine,* Overshadow'd completely by wood like a screen ; * The exact spot where Turpin committed this robbery, which has often been pointed out to me, (writes Mr Harrison Ainsworth,) lies in what is now a woody hollow, though once the old road from Altrincham to Knutsford, skirting Dunham Park, and descending the hill that brings you to the bridge crossing the river Bollin. With some difficulty I penetrated this ravine. It is just the place for an adventure of the kind. A small brook wells through it, and the steep banks are over- hung with timber, and were, when I last visited the place, in April 1834, a perfect nest of primroses and wild-flowers. Hough (pronounced Hoo) Green lies about three miles across the country — the way Turpin rode. The old Bowling-green used to be one of the pleasantest inns in Cheshire. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 43 I clamber'd the bank, and I needs must confess, That one touch of the spur grazed the side of Black Bess. Brake, brook, meadow, and plough'd field, Bess fleetly bestrode, As the crow wings her flight, we selected our road ; We arrived at Hough Green in five minutes, or less — My neck it was saved by the speed of Black Bess. Stepping carelessly forward, I lounge on the green. Taking excellent care that by all I am seen ; Some remarks on Time's flight to the squires I ad- dress ; But I say not a word of the flight of Black Bess. I mention the hour — it was just about four — Play a rubber at bowls — think the danger is o'er ; When athwart my next game, like a checkmate at chess. Comes the horseman in search of the rider of Bess. What matter details ? Off with triumph I came ; He swears to the hour, and the squires swear the same ; I had robb'd him 2Xfour ! — while at four they profess, I was quietly bowling — all thanks to Black Bess ! Then one halloo, boys, one loud cheering halloo ! To the swiftest of coursers, the gallant, the true I For the sportsman unborn shall the memory bless Of the horse of the highwayman— bonny Black Bess ! 44 MODERN SONGS AND GYPSY BALLAD. By Charles Swain. What care we for earth's renown ! We to greenwood pleasures born : Tinsel makes an easier crown Than the proudest kings have worn. Though our royal sword of state Be a feeble willow wand ; Courtiers have been glad to wait For the pretty Gypsy's hand ! Underneath the old oak tree, Soon as sets the summer day, Gypsy lads and lasses we. Dance and sing the night away. Many bind their hours with care, Labour through the anxious day, Just to gain enough to bear Corpse and coffin to the clay ! Though but little we may claim. Still that little we enjoy ; Wealth is often but a name ; Title but a gilded toy ! Underneath the old oak tree, &c. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 45 OLD GRINDROD'S GHOST. At the end of Cross Lane, formerly called Pendleton Moor, a woolcomber in Salford, named John Grindrod (or Grindret) was gibbeted in March 1759, (Baines dates the deed in 1753,) for poisoning his wife and two children with brimstone and treacle in the preceding September. Connected with this man there is a ghostly legend, telling of a boastful traveller, who lost a foolish wager on a tempestuous night ; and of an eccentric skeleton that was in the habit of taking mid- night walks, for the purpose of dispelling the wetness and weariness occasioned by long suspension. "Of this legend, which I have often heard narrated in our shop," says Mr Procter, (in "Our Turf, Stage, and Ring,") "and which has been rendered in familiar ballad measure by Mr William Harrison Ainsworth, we may, of course, believe just so much as pleases us." [It is copied from Ainsworth's tale of " The Flitch of Bacon ; or the Custom of Dunmow"]: — _ Old Grindrod was hang'd on a gibbet high, On a spot where the dark deed was done ; 'Twas a desolate place, on the edge of a moor, A place for the timid to shun. Chains round his middle, and chains round his neck. And chains round his ankles were hung ; And there in all weathers, in sunshine and rain, Old Grindrod the murderer swung. 46 MODERN SONGS AND Old Grindrod had long been the banquet of crows, Who flock'd on his carcase to batten ; And the unctuous morsels that fell from their feast, Served the rank weeds beneath him to fatten. All that 's now left of him is a skeleton grim. The stoutest to strike with dismay ; So ghastly the sight, that no urchin, at night, Who can help it, will pass by that way. All such as had dared, had sadly been scared, And soon 'twas the general talk, That the wretch in his chains, each night took the pains. To come down from the gibbet — a)id iva'lk ! &' The story was told to a traveller bold. At an inn near the moor, by the host ; He appeals to each guest, and its truth they attest, But the traveller laughs at the ghost. " Now to show you," quoth he, " how afraid I must be, A rump and a dozen I '11 lay. That before it strikes one, I will go forth alone, Old Grindrod a visit to pay. " To the gibbet I '11 go, and this I will do, As sure as I stand in my shoes ; Some address I '11 devise, and if Grinny replies, My wager of course I shall lose." " Accepted the bet ; but the night it is wet," Quoth the host. " Never mind," says the guest ; " From darkness and rain the adventure will gain To mv mind an additional zest." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 47 Now midnight had toU'd, and the traveller bold Set out from the inn all alone ; 'Twas a night black as ink, and our friend 'gan to think That uncommonly cold it had grown. But of nothing afraid, and by nothing delay'd, Plunging onward through bog and through wood. Wind and rain in his face, he ne'er slacken'd his pace, Till under the gibbet he stood. Though dark as could be, yet he thought he could see The skeleton hanging on high ; The gibbet it creaked, and the rusty chains squeaked, And a screech-owl flew solemnly by. The heavy rain patter'd, the hollow bones clatter'd. The traveller's teeth chatter'd — with cold— not with fright ; The wind it blew lustily, piercingly, gustily ; Certainly not an agreeable night ! " Ho ! Grindrod, old fellow ! " thus loudly did bellow The traveller mellow,—" How are you, my blade V " I 'm cold and I 'm dreary ; I 'm wet and I 'm weary ; But soon I '11 be near ye ! " the skeleton said. The grisly bones rattled, and with the chains battled ; The gibbet appallingly shook ; On the ground something stirrd, but no more the man heard — To his heels on the instant he took. 48 MODERN SONGS AND Over moorland he dash'd, and through quagmire hi plash' d ; His pace never daring to slack; Till the hostel he near'd, for greatly he fear'd, Old Grindrod would leap on his back. His wager he lost, and a trifle it cost ; But that which annoy'd him the most, Was to find out too late, that certain as fate, The landlord had acted the ghost. We learn on the authority of the writer, that the in- cidents above described constituted one of the very best stories of the late Mr Gilbert Winter, of Stocks, Cheetham, an old and valued friend of Mr Harrison Ainsworth, whose benevolent character he has im- mortalised under the name of " Cuthbert Spring," in his tale of " Mervyn Clitheroe." The ballad has been translated into French under the title of " Le Spectre du Vieux Grindrod," a specimen of which we subjoin : — " Grindrod, le vieux Grindrod, fut pendu court et net. II fut, dis-je, pendu sur le lieu de son crime. C'tftait un lieu ddsert, qu'une lande bornait, Ou le frisson vous serre, ou I'effroi vous opprime. Lk, sous le haut gibet, k bout de tours savanes, Tous les temps que Dieu fait le larron les essuie ; Le meurtrier Grindrod oscille a tous les vents, D^vore du soleil, ou crible par la pluie." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 49 Then, here is the wager : — " Sachez combien j'ai peur, je vous gage un bifteck Que vers minuit j'orai, sans escorte et sans suite, Le voir. Je veux, pardieu ! lui parler bec-a-bec, Grindrod, le vieux Grindrod, rccevra ma visite." THE YOUNG CID. (FROM "ANXIENT BALLADS FROM THE SPANISH.") By Robert Rockliff, of Liverpool. The Cid, Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, surnamed El Campeador, whose exploits are so prominent in Span- ish chronicle and romance, is supposed to have been born in 1206. While he was still a mere stripling, his aged and infirm father, Diego Laynez, who had been struck in the royal presence by Don Lozano Gomez, the Count of Gormas, determined to commit the vin- dication of his honour to one of his three sons, and, after subjecting them to a trial, which is detailed in the ballad, selected the youngest, Rodrigo, as the worthiest. Giving him his sword and his blessing, he sent him forth on the perilous enterprise of executing vengeance on his haughty and powerful foe. Diego Laynez sate at home, A solitary man, And grimly brooded o'er the blow, Inflicted by Lozan. That blow ! alas, he lack'd the strength To wipe its stains away ; For he was old, and years will bring The stoutest to decay. so AfODERN SONGS AND His eyes were fix'd upon the floor In melancholy mood ; He could not sleep by night, he took No pleasure in his food ; He question'd none, he answer'd none, But turn'd away his face, As if his very breath would taint His friends with his disgrace. For three long days and nights he sate Sad, silent, and alone, As if he were some image carved In monumental stone ; But on the fourth a sudden change Across his spirit came, That gave new lustre to his eye, New vigour to his frame. Like one arisen from the dead, He stood within the hall, And summon'd to his side his sons, Three comely youths, and tall ; And one by one, as if his hands Were clench'd in gloves of mail, He wrung their fingers, till he forced The blood-drop from each nail. No chiromantic scheme had he ; For witchcraft's hellish skill Was then unknown in happy Spain — I would it were so still ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 51 But with such craft, as well became A Christian knight, he press'd The striplings' hands, that he might put Their courage to the test. The eldest and the second son, They wept for very pain. And pitifully pray'd their sire To loose his iron strain ; And when at length he dropp'd their hands, And let the pair depart, They slunk away like beaten hounds, Still whining from the smart. And turning to Rodrigo then, The youngest of the three, The old man's spirits sank apace, And little hope had he ; But still resolved to try the test, Though it had fail'd him twice. He seized the youngster's hand in his, And griped it like a vice. " Hold off! unhand me ! or, by Heaven !' Rodrigo cried, with ire, " I shall be tempted to forget My duty to my sire ; For if I were assaulted thus By any wight but thee, I 'd tear the caitiff limb from limb, And quickly set me free." 52 MODERN SONGS AND " Nay, strike me, curse me, an thou wilt,' Diego cried, with joy, " My blessing on each curse of thine ! My loved, my gallant boy ! My youngest and my favourite son, And worthiest of the three. The honour of thy father's name Shall be restored in thee." Then with his blessing and his sword, He bade the stripling go. And for the wrong which had been done. Avenge him on his foe. The Cid that day his long career Of victory began, And bravely flesh'd his maiden sword Upon the Count Lozan. THE KEEPER'S SON. By R. R. Bealey. No braver lad e'er walk'd the wood, No fairer lad could be. Than Johnny Brown, the Keeper's son, Who lived at Walker Lea. Shouldering gun he forth would go. Nor tire the longest day. With faithful " Don" close up " to heel," His work was always play. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 53 They 'd wander through the wooded glen, Or climb the mountain high, They 'd cross the stubble fields, and walk As softly as a sigh ; And if a bird should chance to rise, Or rabbit dare to run, 'Twould surely fall beneath the shot Of Johnny's fatal gun. One morn with faithful " Don" he went, ('Twas in October chill,) To have a little early sport Beneath the western hill ; When, firing at a brace of birds. And thinking all was well, The gun it burst, and on the ground The bleeding sportsman fell. All senseless on the ground he lay, But " Don" was by his side. And when lie saw his master bleed. The faithful dog, he cried ; He lick'd the wounds with tender care. Then by his side he lay, To keep his master's body warm On that October day. 'Twas very sad, for on that night, At dusk, John did agree To meet the miller's daughter Jane Beneath the chestnut tree. 54 MODERN SONGS AND She went and waited, but, alas I She waited all in vain ; And tears were falling down her cheeks, As home she walk'd again. The wound was fatal, and poor John, He never breathed more ; And Jane, she could not love again, But widow's weeds she wore. The dog and she together live, And day by day they go To see the spot where Johnny Brown, The Keeper's son, lies low ! THE BALLAD OF JAMES AND JANE.* By Henry Kirk. Sad was Scotland's king ! He saw no hope in the morrow ; Not a tone from his harp could he bring That spoke not language of sorrow. He gazed from his latticed room ; Nought in the scene before him Had power to lighten the gloom His dreary fate threw o'er him. * James I. of Scotland — the youthful poet of " The King's Quhair'' — was long a prisoner in Windsor Castle. He was deeply enamoured of the Lady Jane Beaufort, a daughter of the Earl of Somerset, who after- wards became his queen. This king was assas.-inated at Perth in 1437. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 55 The moon sinking westerly, The stars from the zenith beaming, Silver'd each turret and tree, But brighten'd not his dreaming. Cut off in his youth for life, Bright spirit of chivalry! Never In the tourney's mimic strife To contend for a lady's favour. The thought of the state, bereft him ; He fear'd for his people's woe ; He wept the chance that had left him The thrall of a jealous foe.* Full of high ambition, In prison to live and die ! Despair foreshadow'd perdition From his deep lustreless eye. As calm, after tempest howling, To mariners out at sea. As sunshine, after the scowling Of clouds on a summer lea, — Came a change o'er the minstrel king ; No more did he pine and languish, Or from his wild harp wring Accents of doleful anguish. Now full of a tender pleasure, His happy harp and tongue ; For love had blest his measure With llic richest chann of song. * Henry IV. of England. MODERN SONGS AND Often his sweet lay pouring Through the twihght's stilly haze, Men thought to be angels adoring Their God in anthems of praise. And ever his pleasant fancies Dwelt on his promised queen, With blue eyes and passionate glances. And hair of a golden sheen. In visions of night and day, A glorious future gathers. Where he wields with princely sway The sceptred might of his fathers. And now Love's gentle hand Hath freed the fetters that bound him ; He is king in his own wild land. With its mountains and heather around him. With love ever true and tender, Never was monarch so blest ; It was sweet from state's thorny splendour To repose on his fond queen's breast. When he fell from the cruel wounds Of Graham, traitor disloyal ! In the convent's holy bounds, By Perth's proud city royal, — Thrice did the dagger pierce her ; Faster the fond queen clung To shield her lover, fiercer Than lioness shields her young. BA LLA DS OF LA NCA SHIRE. 5 7 Ever while love and song The sons of Scotland cherish, James shall be first among The names that may not perish ! Ever, while Windsor s towers A pilgrim's steps detain. He shall seek the moated bowers Of the stately and gentle Jane ! DERWENTWATER'S FATE: A BALLAD. In the CentlanmCs Magazine for June 1825, (page 489,) is a letter from a correspondent, signing G. H., accompanied by what he calls " An old song on the death of Radcliffc, Earl of Dervventwater, who was be- headed as a traitor on Tower Hill, February 24, 17 16. It was one of the most popular in its day in the north of England, for a long period after the event which it records had taken place. I took it down (says this correspondent) from the dictation of an old person, who had learned it from her father. In its oral descent from generation to generation, it had got a little cor- rupted. But a poetical friend of mine has assisted mc in restoring it to something like poetical propriety. My dictator could not go further than the seventeenth verse, and supposed it ended there ; but it seemed de- fective. The last four verses are now added to give a finish. There is a pathetic simplicity in the song at S8 MODERN SONGS AND once affecting and interesting, and which renders it, I think, deserving of preservation." King George he did a letter write, • And seal'd it up with gold, And sent it to Lord Derwentwater To read it, if he could. He sent his letter by no post. He sent it by no page ; But sent it by a gallant knight. As e'er did combat wage. The first line that my lord look'd on, Struck him with strong surprise ; The secoHd, more alanning still. Made tears fall from his eyes. He called up his stable-groom. Saying, " Saddle me well my steed ; For I must up to London go, — Of me there seems great need." £>* His lady, hearing what he said. As she in childbed lay. Cried, " My dear lord, pray make your will, Before you go away." " I '11 leave to thee, my eldest son, My houses and my land ; I '11 leave to thee, my younger son. Ten thousand pounds in hand. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 59 " I '11 leave to thee, my lady gay, My lawful married wife, A third part of my whole estate, To keep thee a lady's life." He knelt him down by her bedside. And kiss'd her lips so sweet ; The words that pass'd, alas ! presaged They never more should meet ! Again he call'd his stable-groom, Saying, " Bring me out my steed. For I must up to London go, With instant haste and speed." He took the reins into his hand. Which shook with fear and dread ; The rings from off his fingers dropp'd ; His nose gush'd out and bled. o"- He had but ridden miles two or three, When, stumbling, fell his steed ; " 111 omens these," Derwentwater said, " That I for James must bleed." As he rode up Westminster Street, In sight of the White Hall, The lords and ladies of London town A traitor they did him call. "A traitor !" Lord Derwentwater said, " A traitor ! How can I be. Unless for keeping five hundred men. Fighting for King Jemmy ?" 6o MODERN SONGS AND Then started forth a grave old man, With a broad-mouth'd axe in hand, " Thy head, thy head, Lord Derwentwater, Thy head 's at my command." " My head, my head, thou grave old man, My head I will give thee ; Here's a coat of velvet on my back Will surely pay thy fee ; " But give me leave," Derwentwater said, " To speak words two or three ; Ye lords and ladies of London town, Be kind to my lady. " Here's a purse of fifty sterling pounds, Pray give it to the poor ; Here's one of forty-five beside, You may dole from door to door." He laid his head upon the block ; The axe was sharp and strong ; The stroke that cut his sufferings short, His memory cherish'd long. Thus fell proud Derwent's ancient lord, Dread victim to the laws ; His lands fell forfeit to the crown. Lost in :he Stuarts' cause. His weeping widow's drooping heart With sorrow burst in twain ; His orphan children, outcast, spurn'd, Deep felt th' attainted stain. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 6i The Derwent's far-famed lake alone Its noble name retains; And of the title, thence extinct, Sole monument remains. II. %o\}t »)ono:cf anti ^caigfecf of tl)e fair. It would be an easy thing to fill a volume with songs of this class ; for the subject has ever been a prime favourite with readers of all ranks and almost of all ages. " Love rules the court, the camp, the grove;" and love-ditties have ever been, and will ever be, trolled, trilled, and warbled, in palace and cottage, in drawing-room and street, at sea and on shore, in the busy city's hum and in the green nooks of the quiet hamlet, so long as humanity endures. A selection of Lancashire songs of this class has been made, due re- gard being had to varieties of sentiment, feeling, style, and diction. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 63 LOVE'S EVIL CHOICE. Dr Whittaker, in his Whalley, speaking of the Ha- bcrgham Hall and Estate, says : — " This estate sunk all at once under the follies of its last owner ; for from the time that he entered into possession scarcely a year elapsed without the sale of a farm, till at last the man- sion-house and demesne were swallowed up by the foreclosure of a mortgage in 1689, and this improvident man was driven from the house of his ancestors to a cottage, in the 39th year of his age The princi- pal and accumulated interest which devoured this de- mesne was little more than ^900 ; the land was then valued at ^30 per annum ; the coal-mine about the same ; yet in a single century or more, I have heard of £'jooo being offered for this very estate ; and the coal-mine alone now bears a rent of 1^300 Mrs Fleetwood Habergham, [of Habergham, near Padi- ham,] undone by the extravagance, and disgraced by the vices of her husband, soothed her sorrows by some stanzas, yet in remembrance among the old people of the neighbourhood, in which the allusions to the triumphs of her early days and the successive offers she had rejected, under the emblem of flowers, are simple and not inelegant." Mrs Habergham died in 703, and was buried at Padiham. Dr Whittaker prints only part of this song, which has also been pub- lished in broadsides ; sung in the musical piece of " The Loan of a Loz'cr;" and copied into Bell's ^' Au- ciefit Ballads, Songs, &=€., of the Peasantry of Eng- land" The following is the version in the broad- sides : — 64 MODERN SONGS AND I sow'd the seeds of love, it was all in the spring, In April, May, and June likewise, when small birds they do sing ; My garden 's well planted with flowers everywhere. Yet I had not liberty to choose for myself the flower I loved so dear. My gardener he stood by, I ask'd him to choose for me : He chose me the violet, the lily, and pink, but these I refused all three : The violet I forsook, because it fades so soon ; The lily and pink I did o'erlook, and I vow'd I 'd stay till June. In June there's a red rose-bud, and that's the flower for me ! Hut oft have I pluck'd at the red rose-bud, till I gain'd the willow-tree ; The willow-tree will twist, and the willow-tree will twine. Oh ! I wish I was in the dear youth's arms that once had this heart of mine. My gardener he stood by, he told me to take great care. For in the middle of a red rose-bud there grows a sharp thorn there ; I told him I 'd take no care till I did feel the smart, And often I pluck'd at the red rose-bud till I pierced it to the heart. I '11 make me a posy of hyssop,— no other I can touch. That all the world may plainly see I love one flower too much ; BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 65 My garden is run wild ! — where shall I plant anew ? For my bed, that once was cover'd with thyme, is all overrun with rue. Dr Whittaker gives a traditional version of part of this song, which, as far as it goes, is superior to the broadside copy : — The gardener standing by, proffer'd to choose for me The pink, the primrose, and the rose ; but I refused the three ; The primrose I forsook, because it came too soon ; The violet I overlook' d, and vow'd to wait till June. In June the red rose sprung, but was no flower for me ; I pluck'd it up, lo ! by the stalk, and planted the wil- low-tree. The willow I now must wear, with sorrows twined among, That all the world may know I falsehood loved too long. THE SPRICx OF THYME. (from a broadside in the greaves collection.) This is a song of the same character as " Love's Evil Choice." We copy it from a broadside in the Collection of Ballads made by the late John Greaves, Esq. of Irlam Hall. It will be seen that the last stanza but one is very similar to the first stanza of the frag- ment printed by Dr Whittaker. E 66 MODERN SONGS AND You virgins far and near, That are just in your prime, I 'd have you keep your gardens clear. Let no one steal your thyme. Once I had a sprig of thyme. And it flourish'd night and day, Until there came a false young man, And he stole my thyme away. But now my thyme 's all gone. No more I can it see ; The man who stole my thyme away, He did prove false to me. Since now my thyme 's all gone, And I can plant no new. In the very place where grew my thyme, It's overrun with rue. Rue, rue, runs over all ; But so it shall not seem, For I '11 plant again in the same place, And call it the willow green. Willow, willow, I must wear, Willow, willow, is my doom, Since my false love 's forsaken me, And left me here to moan. A gardener standing by. Three flowers he ofifer'd me. The lily, pink, and red rose-bud, But I refused all three. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 67 The pink it is a flower that 's sweet, So is the rose in June ; The Hly is the virgin flower, Alas I oft cropp'd too soon. COLIN AND PHEBE. A PASTORAL. By John Byrom, M.A., F.R.S. This pastoral song was written while its author was a student at Trinity College, Cambridge. It was first printed in 1714 as No. 603 of the Spectator. The lady in whose praise it was written was Joanna, the youngest daughter of the celebrated Dr Bentley, Master of Trinity College. She was married to Dr Dennison Cumberland, Bishop of Clonfert, Ireland, and was mother of Richard Cumberland the dramatist. John Byrom was bom at Manchester in 1691, and died September 28, 1763. My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, When Phebe went with me wherever I went ; Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast ; Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest ! But now she has gone and has left me behind, What a marvellous change on a sudden I find ! When things seem'd as fine as could possibly be, I thought 'twas the spring ; but alas ! it was she. 68 MODERN SONGS AND With such a companion to tend a few sheep, To rise up and play, or to he down and sleep, So good-humour'd made me, so cheerful and gay, My heart was as light as a feather all day. But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, So strangely uneasy as never was known. My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd ; And my heart, I am sure, weighs more than a pound. The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phebe was there, 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear. But now she is absent, I walk by its side. And still as it murmurs do nothing but chide ; " Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain ? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me com- plain." When round me my lambkins would oftentimes play, And Phebe and I were as joyful as they, How pleasant their sporting, how happy the time When spring, love, and beauty were all in their prime ! But now in their frolics, when by me they pass, I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass ; " Be still !" then I cry, "for it makes me quite mad To see you so merry while I am so sad." My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me ; Phebe likewise was pleased, and to my dog said, " Come hither, poor fellow !" and patted his head. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 69 But now when he's fawning, I, with a sour look, Cry " Sirrah !" and give him a blow with my crook. And I '11 give him another ; for why should not Tray Be as dull as his master when Phebe 's away. When walking with Phebe what sights have I seen ! How fair were the flowers, how fresh was the green ! What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, The corn-fields, the hedges, and everything made ! But now she has left me, they all are in tears, Not one of them half so delightful appears ; 'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes That made all those beautiful prospects arise. Sweet music attended us all the wood through, The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too ; Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, And " chirp " went the grasshopper under our feet. Now, smce she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody 's gone ; Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gave everything else its agreeable sound. Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue ? And where is the violet's beautiful blue .'' Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile .'' That meadow, liiose daisies, why do they not smile .'' Ah ! rivals, I see what it was, that you drcst And made yourselves fine for — a place in her breast ; You put on your colours to please her fine eye, To be pluck'd by her hand, on licr bosom to die. 70 MODERN SONGS AND How shortly time creeps ! Till my Phebe return, Amid the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn ! Methinks if I knew whereabout he would tread, I could breathe on his wings, it would melt down the lead. Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, And for it rest longer when she shall be here. Ah ! Colin, old Time is too full of delay. Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain .? To be cured thou must, Colin, thy passion remove ; Yet what swain is so silly to live without love ? No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return ; For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. Ah ! what shall I do ? I shall die with despair ! Take heed all ye swains how ye part with your fair ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 71 SONGS. By William Rowlinson of Manchester. This rhymester was for some time a clerk in the employ of Messrs Cardwell & Co., in their cotton warehouse, Newmarket Buildings, Manchester, which employment he left about the end of 1828, and became a travelling canvasser for Pigot & Co.'s Manchester Directories. He was drowned while bathing in the river Thames, near Great Marlow, Bucks, on the 2 2d June 1829. He wrote " The Autobiography of William Charles Lovell," (^himself,) and many poetical pieces in the local periodicals of the time, of Manchester, Liver- pool, Whitby, &c. We select four of his songs from what he called the " Lyrics of the Heart," THE MOON IS BRIGHT. Air — ^' Ro7u gently hei-e, my Gondolier. ^^ The moon is bright, the soft starlight Has gemm'd the silver stream ; The silent flight of stars to-night, How beautiful they seem ; — And all around is flung a power To charm the silent heart ; The moon, stars, stream, dew, leaf, and flower. Proclaim how dear thou art. 72 MODERN SONGS AND The stream glides on, the moonlight 's gone, The stars have died away ; The leaves are strewn, flowers, one by one, Fade, wither, and decay. But yet my love for thee is such. Time alters not my heart ; And every change wrought by his touch But tells how dear thou art. MARGARET. Artist's chisel could not trace Such a form, with so much grace ; Never in Italian skies Dwells such light as in her eyes. Sweeter music ne'er was sung Than hangs ever on her tongue : Roses have not such a glow As that upon her brilliant brow. All that 's bright and fair are met In lovely, charming Margaret. O'er her forehead, brightly fair, Loosely floats her auburn hair, Curl'd in ringlets with a flow. Round a neck as white as snow ; Wild her eye as the gazelle's. Where lurk love's ten thousand spells Fleet her step as woodland fawn. Skipping o'er the dewy lawn ; In her every grace is met, None may rival Margaret. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. -]}, I will love her whilst her mind Is pure and holy, good, refined, WTiilst such lovely glances fly From the heaven of her eye ; Or pure feeling's ardent glow Shines upon her open brow ; I should not be won unless Her virtues match'd her loveliness. On my heart a seal is set. And on it graven — Margaret. REMEMBER ME. Remember me ! remember me, when in the sapphire heaven The stars have glanced, like ladies' eyes, upon the dews of even ; And glistening on each silver flower the dew has hung a gem. Which dazzles like the diamonds in a kingly diadem. Remember me ! remember me, when in the western sky Sunset has woven, of bright clouds, a crimson canopy, And all her thousand golden hues sleep on the ocean's breast, As slow and calm he sinks to sleep, like a monarch to his rest. 74 MODERN SONGS AND Remember me ! remember me, when with the summer flowers Thy fairy fingers form a wreath in beauty's brightest bowers ; And lingering round thy ruby lips is pleasure's brightest ray, Oh ! think how I would kiss those lips, if I were not away. Remember me ! remember me, when in thy prayers to Heaven, Thy form just like a sculptured saint — thou pray'st to be forgiven ; Oh, mingle then my name with thine, as I shall do for thee ; At all these times — in all these things — lady, remem- ber me ! THE INVITATION. Oh, come when the stars of heaven Are bright in their glorious home ; When the lingering stars of even Through gardens of emerald roam ; When the music that 's flung from fountains Has a soft and magic tone. And the moonlight sleeps on the mountains. Like dreams of flowers that are gone. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 75 Oh, come when the night-dews glisten, And the star-beams glide on the sea, And look from their thrones to listen The wave rolling joyous and free ; When on her rich couch beauty slumbers, Within her loveliest bower, And music's wild thrilling numbers Float over each silvery flower. Oh, come with thy beauty glowing. Thy bright dazzling eyes of blue, Thy radiant locks wildlv flowing-. Round a neck of the purest hue ; With the noiseless foot of a fairy, Thine eyes sparkling wild with glee, And thy form so light and airy, I pray thee, love, come to me. KITTY AN' ROBIN. song in the east lancashire dialect. By the Author of " Scarsdale." " Whear hast teh been roaming, Kilty ?" " Oi'n nobbut been to th' well." " Whear didst get yon posy, Kilty ?" " Oi'n met wi' Robin Bell ; He wur sittin' top o' th' stele, Reel i' th' setting sun ; The dazzlin' glare it made me reel, 01 dropt my pail, an' run," 76 MODERN SONGS AND " An' what did Robin, Kitty ?" " He chased me through the corn." " Whear didst teh flee to, Kitty ?" " Oi fell into a thorn. Then Robin help'd me fro' the grund, He wur some koind fur sure ; An' nowt 'ud fit him till he fund This posy for my hure." " What is gone wi' t' weyter, Kitty ?" " Oh, Robin fill'd my pail." " An' did he bring it whoam then, Kitty ?" " Oh ay, how could he fail ? He said he 'd fot it every neet, If yo 'd bur let him come ; His wark is over whoile it's leet. An' he's noan far fro' whoam." " How lang hast known o' Robin, Kitty ?" " He 's alius on yon stele." " Whoi didst na tell thi mother, Kitty ?" " Oi thowt yo'd known it week He says he's addled fifty pund, An' bowt a kist an' clock ; He 's ta'en a farm wi' gradely grund, His feythcr '11 foind the stock." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 77 THE LOVER'S CALL. (from "miscellaneous poems.") By J. C. Prince. Oh ! when will the sweet spring come, With its sunshine, odours, and flowers, And bring my beloved one home, To brighten the vernal hours ? Like a worthless weed or a stone On the verge of the surging sea, I am silent, and sad, and lone. Bereft of thy smiles and thee. To the haunts where we used to rove, My loitering footsteps go, Where I heard thy confession of love So tremulous, sweet, and low ; But the rivulet seems to moan That thou art not also there. And the trees send a plaintive tone, Like a sigh on the evening air. I can find no charm in the day, No calm in the sombre night ; Thou hast ta'en my repose away, And clouded the cheerful light : To the heart that can love thee best Return, if still loyal to me ; Come back, that my soul may rest, — I am weary waiting for thee. 78 MODERN SONGS AND MEG OR JENNY? SONG IN THE EAST LANCASHIRE DIALECT. By the Author of " Scarsdale." Woe betoide the evil eye As smote eawr honest Jim, He does nowt bur poine an' soigh ; So what's amiss wi' him? Alone thro' cloof and moor he '11 roam, As tho' he were na' reet ; And oft he '11 ma'e the heath his whoam Thro' all the starless neet. Is it Meg, or is it Jenny ? Shall we brun owd Meg ? Or, oh ! wilt wed meh, Jenny ? Meg's hook-nosed, toothless, skinny, She 's crook-back'd, hobbling, shrill ; What gowden hair has Jenny, Sweet rose o' Pendle Hill ! Her step is loike a roe's, that floies Up Sabden's sharpest pitch, But beware her fatal eyes, The forest's pretty witch. Who 's the witch, or Meg or Jenny ? Shall we brun owd Meg ? Or, oh ! wilt wed meh, Jenny ? No forest hag with arts of hell. Had power like Jenny's eye, To hold the heart as in a spell, Of love an' mystery. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 79 Her dower is beauty, truth, an' grace, In gifts of nature rich, There is no sorcery loike the face Of Pendle's latest witch. Who 's the witch, or Meg or Jenny ? Shall we brun ovvd Meg ? Or, oh ! wilt wed meh; Jenny ? Meet wi' bowder face her charm ; Tell her yo' con match her art ; Smoiles an' beauty work no harm ; Nowt win boind bur heart wi' heart. The spell 'at howds a soul whoile death. Firm in danger's straitest hitch, Is troth for troth wi' honour's breath, Of Pendle's sweetest witch ! Thae 'rt the witch, moi dearest Jenny, Never brun owd Meg, For theau wilt wed meh, Jenny, OH, WELL I LOVE MY GENTLE MAID- BV J. B. ROGERSON. Oh, well I love my gentle maid. For she is young and fair ; Her eye is as the summer sky, Like moon-clouds is her hair ; Her voice is tuneful as a bird's. Her step is light and free. And better far than all besides, She dearly loveth me. 8o MODERN SONGS AND I chose my love from out the crowd Of beauty and of youth ; I chose her for her lovehness, I chose her for her truth ; I never cease to bless that hour, When first I chanced to see The graceful and the beauteous one Who dearly loveth me. 'Tis not amid a festive group My love doth seem most fair ; She best becomes the cheerful hearth, And well I love her there ; For, oh, 'twas in her quiet home — A maid's sweet sanctuary — That first I won her sinless heart. And knew her love for me. It may be wrong — I cannot brook That each rude eye should greet The brightness of her fawn-like glance, Her form and features sweet ; Oh, no ! I would that her dear charms Should all mine own charms be, I would not lose one glance of hers Who dearly loveth me. I do not think a wish of hers To others e'er can stray — I know I am her dream by night, Her thought throughout the day ; BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 8i But as the miser hides his gold, His soul's divinity, So would I hide from eyes of man The maid who loveth me. 'Tis sweet to know a treasure mine, Which none besides can share ; 'Tis sweet to think that beauty's lips Are moved for me in prayer ; 'Tis sweet when she doth soothe my woe, Or light my hours of glee — Oh, well I love the gentle maid. Who dearly loveth me. MY WYNDER.* Tune — The rose-tree in full bearing. (from "homely rhymes," etc.) By Samuel Bamford. Where Gerrard's stream, with pearly gleam, Runs down in gay meander, A weaver boy, bereft of joy, Upon a time did wander. "Ah ! well-a-day!" the youth did say, " I wish I did not mind her ; I 'm sure had she regarded me, I ne'er had lost my wynder • Each weaver in a silk or a cotton mill needs the aid of a winder, usu- ally a girl or young woman. . F 82 MODERN SONGS AND " Her ready hand was white as milk, Her fingers finely moulded, And when she touch'd a thread of silk, Like magic it was folded. She turn'd her wheel, she sang her song, And sometimes I have join'd* her; Oh, that one strain would wake again From thee, my lovely wynder ! " And when the worsted hank she wound, Her skill was further proved ; No thread uneven there was found, Her bobbins never roved. With sweet content, to work she went. And never look'd behind her, With fretful eye, for ills to spy ; But now I 've lost my wynder. " And never would she let me wait When downing + on a Friday ; Her wheel went at a merry rate, Her person always tidy. But she is gone, and I 'm alone ; I know not where to find her ; I Ve sought the hill, the wood and rill ; No tidings of my wynder. " I 've sought her at the dawn of day, I 've sought her at the noonin' ; I 've sought her when the evening gray Had brought the hollow moon in. ♦ In Lancashire pronounced jined: consequently a true rhyme to 7vy7uier. t Finishing the weaving of a "cut," web, or piece. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 83 I 've call'd her on the darkest night, With wizard spells to bind her ; And when the stars arose in light, I 've wander'd forth to find her. " Her hair was like the raven's plume, And hung in tresses bonny ; Her cheeks so fair did roses bear, That blush'd as sweet as ony. With slender waist, and carriage chaste. Her looks were daily kinder, I mourn and rave, and cannot weave/ Since I have lost my wynder. CANZONETTE. By J. B. ROGERSON. There is a place where the forest boughs Bend down to a quiet stream. And so lovely it looks in its bright repose, That it seems as 'twere wrapt in a dream ; The water-lily uplifts its head In that sweet and pleasant home, Like a living pearl in a silver bed, Or a bell of the wave's white foam ; There comes not a sound on the passing air. Save the young birds' cheerful call — Beloved one ! wilt thou meet me there. When the shadows of even fall ? * Pronounced wayve. 84 MODERN SONGS AND There is a bower on that peaceful spot, Which some fond hand hath wrought, Where the feet of the worldhng enter not, Sacred to love and thought ; Full many fair flowers beside it sigh, And the myrtle around it creeps, The breeze becomes sweet as it floateth by, And the bee in its roses sleeps ; The stars alone will our secrets share, Unseen and unheard by all — Beloved one ! wilt thou meet me there When the shadows of even fall ? PEGGY DILL. By Henry Kirk, of Goosnargh. The world has not a shyer nook, For bashful Love to stray, Than the hollow by the winding brook, •.. When whin-shrubs blossom gay • There lingering oft with Peggy Dill, We found sweet music in The jogging of the distant mill, And the roaring of the linn. 'Twas there, in that delightful hour The twilight gathers o'er. When the heart is open to the power Of Love's insidious lore, BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 85 I bound my faith with Peggy Dill Lone list'ning to the din Of the jogging of the distant mil], And the roaring of -the linn. I never hear a brawling brook, Or old mills " pick-a-peck," Or see, within some dell, a nook, Which yellow whin-shrubs deck, But to tell sweet tales of Peggy Dill Old memories begin, With the jogging of the distant mill, And the roaring of the linn. SHE'S NOT SO FAIR. By Charles Swain. She's not so fair as many there, But she's as loved as any, And few you '11 find with such a mind. Or such a heart, as Nannie : A maiden grace, a modest face, A smile to win us ever ; And she has sense, without pretence- She's good as she is clever ! She 's not so fine as some may shine, With feathers, pearls, and laces ; But oh, she's got, what they have not, With all their borrow'd graces, 86 MODERN SONGS AND Eyes blue and bright with heaven's hght,. That kindle with devotion ; A cheek df rose, a heart that glows With every sweet emotion ! She's not so fair, &c. BERTHA. By Henry Kirk, of Goosnargh. Low, by Kibble's scaury side, Swept the soft, autumnal breeze ; Faint its whisp'ring murmurs died, High in Tonbrook's crowded trees. Sad, at intervals, the grove Shook beneath a fitful blast ; Like a heart that vainly strove Back to crush some sorrow past ! Bertha came not to the seat Of our fonder, earlier faith ; False the heart that was to beat Constant, truthful, e'en to death ! Bertha, little did I deem Thou couldst thus inconstant be. Warm as still thy vows would seem, Plighted in that grove to me ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 87 MY JOHNNY. By R. R. Bealey. My Johnny is the bonniest lad 'Ut lives i' Rachda' town — His een are blue, his cheeks are red, His curly yure is brown. He walks just like a gentleman — And that 's just what he'll be ; Aw like to walk about wi' him, An' let o th' neighbours see. An' then he 's gettin' larnt i' books, An' reads o th' pappers too ; And when he comes a courtin' me He tells me all 'ut's new. He sends a letter now and then, An' writes outside it — " Miss ; " An' as it comes instead of John, It alius gets a kiss. He warks i' the factory, an' if those 'Ut wear his wark but knew What sort o' chap the weyvcr wur. They'd love it same's aw do. They'd nobbut wear't in better days. Then lay it nicely by ; John mixes love wi' everything. An' ma'cs bread taste like pic. 88 MODERN SONGS AND On Sunday when aw goo to church, An' get set nicely down, Aw never know what th' parson says, My heart's i' Rachda' town. But Johnny comes i' th' afternoon, An' never speaks in vain ; Aw swallow every word he says, Like thirsty flowers drink rain. Aw like to yer at th' cookoo sing, r weepin' April's days ; Aw like to look at the layrock rise. An' scatter down his praise. Aw like to stand i' th' quiet lone, While dayleet passes by ; But more by the hauve nor these, aw like To yer my Johnny sigh. Oh happy me, oh lucky me. To have a chap like John ; He says aw'm th' nicest lass i' th' world, Aw'm sure he's th' finest mon. He hasn't got a single fau't, An's fur too good for me ; But since my Johnny loves me so, My very best aw '11 be. He says he 's puttin' money by. To get a heawse for me ; An' when he's gotten brass enough, He says we wed mun be. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 89 Aw dunnot like to think o' that, An' yet it's gradely true : To be John's sweetheart o my hfe Aw think 'ud hardly do. TO MARY. By the Editor. As the thirsty desert-wanderer seeks the oasis green and fair ; As for pardon seeks the penitent, with tears and fer- vent prayer ; As youth seeks fame, and age seeks rest, and the life- sick look above ; As all in hope seek happiness,— so have I sought thy love. With blushes mantling on thy cheek, with modesty and grace. With tears and smiles alternating upon thy lovely face ; With murmurings soft and sweeter far than music of the grove. With faith and trust and purity, — thou gavest me thy love. As misers guard their golden god— as maidens prize their fame — As honest men would keep through life a pure and spotless name- 90 MODERN SONGS AND As hope is held to wretched hearts — as pity shields the dove — So I guard, I prize, I hold, I keep, thy pure and price- less love. Than radiant light more lustrous, than life itself more dear ; Richer than all the riches of this transitory sphere ; Outliving change and death, in eternity above — This has been — Mary! this is now, — this e'er shall be, our love. COME, LOVE, AND SING. By J. B. ROGERSON. Come, love, and sing, in thy tones sweet and low. The song which I heard from thy lips long ago. When thine eyes were as bright, and thy cheeks were as fair As the hues which the skies and the summer flowers wear. And vainly I strove with my kisses to chase The pure stream of blushes that rush'd o'er thy face. Come, sing me that song, love, 'twill bring back the day, When my heart was lit up by Affection's first ray ; When thy name to mine ears was a sound of delight. And I gazed on thine image in dreams of the night. And arose, when the sky wore the morning's bright beam. But to muse on the eyes that had shone in my dream. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 91 Then sing me that song, love ; for oh, with each tone There will come back the thoughts of the hours that are gone — Of the love that had birth amid blushes and fears, Yet hath lived through the tempest of trouble and tears ; Oh ! that time will come back of deep rapture and pride. When I woo'd thee and won thee, my beautiful bride ! ENGLAND'S MAIDENS. By Henry Kirk, of Goosnargh. I 'VE seen the lovely spring-time pass, Where Rhine's blue waters flow ; I 've seen the flowers of summer glass Their beauties in the Po ; I 've seen the fruits of autumn gleam On Cintra's pregnant soil ; I 've seen the stars of winter beam On Albion's humid isle. And much I love the Rhenish spring — Italia's summer flowers, And sunny grapes, which clust'ring string Oporto's vine-hung bowers ; — But more 1 love the beaming stars, On English winter nights. Our bright coals flashing in the bars — Red lips that lips invite. 92 MODERN SONGS AND Then take your beauties of the Rhine- Italia's, Cintra's, shades ; The holly-branch shall be my vine — My flowers, our blooming maids ! DECEIVED! By Mrs G. Linn^us Banks. On the shore of a tranquil lake A maiden reclined and dream'd Of the hearts she would win and break While that summer sunlight beam'd ; She mused o'er her victories past, Of her captives yet to be ; And the spells she would round them cast To bring them down to her knee. On the shore of a troubled lake A maiden wander'd alone, 'Mong the hearts she had vow'd to break She had not counted her own ; But a brighter eye than her own, A tongue as false and as fair, Won her soul with a look and a tone, Then left her to love and despair. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 93 SERENADE. By William Mort. I WILL come to thee, love, when the bright stars are shining, And the weary old moon in her course is declining, — With a fond mother's thought slowly stealing away, That her children may join unrestrain'd in their play ! I will come. I will come to thee, love, when night's mantle is spread O'er the earth, like a shroud that envelops the dead — Making hallow'd a scene which might else from thy breast Scare the innocent thoughts that had there taken rest ! I will come. I will come to thee, love, when the birds are all sleep- ing, And silence barefooted o'er nature is creeping ; When the trees arc quite still, and the winds hold their breath, Lest a leaflet disturb the hush'd quiet beneath ! I will come. I will come to ihcc, love, and the morrow shall find us In a world of our own, where no shackles may bind us ; I will come, love, ere yet the stars shrink from the skies. And my guerdon shall be the sweet thanks of thine eyes ! I will come — I will come ! 94 MODERN SONGS AND CANZONETTE. By John Critchley Prince. I KNOW a star, whose gentle beams Shine with a pure and constant ray, Inspire me with delicious dreams, And cheer me on my lonely way ; I gaze upon its tender light, And to it bow the adoring knee ; But, oh ! how dreary were my night Were it to shine no more for me ! I know a flower of beauteous form, Whose sweetness is beyond compare ; I fain would shield it from the storm, And keep it ever young and fair : It glads my eyes, it soothes my heart, It is a daily charm to see ; But, oh ! how bitter were my smart Were it to bloom no more for me ! Thou art the star, thou art the flower, My precious, peerless maiden, mine ! And from our first fond meeting-hour My love, my life, were wholly thine : But wert thou call'd beyond the spheres, How joyless would the wide world be ! How sad my sighs, how true my tears, Wert thou to li\e no more for me ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 95 MALLY. By R. R. Bealey. When fust aw seed thee, Mally, lass, Theaw knows 'twur near th' owd ho', r Weshbruck-lone, tort Witches-neest, Wheere th' cloof runs deawn below : 'Twur summer toime, an' th' honey bees Could sing, but dar' no' play, An' th' breezes mixt a theawsand smells O' fleaw'rs an' leaves wi' hay. Th' corn had reicht its youthfu' days. An' stood booath strung an' hee, Whoile th' cattle grazed, i' meadows green, Wi' new shorn sheep just nee ; An' th' swallows leetly skim'd o'er th' ponds, Then dcrted quick away, While th' layruck, fairly eawt o' sect, Wur singin' o th' lung day ; An' th' ferns an' wild fleawrs deawn i' th' cloof, An' th' velvet mosses too, Loike nayburs on a holiday, Seem'd donn'd i' dresses new ; An' th' pratty little tinklin' bruck— A babby uv a stream — Play'd music uz it toddled on, As sweet as love's fust dream. 96 MODERN SONGS AND My hert wur reetly tuned for love ; An' when aw lookt on thee, Aw felt as if aw'd just fun' eawt Wot heaven itsel' mun be. Aw're stonnin' just at th' eend o' th' cloof— 'Twur Sunday afternoon, An' th' Prestwich bells wur singin' eawt Their prattiest Sunday tune. Aw felt as if aw th' summer toime Wur bloomin' i' my breast, Wi' th' fleawrs, an' trees, an' brids, an' brucKS, An' sunsheighne, an' o th' rest Thy face wur th' sun, an' aw wur th' greawnd ; Aye, Mally, it wur so ; An' o th' good seeds sown i' my breast Wur made by thee to grow. Aw seed thy leet an' curly yure, Aw seed thy soft, blue een. Aw seed thy rosy, dimpled cheeks, Wi' kissin' lips between ; An' theaw wur donn'd up i' thy best — Theaw lookt so foine an' shy — Theaw'd get new shoon, aw seed thy foot Peep eawt so peert an' sly. Aw durstn't speighk, aw could bo' look, Bo' v/hen theaw'd pass'd me by Aw foUow'd on, as near's aw dar'. An' heighved up monny a soigh ; BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 97 Bu' when theaw geet to th' eend o' th' lone Aw turn'd for th' " Top o' Stond ;" Aw brasted off as if aw're feort — By th' mass, aw did clear th' lond. Eh ! but aw wur some takken in, It wur a bonny go ; Aw fun thee speighkin' snug enoof, An' lowfin wi' lung Joe. O th' steom shot off i' hawve a crack, Aw're loike a brid i' rain ; Aw thowt theaw wur his sweethert, lass, So aw slunk whoam ogen. 'Twur th' feawest walk aw ever had, Though sitch a pratty day ; A,w seed nowt noice, not aw indeed, But purr'd aw th' stones i' th' way. Aw hung my yed an' welly cried, An' wur so gradely mad. An' bote my lips, an' knit my brees, An' then turn'd soppin' sad. Aw'd getten cleawds insoide 0' me, Ivly day wur turn'd to neet ; Aw're cromm'd so full o' derkness then, There wur no reawm for leet. O th' seawnds aw yard wur muffled 'uns, Just loike a bcrryin' bell ; Aw'd sitch a nowt and dummy feel, So numb aw conno tell. G 98 MODERN SONGS AND My mother ax't me wot wur t' do— Hoo thowt aw mut be ill — An' made some gruel, spoiced an' noice, An' browt a doctor's pill. But that 'ud do no good, nor it, It noane cures th' hert o' woe ; Bo' aw thowt if aw could ha' my will Aw'd give a pill to Joe. Aw fret o day, an' rowlt o neet, Abeawt a wick or two. An' then my mother fun' me eawt, An' said aw wur a foo'. Hoo towd me t' goo an' speighk to th' lass, An' get it some road o'er ; Mak th' job a kiss, or else a miss ; But dunno lay on th' floor. Hoo met as weel ha' spoke to th' pump— Aw know'd naught wot hoo said ; Bo' then my fayther coom, by th' mass ! An' cleawted me o'er th' yed. Owd lass, that gaen me sitch a stert, Aw jumpt reet off my cheor ; Th' owd pluck coom back ; aw show'd for feight ; As if aw'd had t' mitch beer. Then mother lowft, an' fayther lowft. An' said, " Goo lad, eawr Dick ; He's getten th' foo's cap on at last ; Poor lad, he's turn't love sick." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 99 Aw felt as soft as buttermilk, Bo' wot wur th' wust uv o, Aw're welly lowfin' eawt mysel', They o wur lowfin' so. Next day my fayther made me wurtch, An', laws, it helpt me on, Aw're better, but aw wurno weel, For th' hert wurtch hadno gone. O th' summer past, an' autumn toime, An' some 0' th' winter too ; When thee an' me we met at last r th' little chapel schoo'. Theaw knows 'twur th' Kesmus pertyin'. An' after th' tay wur done. An' th' speighkin', an' resoitin' too, Waw th' doancin' wur begun. Aw'st ne'er forget that neet, owd lass, For when aw doanced wi' thee. Thy hont i' moine, an' moine i' thoine, 'Twur gradely o'er wi' me. Theaw recollects aw towd my tale, Aw did so soft, loike, feel ; 'Twur done i' little bits an' scraps ; But eh, theaw pieced 'um weel. Theaw didno say theaw'd ha' me then ; Bo' sayin' naught wurn't no ; Theaw blusht aboon a bit, theaw did, And hung thy ycd so low. loo MODERN SONGS AND We perted, an' aw sterted whoani. But aw'd no sleep that neet, Aw're loikc a dug lost in a fair, No soide nor place wur reet. Aw're up at two o'clock i' th' morn An' off to th' Heeur-lone, An' stood — a silly foo's aw wur — Beneath thy window stone. Bo' never moind, aw'U say no mooar, 'Twur o made reet at last ; An' sin that toime full monny a day 'Uv happiness we'n past. It's noice to turn us reawnd a bit, An' look at days gone by : Let's hutch together, Mally, woife, Loike cleawds i' th' sunset sky. Owd love is loike to th' roipen'd fruit ; Yung love loike th' bloomin' is ; We'n tasted, an' we loike 'um booath, They'n each their sort o' bliss. Owd cooartin' may be tame enoof. But, come, let 's hae a bit ; Let 's put my arm reet reawnd thy waist, An' closer to thee sit. Neaw lay thy yed uppo' my breast, As t' did i' " owd lang syne ; " One bond shall stroke thy wrinkled cheek, While t' other's held i' thoine ; BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. loi An' let us shut eawr een an' dream Uv yunger days an' spring. Nay, dunno' cry, owd lass, or else Th' brids in us winno sing. God bless thee, Mally ! good owd woife ! Love doesno' dee wi' yers ; But, see, aw 've brokken deawn mysel' ; Let 's mix eawr bits o' tears : They winno' speighl eawt, will they, lass ? They're but late April sheaw'rs ; We'st foind eawr May-toime up aboon, These tears 'uU help thoose fleaw'rs. Aw 'm satisfied wi' th' loife we'n had, An' thankfu' for it, too, Although we'n walkt o'er roofish roads An' pood up mony a brow. We'n gone through every lond i' th' world, Booath wcet an' cowd an' o ; Sometoimes beein' melted dcawn wi' heat, An' sometoimes smoo'rt wi' snow. But, lookin' back, it 's plain enoof 'Twur nobbut shade an' leet, To make up th' pictur o' one's loife It shows ut o comes reet. Bo' lift thy ycd, neaw, Mally, woife, Toime 's slippin' fast away ; Let 's up, an' do that bit o' werk There 's left for th' close o' day. I02 MODERN SONGS AND LUCY NEALE.* By the Editor. Avoca's Vale, thy charms no more My lonely heart can feel, For thy green grass is waving o'er My own loved Lucy Neale. 'Twas in thy groves that first I dared My hopes to her reveal, And there upon my vows she smiled, — My own sweet Lucy Neale. Oh, my Lucy Neale ; my poor Lucy Neale. Oh could I but those days recall, How happy I should feel. But soon the rose fled from her cheek, Nor could she long conceal That death's cold touch had chill'd the heart Of my young Lucy Neale. Oh ! how much bliss can one fell stroke From plighted lovers steal ! She bless'd me ; in my arms she died ; My love ! my Lucy Neale. Oh, my Lucy Neale ; my poor Lucy Neale ; Oh would that I had died with thee, My sainted Lucy Neale ! My love they from my bosom bore, But the wound they cannot heal, And my heart, my heart is breaking. For my own loved Lucy Neale. * This ballad was written to supply more fitting words to the plain- tive negro melody of the same name. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 103 I feel my dying hour is nigh, — The ffrave my love shall seal ; Then lay me in the grassy tomb, Where rests my Lucy Neale. Oh, my Lucy Neale ; my poor Lucy Neale ; E'en death shall not divide us then, My own, my Lucy Neale. LOVE'S HISTORY. By Charles Swain. By sylvan waves that westward flow, A hare-bell bent its beauty low, With slender waist, and modest brow. Amidst the shades descending — A star look'd from the paler sky, The hare-bell gazed, and, with a sigh. Forgot that love may look too high, And sorrow without ending. By casement hid, the flowers among, A maiden lean'd and listcn'd long : It was the hour of love and song. And early night-birds calling : A bark across the river drew, — The rose was glowing through and through The maiden's check, of lily hue. Amidst the twilight falling. I04 MODERN SONGS AND Slie saw no star, she saw no flower, Her heart expanded to the hour ; She reck'd not of her lowly dower, Amidst the shades descending : With love thus fix'd upon a height That seem'd so beauteous to the sight, How could she think of wrong and blight. And sorrow without ending ? The hare-bell droop'd beneath the dew, And closed its eye of tender blue ; No sun could e'er its life renew. Nor star, in music calling : The autumn leaves were early shed. But earlier on her cottage bed The maiden's loving heart lay dead, Amidst the twilight falling ! WE MET. By Henry Kirk. We met, as only two can meet, Whose eyes flash mutual fire ; Greeted, as only two can greet, When words in sighs expire. We stray'd, as only two can stray, Whose confidence is sure ; We play'd, as only two can play, Whose innocence is pure. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 105 We praised, as only two can praise, That fear no flatteries ; Embraced, as only two embrace, Ere evil passions rise. We felt, as only two can feel. Whom equal wishes guide ; Reveal' d, what only two reveal, Who mutual trust confide. We loved, as only two can love, That know no fear or guift ; We 've proved, as only two can prove. That doubt each fear and smile. We own, with those, the vacant heart, That find their love in vain ; We part, as only two can part, That ne'er may meet again ! THE MAID OF DISS.* By George Richardson. Fair maid of Diss ! with dark brown hair. That o'er a stainless bosom streams, And pensive eyes which touch the soul, And win the heart with gentle gleams ; Oh, peerless maid, though lovers false May wound thy breast with guileful kiss, Let moral worth and virtue rare Adorn thee still, sweet maid of Diss ! J>i--s, a lowji ill Norfolk. io6 MODERN SONGS AND Fair maid of Diss ! from whose dear face The mind's emotion calmly beams, And modest guise, with comely pride, The nobler graces well beseems ; May radiant peace and lasting joy Bestrew as flowers thy path of bHss, And pure requited love be thine — For ever thine, fair maid of Diss ! Farewell, sweet maid ! 'tis fate's decree That thou"itaust quit our much-loved shore ; Fond memory will picture still Thine image, though we meet no more ; And hope and love will fondly wake To wish thee happy years of bliss- Still happier if connubial joys Should bless thee, graceful maid of Diss ! I'LL TELL MY MOTHER. By J. B. ROGERSON. Timid little Marian, With her blooming beauty. In an instant lured me From the path of duty ; Nothing else I thought of, Nothing, and no other ; Though she cried, if I but touch'd her,- " Don't !— I 'U tell mv mother ! " BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 107 When she heard me coming, Straight she sought some hiding, And broke out in laughter, Checking thus my chiding ; If I did but press her hand More warmly than a brother, She said, and snatch'd her fingers, " Don't !— I '11 tell my mother !" When the love I bore her Could not be dissembled, And our lips encounter'd. How she blush'd and trembled ! That 0716 kiss she forgave me, But, when I stole another, She cried out, yet not loudly, " Oh !— I '11 tell my mother !" Mine, I said, she must be. Without more denying ; For all night I slept not. And all day was sighing ; She must answer mc with " Yes !" That out: zuord, and no other ; She only sigh'd and whisper' d, '' Pray don't tell my mother !" io8 MODERN SONGS AND TH' SWEETHEART GATE. By Edwin Waugh. Air — " The Manchester Angel." Oh, there 's mony a gate eawt ov eawr teavvn-end,- But nobbut one for me ; It winds by a rindlin' wayter side, An' o'er a posied lea : It wanders into a shady dell ; An' when aw 've done for th' day, Oh, aw never can sattle this heart o' mine, Beawt walkin' deawn that way. It's noather garden, nor posied lea, Nor wayter rindlin' clear ; But deawn i' th' vale there 's a rosy nook, An' my true love lives theer. It's olez summer wlieer th' heart's content, Tho' wintry winds may blow ; An' theer 's never a gate 'at's so kind to th' fuut, As th' gate one likes to go. When aw set off o' sweetheartin', aw've A theawsan' things to say ; But th' very first glent o' yon chimbley-top, It drives 'em o away ; An' when aw meet wi' my bonny lass, It sets my heart a-jee ; — Oh, there's sumuuit i' th' leet o' yon two blue een That plays the dule wi' me ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 109 When th' layrock's finish'd his vvark aboon, An' laid his music by, He flutters deawn to his mate, an' stops Till dayleet stirs i' th' sky. Though Matty sends me away at dark, Aw know that hoo's reet full well ; — An' it 's heaw aw love a true-hearted lass. No mortal tung can tell. Aw wish that Candlemas day were past. When wakin' time comes on ; An' aw wish that Kesmas time were here, An' Matty an' me were one. Aw wish this wanderin' wark were o'er — This maunderin' to an' fro ; That aw could go whoam to my own true love, An' stop at ncet an' o. THE LOVED AND LOST. By Henry Kirk. The grass waves green above the tomb. Where dark in death young Ellen lies ; No more shall pleasure scare the gloom From Richard's eyes ! Oh, better far the love, where Death Hath set the seal no time destroys. Than that, which on some wanton's brcatli Hath placed its joys ! no MODERN SONGS AND Still lives that love, unchanged and bright, Fresh blooming each successive year ; No jealous pangs — no doubts to blight ; No wrongs to fear ! Then clear thy brow ; for she, my friend, Thy angel-wife, thy heart's true love, Shall point, in life's uncertain end. Thy path above ! The world has claims 'twere wrong to shun For one so young. Some other heart As full of mirth may yet be won. And bliss impart ! Life is not such a bitter thing As fools believe, in idiot madness ; 'Tis our own thoughts and actions bring Our woe or gladness. t)^ Then learn to live, and cultivate The warmer feelings of the soul Fly empty follies, ere " too late " Thy reason call ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. in THE FAREWELL. By the Rev. Richard Parkinson, D.D. Here have I loitei'd many an hour, Beneath that oak, beside yon stream, And oft within this fragrant bower I 've shelter'd from the noontide beam ; And hsten'd to the summer song Of insects, as they swept along. And here came one, with notes more wild Than summer's train have ever sung ; And when, as oft would hap, she smiled, Her eye was sweeter than her tongue : Then shady oak, and stream, and bower, Would vanish in that happy hour. And now these long-loved joys are past — I leave this tranquil scene for ever ; And I have stood and gazed my last On the brown oak and glassy river ; — Oh, fly with me, dear maid, for thou Canst teach me to forget them now ! Yes, teach me to forget the place Where oft with raptured foot I stray'd, For all its charms and all its grace Were borrow'd from thy form, sweet maid ! Where'er tJiou art, the stream will ilow, The bower will bloom, the summer glow ! H2 MODERN SONGS AND LOVELY SUSANNAH. (from "the thunderstorm— a rural sketch.") By Thomas Nicholson.* Lovely Susannah 's away to the wood ; Lonely and musing, and moody goes she : Yes, she goes all alone ; but she is good, And loves the sweet woodlark that sings in the tree. Lovely Susannah has gone through the glade : Hath not a coy maiden some danger to fear So deep in the wood ? She loves best the shade, And the ringdove's complaint is sweet to her ear. Hark, a shrill whistle ! She turns not away — No, fearless Susannah still onward doth move ; Yet, that's not the woodlark tuning his lay. Nor yet the soft plaint of the mild-cooing dove. 'Twas not the ringdove that kept her so long ; Nor was it the woodlark's wild music so clear ; Oh, no ! 'twas a softer, a much sweeter song. More pleasing by far to a fond maiden's ear ! Oh, say not she knew that young Edwin was there : No bird's note loved he like the woodlark's sweet strain, And the ringdove's soft coo. How like were the pair ! 'Twas accident brought them together, 'tis plain ! * The author, who published his little volume .^t 65 Berkeley Street, Str.iiigew.iys, Manchester, says, " I neither make a boast of poverty nor desire riches." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. ir M AGGIE. By Richard R. Bealey. Oh, thou bonny rosc-lipp'd lassie, More than roses thou must be ; For the month of rosy beauty Is but March compared with thee — My love Maggie, Sweetheart Maggie, All the flowers thou art to me. Yet the flowers of field or garden. Breathing fragrance on the breeze ; Or the birds that carol sweetly, Making concert in the trees ; My love Maggie, Sweetheart Maggie, These have not thy power to please. My poor heart was cold and barren, Cold as winter, and as drear. Until thou, by smiling on me, Gavest me summer all the year ; My love Maggie, Sweetheart Maggie, Flowers must bloom when thou art near. Summer-time, and spring, and autumn, All their mantles o'er thee fling ; Laureate art thou to the seasons, Praising, loving everything ; My love Maggie, Sweetheart Maggie, Queen thou art ; oh, make me King ! H 114 MODERN SONGS AND SULINA. By Henry Kirk. Ye rude cliffs of Abydos, how dear to my soul ! How sweet thy remembrance, O blue stream of Hell^ ! And the hills crown'd with vineyards and cypresses tall, Encircling thy low-seated walls, Charconelli. Oh, there is a spot where the orange-tree blooms, — The fountain leaps forth 'neath the broad sycamore ; Where a thousand sweet flowers, dispensing perfumes, Enamel the carpet of green on the shore. And dear is that spot with the old marble column. Which broken and prostrate lies low on the grass, And preacheth a sermon, impressive and solemn, To the daughters and sons of young Greece as they pass ! For it tells of the fate of their own sunny land — So faded in glory — so sunk in its power — Its children made slaves, who were born for command ; With nought left but beauty and craft for their dower. And there, O thou fairest of Attica's daughters ! I first met the flame of thy soft-beaming eyes ; When the last crimson ray of the sun kiss'd the waters. And Dian was lighting her own native skies ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 115 But now I am far from the dear coast of Asia, Where milder suns beam on the Isle of the Free : Sweet scenes of my passion ! no more must I trace you, Or watch with Sulina thy glittering sea ! Perhaps still she there wanders, when daylight is over, And all the bright stars the blue heavens invest, — And turns from the lips of some eloquent lover. To breathe a low siifh for the son of the West ! BETTER THAN BEAUTY. By Charles Swain. My love is not a beauty To other eyes than mine ; Her curls are not the fairest, Her eyes are not divine : Nor yet like rose-buds parted, Her lips of love may be ; But though she's not a beauty, She's dear as one to me. Her neck is far from swan-like, Her bosom unlike snow ; Nor walks she like a deity This breathing world below : Yet there 's a light of happiness Within, which all may see ; And though she 's not a beauty, She 's dear as one to me. 1 1 6 MODERN SONGS AND I would not give the kindness, The grace that dwells in her, For all that Cupid's blindness In others might prefer ! I would not change her sweetness For pearls of any sea ; For better far than beauty Is one kind heart to me. NOTHING MORE. By John Bolton Rogerson. In a valley fair I wander'd, O'er its meadow pathways gi'een, Where a singing brook was flowing, Like the spirit of the scene ; And I saw a lovely maiden, With a basket brimming o'er With sweet buds, and so I ask'd her For a flower, and nothing more. Then I chatted on beside her, And I praised her hair and eyes, And, like roses from her basket. On her cheeks saw blushes rise ; With her timid looks down glancing, She said, " Would I pass before ? " But I said that all I wanted Was a smile, and nothing more. BA LLA DS OF LANCA SHIRE. 1 1 ; So she slyly smiled upon me, And I still kept wandering on ; What with blushing, smiling, chatting, Soon a brief half-hour was gone. Then she told me I must leave her, For she saw their cottage door ; But I would not till I rifled ■ Just a kiss, and nothing more. And I often met that maiden At the twilight's loving hour. With the summer's offspring laden. But herself the dearest flower. When she ask'd me what I wish"d for. Grown far bolder than before, With impassion'd words I answer'd, 'Tvvas her heart, and nothing more. Thus for weeks and months I woo'd her. And the joys that then had birth, Made an atmosphere of gladness Seem encircling all the earth. One bright morning at the altar A white bridal dress she wore ; Then my wife I proudly made her, And I ask for nothing more ! ii8 MODERN SONGS AND NUPTIAL LINES. WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF THE MARRIAGE OF THE HON. LADY ELIZABETH GREY DE WILTON WITH THE HON. CAPTAIN DUDLEY CHARLES DE ROS, AT prestwich. By George Richardson, Author of ^'"Falrlotism," a^c, 6^^. CHORUS. Hark, the merry bells are ringing! Festive joy and homage bringing ; And village-friends keep holiday — The bridal-morn of Lady Grey.* Many a banner high is streaming. Glad eyes fervent pleasure beaming ; Lo ! the happy train advances — Bridal-maids with smiling glances. Hark, &c. 'Tis past — the sacred plighted vow ! Dear lady, free from care as now — May virtue, truth, and honour prove, Thy early dreams of wedded love. Hark, &c. Tender damsels odours bringing, On thy path gay flowers are flinging ; Clad like vestals in pure whiteness, Dropping sunny bloom and brightness. Hark, &c. ■'■ An admissible poetical licence, the author hopes. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 119 May the beauteous offering be A type of blessed years for thee ! And life a chalice of rich treasure, Ever fill'd with love's sweet measure ! Hark, the merry bells are ringing ! Booming guns are pleasure winging ; And villagers keep holiday — For gentle, happy Lady Grey. THE FAITHLESS. By Henry Kirk. I SAID that from my faithful heart Thy form should part When waves should cease along the seas, And leaves to deck the summer trees, And stars to shine, — and these would be Oh never, never ! And thou didst lavish for all this Fond hopes of bliss. As wanton waves would kiss the shore, And leafy boughs with fruit bud o'er, And bright stars shine, and thou adore For ever, ever ! But, like thy truthless love, all these Must one day cease. The ocean's waves shall idly lie, The earth's last summer leaves shall die. The stars fade out, and I shall sigh For thee ? Oh never ! 120 MODERN SONGS AND CHIRRUP. By Edwin Waugh. Young Chirrup wur a mettled cowt : His heart an' limbs wur true ; At foot-race, or at wrostlin'-beawt, Or aught he buckled to ; At wark or play, reet gallantly He laid into his game : An' he 're very fond o' singin'-brids^^ That 's heaw he geet his name. He 're straight as ony pickin'-rod, An' limber as a snig : An' the heartiest cock o' th' village clod. At every country rig : His shinin' een wur clear an' blue ; His face wur frank an' bowd ; An' th' yure abeawt his monly broo , Wur crispt i' curls o' gowd. Young Chirrup donn'd his clinker't shoon, An' startin' off to the fair, He swore by the leet o' th' harvest moon. He 'd have a marlock there ; He poo'd a sprig fro' th' hawthorn-tree, That blossom' d by the way ; — " Iv ony mon says wrang to me, Aw '11 tan his hide to-day ! " BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 121 Full sorely mony a lass would sigh, That chanced to wander near, An' peep into his een, to spy Iv luv' wur lurkin' theer ; So fair an' free he stept 0' th' green, An' trollin' eawt a song, Wi' leetsome heart, an' twinklin' een, Went chirrupin' along. Young Chirrup woo'd a village maid, — An' hoo wur th' flower ov o, — Wi' kisses kind, i'th' woodlan' shade. An' whispers soft an' low ; r Matty's ear 'twur th' sweetest chime That ever mortal sung ; An' Matty's heart beat pleasant time To th' music ov his tung. Oh, th' kindest mates, this world within, Mun sometimes meet wi' pain ; But, iv this pair could life begin. They 'd buckle to again ; For, though he 're hearty, blunt, an' tough, An' Matty sweet and mild, For threescore year, through smooth an' rough, Hoo led him like a child. 122 MODERN SONGS AND "I GAZED O'ER THE BLUE STILL WATERS." By James Horton Groves.* I GAZED o'er the blue, still waters wide, As the morn was nodding gray, Expecting a homeward sail to glide, From a land beyond the sea. But the sun rose high, and again sunk low, And no sail appear'd to view ; Oh ! I sigh'd, as the wind began to blow, For my absent sailor true. I gazed on the troubled waters wide, Till the sun rose to his height ; I watch'd the ebb and the flow of the tide. E'en till the approach of night. But no sail appear'd my soul to cheer. And the waves more fiercely drove ; As the tempest rose, I sigh'd with fear For my absent sailor love. I still gazed over the rough, wide sea. And aloud began to weep ; And just as the darkness veil'd the day, 1 closed my eyes in sleep ; And I thought that an angel clasp'd me round, And kiss'd me as I mourn'd ; I awoke — and myself in the arms I found Of my sailor true, return'd ! * A Mancliestei- rhymester, who pubUshed, some years ago, by sub- scriplioii, a thin volume of Poems, &c., inckidhig a Drama in three acts, cilled, "M'Alpine: or, The Warlock Chieftain." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. iii MI NONA. By Henry Kirk. Again the soft season of spring Renews the sweet mantle of earth, The thrush and the wild linnet sing — The gay promise of autumn is forth. And thou wilt be roaming the wood, Where blossoms are decking the spray ; On the bank which the blue violets stud, As sweet and as peaceful as they. But the fiend of the storm may arise And blast all the beauties of spring ; The flowers now feasting thine eyes May shrink 'ncath the blight of his wing. Yet there is a spring in my breast, A spot ever sunny and fair, Like the gardens prepared for the blest, And a bright flower ever blooms there. The tempests, the whirlwinds of fate — The simooms of passion and pain — The blight of suspicion and hate — Sweep o'er it, assail it, — in vain. For with it the spring is unceasing ; It feeds on the dews of the heart ; Its brightness is ever increasing; II cannot — it shall not, depart! 124 MODERN SONGS AND For Hope is the sun ever beaming ; Remembrance the soil ever new ; And Love is the vi'atcher undreaming ; The undying blossom is — You ! BUT I AM SAD. By R. R. Bealey. The summer-time is full of flowers, The gardens all are gay, They breathe the sunshine, drink the showers, And laugh the hours away. The trees are clad in robes of green. And birds among them sing ; But I am sad, and can't be glad — My joy has ta'en the wing. The brooks and rivers run along, With music to the sea ; The willows kiss them for their song, The breezes join the glee. The joyous clouds together play, Or chase each other on ; But I am sad, and can't be glad — My happy days are gone. I used to love the summer-time, I used to love the spring ; But since my love has proved untrue, No joy to me they bring. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 125 It seems as if the winter time, Had crept o'er all the year ; It 's very cold within my heart — It's very dark and drear. Oh, heart of mine with blighted love, What power thy life can save ? I 'm like a yew tree, dark and sad, Beside an open grave. My love I call both loud and long, And in my tears I cry. But, No ! he '11 never love me more, And love-less I must die. TO MISS M. B. By Henry Kirk. The sacred muse has told. How the Queen of Sheba brought Jewels, spices, gold, To Solomon, king of thought. My sweet in herself surpasses The whole of the precious store ; The rarest and richest of lasses. Compounded of scents, gems, and ore. From a polish'd marble brow Fall locks oi goldxSxG brightest ; And her ruby lips below Are teeth oi pea}-ls the whitest. 126 MODERN SONGS AND As gleams of Orient skies Through cypress branches seen, Is the blue of her sapphire eyes Under their ebon screen. From ocean's rosiest shells Her cheek's rich tint is drawn ; And the music of distant bells Rings in her voice's tone. Her breast is the pearl-home's lining, From Oman's sunny sea ; Her arms the ivory shining, Where gay lamps lighted be. On her lips, the dew I seize Is honey from virgin flowers ; Her breath is the scented breeze From Mytha's orange bowers. Though in thought, in toast, in song, I place her still before all ; She preserves her heart so long, I think it must be coral. Oh, were it the anthracite The swarthy miner raises, A spark of my love should light. And kindle it into blazes ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 127 P O E T S' FICTIONS. By the Editor. I PITY the poets that deck the loved fair, In cold, lifeless charms, drawn from earth, sea, and air ; "Ruby lips," "golden ringlets," and "diamond eyes," Such creations like Frankenstein-monsters arise. Who would sigh for his love if her forehead were stone ? * Were her eyes real " brilliants^'' would he not groan ? Romantic is he, who can deem it a bliss. That from 7nineral lips he may snatch a cold kiss ! Then just think of the grief of a beautiful girl, To have soft "silken hair" that would ne'er keep in curl ; Or "bright golden ringlets"— namely, corkscrews in wire : She'd uT^-braid them, and cast them to melt in the fire. What fair lady, carrying the neck of a swan,t Could ever be dear to a rational man ? And I 'm very sure, that my heart I 'd ne'er pawn To a damsel that trots "with the step of a fawn." Oh, save me from her whose eyes' glittering light Shines bright in the dark, as do cats' in the night ; And from her, too (the sprite ? she 's no mortal, alas !) Who can trip o'er the fields without bending the grass. • Her "alabaster brow." t Her "swan-like neck." 128 MODERN SONGS AND No "goddess," or " angel," or " nymph" could I love ; No compound of charms from the diamond-mine ; To woman my faith and affection I '11 prove,— To thee, dearest Mary,— for ever I 'm thine. " OH, MIRK AND STORMY." (from "the wild FLOVi^ERS OF POETRY.")* By James Horton Groves. " Oh, mirk and stormy is the nicht ; So ope the door and let me ben ; Unto my sark I 'm dripping weet. An' a' my body 's stiffenen'. For sake o' thee, my bonnie lass, I cam' through storm o' hail an' snaw, An' ay agen for thee I 'd pass A storm, to hae a kiss or twa." " I 'm sorry that ye hither cam', I daur na let ye ben, my joe ; Our auld folks are awa' frae hame ; To do so wad be sin, ye know. An' though ye cam' through snaw an' hail. To let ye ben wad be my wrang ; Nor tempt me, gif ye wish me hale ; So back again, my laddie, gang." ' The work," says the writer, "of a poor, self-taught, young man. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 129 " I wish ye hale, ye know it too ; But deep the snaw is driftin' fast ; I may be buried in a slough, Or perish in the bitin' blast, — Then wad ye wish ye 'd let me stay ; Then wad ye wish ye'd oped the door ; When, stretch'd a corse, ye see me lay, Na mair to luve, or kiss ye mair." " Talk na sae woefu', — me ye fright ; I wadna now ye went till day ; Could ye na mak' a shift the nicht To lie i' th' barn amang the hay ? For hark ! the owlet's screeching din. It bodes o' strife, an' wad ye warn ; The warlock, too, now haunts the glen, So tarry, pray ye, in the barn." " I care na for the owlet's din ; I care na for the warlock's strife ; Gif ye '11 na gladly let me ben, I care na either for my life. Nor storm, nor snaw, whate'er's my lot, Shall tempt me in your barn to stay ; An' gif ye keep me out o' th' cot, The gate I cam' I '11 back away." "Nay, gae na back; 'tis na my will ! Come ben, an' shelter frae the storm ; The ragin' blast is cauld an' chill ; Our blcczin* ingle's chccrin' warm. I I30 MODERN SONGS AND I meant na what I said, my dear ; So doff your clothes, I 'II dry them weel ; Then sit ye down in th' elbow'd chair, An' drive the cauld wi' th' gudeman's ale" " Thy ruddy lips oh let me taste. Like simmer roses weet wi' dew ; An' o' the sweetness let me feast, Issuin' frae thy bonnie mou'. An' then the gudeman's ale I '11 try, Na hauf sae sparklin' as thine ee ; Nor in the barn on hay I '11 lie. But sit, my luve, beside o' thee ! " "IN A SNUG LITTLE NOOK." By Thomas Brierley.* In a snug little nook, by a ripphng brook, 'Tis there that my true love dwells ; 'Tis shaded with trees, and fann'd by the breeze, And laden with witching spells. There, there I recline 'neath the sweet woodbine, And marlockt her raven hair, I clasp her fingers where beauty lingers, And we bask in the rosy air. Then here's to the cot, the neat httle cot, Where my true love resides ; May it contain love's rosy chain, And a fountain of pleasure-tides ! * The writer is a ^^ilk-wcaver at Alkrington, near lM!dd!eton ; and author of "Th' Silk-Wcavcr's Fu<;t r.eariii'-home," and other \ales, &c. t Play \vit!i. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 131 I ponder and stare in the starry fair, That 's held in the heavens at night, And wonder what arm, with its mighty charm, Could have made such stellar light. And betimes I dream of a sunny sheen, Too glitt'ring for earthly birth. And there I woo, 'mid the balmy dew, This beautiful nymph of earth. Then here's to the cot, the neat little cot, Where my true love resides ; May it contain love's rosy chain, And a fountain of pleasure-tides ! THE ARDENT LOVER. By the late Edward Rushton, of Liverpool* Ah, Mary ! by that feeling mind. Improved by thought, by taste refined. And by those blue bewitching eyes, And by those soul-seducing sighs, • The late Mr Edward Rushton was bom at Liverpool in November 1756, and educated in the Free School there. While a sea apprentice at the age of sixteen, on board a ship in a storm, when captain and crew left the vessel to drive at hazard, young Rushton seized the helm, called the men to their duty, and, under his direction, the vessel was saved ; for which he received the thanks of captain and crew, was made second mate, and had a grateful endorsement on his indentures by the owners While mate on board a slaver, all the slaves were seized with ophthalmia, and none but Rushton had the humanity to care for them • the result to himself was total blindness for thirty-three years He par- tially recovered his sight in 1807. by the skill of Mr Gibson oculist Manchester. He distinguished himself by the promoiion of every 132 MODERN SONGS AND And by that cheek's dehcious bloom, And by those Hps that breathe perfume, Here do I bow at Beauty's shrine, And pledge this glowing heart of mine. The tame, the impotent of soul, A haughty mandate may control, May make him slight a Helen's charms, And take a dowdy to his arms ; But when did dark maternal schemes, Or the stern father's towering dreams. Or when did power or affluence, move The heart sublimed by real love ? The cold, slow thing that tamely woos. Just as his worldly friends may choose, Is but a snail on beauty's rose. That crawls and soils where'er he goes. Not so the youth whose mantling veins Are fill'd with love's ecstatic pains ; He heeds nor gold, nor craft, nor pride, But strains, all nerve, his blushing bride. Come, then, oh ! come, and let me find A pleader in thy feeling mind, And let the beams from those blue eyes Disperse the clouds that round me rise ; philanthropic object and institution in Liverpool, and his writings were largely instrumental in the establishment of the Liverpool Blind Asylum. He died in November 1S14, aged fifty-three; leaving a son, Edward, barrister-at-law, and in the latter part of his life, stipendiary magistrate for the borough of Liverpool. Mr Rushton's poems have been twice published, — in 1806, — and posthumously in 1814, with a sketch of his life by the late Rev. Dr Shepherd, of Gateacre. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 133 And let those lips that breathe perfume, With speed pronounce my blissful doom, With speed before the sacred shrine Pledge thy dear self for ever mine. THE LANCASHIRE WITCH. By the late John Scholes. • An owd maid aw shall be, for aw'm eighteen to-morn, An' aw m'yen to keep sengle an' free ; But the dule 's i' the lads, for a plague they were born. An' thi' never con let one a-be, a-be, They never con let one a-be. Folk seyn aw'm to' pratty to dee an owd maid, An' 'at luv' sits an' laughs i' my ee ; By-leddy ! aw'm capt' 'at folk wantin' to wed ; Thi' mey o tarry sengle for me, for me, Thi' mey tarry sengle for me. There's Robin a' Mill,— he's so fond of his brass,— Thinks to bargain like shoddy for me ; He may see a foo's face if he looks in his glass, An' aw'd thank him to let me a-be, a-be, Aw'd thank him to let me a-be. Coom a chap t'other day o i' hallidi' trim, An' he swoor he 'd goo dreawn him for mc ; " Hie thi whoam furst an' doff thi," aw sed, "bonny Jim ! Or thae 'II spuyl a good shutc, docs-ta see, does-ta sec, Thac'll spuyl a good shutc, docs-ta see." 134 MODERN SONGS AND Cousin Dick says aw 've heawses, an' land, an' some gowd, An' he's plann'd it so weel, dun yo' see ! When we 're wed he '11 ha' th' heawses new-fettled an' sowd, But aw think he may let um a-be, a-be, Sly Dicky may let um a-be. Ned's just volunteer'd into th' "roifle recruits," An' a dashin' young sodiur is he ; If his gun's like his een, it'll kill wheer it shoots, But aw '11 mind as they dunnot shoot me, shoot me, Aw '11 mind as they dunnot shoot me. He sidles i' th' lone, an' he frimbles at th' yate, An' he comes as he coom no' for me ; He spers for eawr John, bo' says nought abeawt Kate, An' just gi'es a glent wi' his ee, his ee. An' just gi'es a glent wi' his ee. He's tall an' he's straight, an' his curls are like gowd. An' there 's summat so sweet in his ee, 'At aw think i' my heart, if he'd nobbut be bowd, He needna' quite let me a-be, a-be, He needna' quite let me a-be. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 135 THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE. By Edwin Waugh. The dule's i' this bonnet o' mine ; My ribbins '11 never be reet ; Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine, For Jamie '11 be comin' to-neet ; He met me i' th' lone t'other day, — Aw 're gooin' for wayter to th' well, — An' he begg'd that aw'd wed him i' May ; — Bi'thi' mass, iv he'll let me, aw will. When he took my two honds into his, Good Lord, heaw they trembled between ; An' aw durstn't look up in his face, Becose on him seein' my een ; My cheek went as red as a rose ; — There 's never a mortal can tell Hcaw happy aw felt ; for, thae knows, One couldn't ha' axed him theirsel'. But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung, — To let it eawt wouldn't be rcet, — For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung ; So aw towd him aw 'd tell him to-neet ; But, Mally, thae knows very weel, — Though it isn't a thing one should own, — If aw'd th' pikcin' o' th' world to mysel', Aw'd Gather ha' Jamie or noan. no MODERN SONGS AND Neaw, Mally, aw 've towd thae my mind ; What would to do iv 'twur thee ? " Aw'd tak' him just while he 're inclined, An' a farrantly bargain he 'd be ; For Jamie 's as greadly a lad As ever stept eawt into th' sun ; — Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed, An' ma'e th' best o' th' job when it's done ! " Eh, dear, but it 's time to be gwon, — Aw shouldn't like Jamie to wait ; — Aw connut for shame be too soon, An' aw wouldn't for th' world be too late ; Aw 'm o ov a tremble to th' heel, — Dost think 'at my bonnet '11 do ? — " Be off, lass, — thae looks very weel ; — He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo ! " TH' HEART-BROKKEN. "By John Higson, of Droylsden.* Mi bonds un mi faze ur* quoite ceawd, Aw'm weet-shurt and weet to my skin, Wor pluff stilts they slid fro' mi grip. Bur it 's neawt toart what 's aihn' within. Aw care no' fo' weet nur fo' rain, Nur th' woind os it coms o'er yon broo; Bur aw'm thinkin' o' Meary, sweet lass, Till mi heart iz fair brokken i' two. ♦ Author of the "Gorton Historical Recorder," "Historical and De- scriptive Notices of Droylsden," &c. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE 137 Laast neet fur to meet her u'th' steel, Aw crop deawn mi way e o' crack, Os soon OS aw'd suppert mi ceaws, Un' filt mi tit's mannger un' rack. Aw shackert un' waytud till ten, Bu' Meary ne'er awst furt' com cawt ; Ut last aw gan t' whissle ut durr, When ther Sam he coom preawin' abeawt. Aw axt him iv Moll wur i' th' heawse ; "Yigh, yigh, bur hoo's noan wantin' thee, Fur a chap 'ut's \yuth plenty o' braass, Hus bin bur just neaw her furt' see. Iv o' Sunday to't chourch theaw wilt gane, Ther axins tha'll ycr um coed o'er ; So tha'st no cagcon ston' hanklin' theere. Fur Meary 'uU sithi no moor." Os he slamm'd i' mi faze cottage durr, He laaft e his sleighve, did ther Sam,— Aw con stond to be byetten reet weel,' Bur aw conno' thc'r jaw un' the'r gam'. Aw 've pur up wi' mich i' this wo'ld, Aw've fou't weel it' battle o' loife, Bur aw ne'er wur so done up ofore, Os c lozin' mi chance ov o woife. Mi heart, mon, 's fair riven i' two, Aw'st ne'er ha' no pleshur aw 'm shure ; So aw '11 run mi cunthri un' place, Un' never com nar 'um no moor. 138 MODERN SONGS AND THE LOVE-DRAUGHT. (from the greek.) By Robert Rockliff. As, for my favourite fair, I twined A wreath one summer day. Among the roses I perceived That Love in ambush lay ! I seized the youngster by his wings, And drown'd him in my cup, And, as he sank amid the wine, I gaily drank it up. But ever since that day, alas ! I feel no more the same ; For Love is still alive in me. And fluttering througli my frame. THE DOMINIE'S COURTSHIP. By Robert Rockliff. He woo'd her in the wisest way That woman may be woo'd By any pedagogue, who is In a conjunctive mood ; BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 139 For in a studied speech, replete With academic learning, He pour'd into her ear the love With which his heart was yearning. " Dear Emma ! " he exclaimed, " if I Could win thee for my wife — A helpmate unto me through all The accidence of life, My sum of happiness would be Complete with this addition i For even should we vucltiply. We'd live without division. " Thy beauty is sjiperlative. So matchless in degree., That maids of every form and class Must 3i\\ give place to thee. The finesty^«r^ of them all, If scrutinised with rigour, Would prove a cypher at thy side, And make, in fact, no Jigiire. " Thy grace, too, is the general theme. For in thy walk is seen A style of carriage, that might be A copy for a queen ; \\\ fact, thy cliarms are such that, like The ruler of the nation, Thy presence everywhere is hail'd With notes 0/ admiration / I40 MODERN SONGS, ETC. " I have not much to offer thee Beyond my heart and hand, But every article I have Shall be at thy command. Oh ! pity, then, my hapless case. And look with condescension, On one whose passion hath endured For years without declension." ^How could an artless maid resist A Bachelor of Arts, Who even in his parts of speech Show'd such uncommon parts ? Their hands were join'd, and ever since That happy conjugation, The term of his domestic life Has been one long vacation! III. ^lonffcf of l3ome and ircf ^ffcctioncf. We would not say much for either the goodness or the greatness of any people whose literature lacks songs of this class. As one of our true Lancashire poets* has sung — Let us honour the gods of the household alway, Love ever the hearth and its graces, The spot where serenely and cheerfully play The smiles of familiar faces ; Where the calm, tender tones of affection are heard ; Where the child's gladsome carol is ringing ; Where the heart's best emotions are quicken'd and stirr'd By the founts that are inwardly springin*'-. * John Critchley Piince. 142 MODERN SONGS AND And home, when it is home, sounds sweet in our ears ; For it speaks of our heart-cherish'd treasure ; 'Tis a word which beguiles us of tenderest tears, Or thrills us with tranquillest pleasure ; It prompts us to set rude enjoyments at nought ; It chastens our speech and demeanour ; It nerves us to action, awakes us to thought, And makes our whole being serener. Tried by this test, we think even the few Songs we are able to afford space for in this volume will show that the people of Lancashire and its songsters have a deep and religious regard for Home and its Affections. IT IS BUT A COTTAGE. By Charles Swain. It is but a cottage, but where is the heart That would love not its home, be it ever so small ? There 's a charm in the spot which no words may im- part. Where the birds and the roses seem sweetest of all. It is but a cottage, but still for a friend There 's a chair and whatever the table supplies. To the mind that 's content with what fortune may send. Why, a cot is a palace that monarchs may prize. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 143 I envy no statesman his honours and fame ; The path of ambition is deck'd to ensnare ; The title most dear is a good honest name, And ambition may envy the man without care. It is but a cottage, a shght httle place. Scarce worthy the glance of a traveller's eyes ; But, oh ! with content, and a friend's smiling face, Why, a cot is a palace that monarchs might prize. THE PLEASURES O' WHOAM. FROM "PHASES OF DISTRESS — LANCASHIRE RHYMES.' By JO.SEPH Ramsbottom. This faggin' on, this wastin' sthrife, This drudgin' wark, wi' scanty fare, This cheattin' dyeath 'at we co'n life,"" Wi' ev'ry comfort dasht wi' care. To ate an' sleep, to fret an' slave, r this breet warld o' sun an' fleawrs, — If this wur' o poor men could have. They'd weary soon o' tli' bitter heawrs. At ih' ecnd o' ih' day, mi wark done, An' quite content, aw'm sat at whoam, Mi childhcr brimmin' o'er wi' fun, 'L'U singin' rcawnd abeawt me come. * This eliciting dc.ith that we call liO.-. T44 MODERN SONGS AND An' th' young'st 'ull romp up on mi knee, An' th' next between my legs 'ull get, An' th' owdest in his cheer 'ull be Hutcht close as it con weel be set. What merry laughs, what lispins then, O' wondhrous things they'n chanced to see What kissins reawnd an' reawnd agen ! It 's busy wark to m'ind o three : What flingin' arms abeawt mi neck. What passin' fingers thro' mi yure. What neighsy fun witheawt a check. What rowlin' o'er an' o'er o' th' flure ! An' th' wife looks on wi' glist'nin' ee, An smile 'ut dhrives o care away ; Heaw preawd hoo feels, it 's plain to see, r watchin' th' childher romp an' play. When sleep is sattlin' on their lids. An' oitch begins to nod its yed, O reawnd agen aw kiss mi brids. Afore hoo packs 'em off to bed. An' tho' eawr crust be hard an' bare ; Tho' petches on eawr dress be seen ; An' th' sky hang black wi cleawds o' care, Wi' hardly one blue rent between ; Tho' th' rich o' life's good things han moore, They'v noan as mony scenes like this ; Thus heaven i' kindness gi'es to th' poor No scanty foretaste of its bliss. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 145 FAREWELL TO MY COTTAGE. written on leaving blackley to live in london. By Samuel Bamford. Farewell to my cottage that stands on the hill, To valleys and fields where I wander'd at will, And met early spring with her buskin of dew. As o'er the wild heather a joyance she threw ; 'Mid fitful sun-beamings, with bosom snow-fair. And showers in the gleamings, and wind-beaten hair. She smiled on my cottage, and buddings of green On elder and hawthorn and woodbine were seen, — The crocus came forth with its lilac and gold, And fair maiden snowdrop stood pale in the cold, — The primrose pcep'd coyly from under the thorn, And blithe look'd my cottage on that happy morn. But spring pass'd away, and the pleasure was o'er, And I left my dear cottage to claim it no more. Farewell to my cottage — afar must I roam — No longer a cottage, no longer a home. For bread must be earn'd, though my cot I resign, Since what I enjoy shall with honour be mine ; So up to the great city I must depart. With boding of mind and a pang at my heart. Here all seemcth strange, as if foreign the land, A place and a people I don't understand ; And as from the latter I turn me away, I think of old neighbours, now lost, wcll-a-day ! I think of my cottage full many a tunc, A nest among flowers at midsummer prime ; K 146 MODERN SONGS AND With sweet pink, and white rock, and bonny rose bower, And honey-bine garland o'er window and door ; As prim as a bride ere the revels begin. And white as a lily without and within. Could I but have tarried, contented I 'd been. Nor envied the palace of " Lady the Queen." And oft at my gate happy children would play. Or sent on an errand well pleased were they, — A pitcher of water to fetch from the spring. Or wind-broken wood from my garden to bring ; On any commission they 'd hasten with glee, Delighted when serving dear Ima,* or me, — For I was their " uncle," and " gronny " was she. And then as a recompense, sure if not soon, They 'd get a sweet posy on Sunday forenoon, Or handful of fruit would their willing hearts cheer. I miss the dear children, — none like them are here. Though offspring as lovely as mother e'er bore, At eve in the Park I can count by the score. But these are not ours, — of a stranger they're shy, So I can but bless them as passing them by ; When ceasing their play, my emotion to scan, I dare say they wonder " what moves the old man." Of ours, some have gone in their white coffin shroud, And some have been lost in the world and its crowd ; One only remains, the last bird in the nest — Our own little grandchild,+ the dearest and best. But vain to regret, though we cannot subdue * A diminutive of Jemima, the Christian name of the poet's wife, f The child of a neighbour, who called the author and his wife "gTondad"and "gronny." BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 147 The feelings to nature and sympathy true ; Endurance, with patience, must bear the strong part,— Sustain, when they cannot give peace to, the heart ; Till life with its yearnings and struggles is o'er, And I shall remember my cottage no more. HOME. By Charles Swain. Home's not merely four square walls, Though with pictures hung and gilded ; Home is where affection calls, — Fill'd with shrines the heart hath builded ! Home ! — go watch the faithful dove. Sailing 'neath the heaven above us ; Home is where there 's one to love ; Home is where there 's one to love us ! Home's not merely roof and room, — It needs something to endear it ; Home is where the heart can bloom, — Where there's some kind lip to cheer it! What is home with none to meet, — None to welcome, none to greet us ? Home is sweet — and only sweet — When there 's one we love to meet us ! 148 MODERN SONGS AND EARLY HAUNTS VISITED. By R. W. Procter.* When childhood, fairy boon from fate, Wreath'd smiles upon my brow, I press'd this dear, familiar spot. Where beauty reign'd as now. Each field and flower gave forth its bloom, Each light and sunny thing Rejoiced with me, while wandering free, Bless'd children of the spring ! How many years have noiseless sped Since last I saw this glen, — How oft by fierce commotions torn Yon world of busy men, — How much of change this heart has known. Of hopes, of smiles, of tears, — Yet o'er this sweet and lone retreat No trace of time appears. Thus, when the sun's all-glorious beams Have vanquish'd winter's gloom, Blithe nature wakes again to life. Triumphant o'er the tomb ; 'Tis thus the simplest leaves and flowers. With weeds, that meanly grow. Enjoy perpetual bloom on earth, Proud man shall never know. • Author of "The Barber's Shop," "Literary Reminiscences," "Our Turf, our Stage, and our Ring," &c. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 149 Why wonder that the great and good Should kneel, in after-years, To worship e'en the sacred turf That infancy endears ; For o'er the soul emotions crowd Tumultuous as the wave ; And shades of dear departed joys " Flit shrouded from the grave." I go, loved scene, to distant strife, In air impure to pine ; And nevermore these pilgrim feet May wander to thy shrine ; Yet memory oft will haunt thy glades, * Preserve them pure and free. To bless the little sinless hearts That follow after me. THE MUSIC IN OUR HOME. (from "songs of mv leisure hours.") By Mrs VVm. Hocson.* 'TiS not the harp that fairy fingers Sweep, to charm us with its tone, Although its thrilling echo lingers Long and sweetly in our home. This, lady is now Mrs Ftrmiid, and resides at Ashton-uiidur-Lync. ISO MODERN SONGS AND Ah ! no ; 'tis music that brings brightness To the mother's heart and eye, Telling her that life has flower, Lighting up the shadows by. 'Tis the hum of pleasant voices, Prattling in sweet childhood's tone, Making glad the household ingle With a music all their own. 'Tis the pattering of light footsteps Up and down the homely floor, With untiring perseverance Pacing one path o'er and o'er. 'Tis the merry shout and laughter Ringing out in joyous glee, Making all around re-echo With the wild, glad melody. 'Tis the timid first-taught accents Of the bonny household pet, Lisping words to the fond mother That she never will forget. Oh ! that home is drear and lonely, That has never heard the tone Of this pleasant fireside music From some bright-eyed little one ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 151 THE OLD PLACE. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. By Henry Kirk, of Goosnargh. I 'm sitting again on the old mossy stone, And the old tree is shading the well. And the last purple beams of the sunlight are thrown On the peak and the heathery fell ; And the mists, white as snow. Wreath the valleys below, And the night-birds are flinging their wild rays around. As they sang ere my young steps departed From these calm, rural scenes, where old memories abound. Full of hope, free from fear, and light-hearted. Oh, I love these mementoes of days that are past, Still unchanged by the years as they roll ; So unlike the gay world, where my wild lot is cast, Where each day marks some loss of the soul, Sees a cherish'd friend lost, Or a cherish'd hope cross'd. Oh ! had I but stay'd 'mid these fair scenes around, Yxom. the home of my youth never parted, I might never have wept as I view'd the old ground Half forlorn, spirit-broken, sad-hcartcd ! 152 MODERN SONGS AND THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. By Mrs Hemans.* " Sin^ aloud Old songs, the precious music of the heart." Wordsworth. Sing them upon the sunny hills, When days are long and bright, And the blue gleam of shining rills Is loveliest to the sight ! • Sing them along the misty moor. Where ancient hunters roved ; And swell them through the torrent's roar, The songs our fathers loved ! The songs their souls rejoiced to hear When harps were in the hall. And each proud note made lance and spear Thrill on the banner'd wall : * Felicia Dorothea Browne was born in Liverpool, on the 25th Sep- tember 1793. Her mother, whose family name was Wagner, although a German by appellation, was of Italian descent. Her father was a merchant of considerable eminence ; but he eventually suffered under those reverses incidental to a commercial life. While his daughter was still vei-y young, he retired with his family into Wales, and resided for some time at Gwrych, near Abergele. While here, a volume of verses by the young poetess, published in 1808, attracted much atten- tion, and was followed within four years by two others. In her nine- teenth year, she was married to Captain Hemans, of the 4th Regiment. His health breaking, it became necessary for him, a few years after the marriage, to go to reside in Italy. Mrs Hemans, whose literary pur- suits rendered it undesirable for her to leave England, continued to reside with her mother and sister at a quiet and pretty spot near St Asaph, in North Wales, where she commenced the training of her © BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 153 The songs that through our valleys green, Sent on from age to age, Like his own river's voice, have been The peasant's heritage. The reaper sings them when the vale Is fill'd with plumy sheaves ; The woodman, by the starlight pale, Cheer'd homeward through the leaves ; And unto them that glancing oars A joyous measure keep, Where the dark rocks that crest our shores Dash back the foaming deep. So let it be !— a light they shed O'er each old font and grove ; A memory of the gentle dead, A lingering spell of love. Murmuring the names of mighty men, They bid our streams roll on, And link high thoughts to every glen Where valiant deeds were done. Teach them your children round the hearth. When evening fires burn clear. And in the fields of harvest mirth, And on the hills of deer. So shall each unforgoltcn word, When far those loved ones roam, Call back the hearts which once it stirr'd. To childhood's holy home. five sons. Vox their belter etlucaiion, she subsequently (April 1828) fixed her residence at Wavcrtree, near Liverpool, and still later, (1831,) changed her abode to Dublin. She died on Saturday, the i6th M.iy 1835- 154 MODERN SONGS AND The green woods of their native land Shall whisper in the strain ; The voices of their household band Shall breathe their names again ; The heathery heights in vision rise Where, like the stag, they roved — Sing to your sons those melodies, The songs your fathers loved. DOMESTIC MELODY. (from " HOURS W^ITH THE MUSES.") By J. C. Prince. Though my lot hath been dark for these many long years. And the cold world hath brought me its trials and fears ; Though the sweet star of hope scarcely looks through the gloom, And the best of my joys have been quench'd in the tomb ; Yet why should I murmur at Heaven's decree, While the wife of my home is a solace for me ? Though I toil through the day for precarious food. With my body worn down, and my spirit subdued ; Though the good things of life seldom enter my door. And my safety and shelter are far from secure ; Still, still I am rich as a poet may be, For the wife of my heart is a treasure to me. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 155 Let the libertine sneer, and the cold one complain, And turn all the purest of pleasures to pain ; There is nothing on earth that can e'er go beyond A heart that is faithful, and feeling, and fond : There is but one joy of the highest degree, And the wife of my soul is that blessing to me. HOME AND FRIENDS. By Charles Swain. Oh, there 's a power to make each hour As sweet as heaven design'd it ; Nor need we roam to bring it home, Though few there be that find it ! We seek too high for things close by, And lose what nature found us ; For life hath here no charm so dear As Home and Friends around us ! We oft destroy the present joy For future hopes — and praise them ; Whilst flowers as sweet bloom at our feet. If we 'd but stoop and raise them ! For things afar still sweetest arc, When youth's bright spell hath bound us ; But soon we're taught that earth has nought Like Home and Friends around us ! IS6 MODERN SONGS AND The friends that speed in time of need, When Hope's last reed is shaken, To show us still that, come what will, We are not quite forsaken : Though all were night, if but the light Oi friendship' s altar crown'd us, 'Twould prove the bliss of earth was this- Our Home and Friends around us ! MINE! (a wife's song.) By Mrs G. Linn^us Banks.* I LOVE thee, I love thee, as dearly as when We plighted our troth in the spring-time of life ; The tempests of years have swept o'er us since then. Yet affection survives both in Husband and Wife. No love that the poet e'er fabled of yore Could vie in its depth or endurance with mine ; No miser could treasure his glittering store As I hoard in my heart every love-tone of thine. No babe could repose on a fond Mother s breast, More calmly confiding than I do on thine ; I fly to thy arms, as a bird to its nest. For shelter and safety, dear Husband of mine ! * Formerly Miss Isabella Varley, of Manchester, Authoress of "Ivy Leaves," &c. Mrs Banks has also written a successful novel, entitled, "God's Providence House." BALLADS OF LANCASHLRE. 157 Ay, " Mine, and mine only ! " Oh, joy passing words, To carol this song in my innermost heart ; " While thine, and thine only ! " the vibrating chords Shall echo till sense, life, and feeling depart. ■THE WOODMAN'S BALLAD. By R. W. Procter. One morn, the first of beaming May, While yet the night-bird tuned her lay, I wander'd with my youth's first love, To view the sweets of hill and grove. And choose wild flowerets, glistening fair, To wreathe a garland for her hair. I placed the crown, with heart-felt vow, Upon her full and radiant brow ; And never did a love-'tranced eye A rarer May-day queen espy : I view'd her with unbounded bliss, My rapture sealing with a kiss. The blooming lass is now my bride, The woodman's hope, the woodman's pride ; And crown'd will be my earth-born joys. If bless'd with smiling girls and boys j In life 's decline a balm to give. And bid my name and memory live ; E'en when the turf of simple green Wraps Edwin and his village queen. 158 MODERN SONGS AND "AS WELCOME AS FLOWERS IN MAY." (from "the poetic rosary.") By J. C. Prince. "As welcome as flowers in May ! " Kind words with a musical sound ; What can be more welcome than they, When fair-footed spring cometh round ; Glad Spring ! ever welcome to each, To childhood, to manhood, and age. For she comes to delight us and teach, And she opens a beautiful page. There are many things welcome as these. As we thread the dim mazes of life ; A calm sense of pleasure and ease After seasons of sorrow and strife — A feeling of safety and glee When a danger, long-threaten'd, is past. And even the knowledge to see That the worst has befallen us at last. Fresh health on the cheek of a child. That we fear'd was escaping above ; — A smile from the maid undefiled, Who hath kindled one's soul into love ; — The sound of the blithe marriage-bell To the bride who has given her heart, And the words of her husband, that tell His devotion will never depart. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 159 The birth of a child, when we feel We can foster it, guard it, and guide ; While the smiles of its mother reveal Her matchless affection and pride ; — Its first broken syllables, made More closely our bosoms to bind. And its up-growing beauty, display'd In the promising dawn of its mind ; — The first pleasant glimpse of our home, After travel, with toil and annoy, When we vow for the moment to roam No more from its threshold of joy ;— Each form more expanded in grace, — Each voice more melodious grown ; — The soul-beaming gladness of face Of the whole household treasure, our own ; — Old Ocean's magnificent roar To a voyager loving the sea, And the sight of his dear native shore When he comcth back scatheless and free ; The music of brooks and of birds. To a captive just loosen'd from thrall. And the love-lighted looks and sweet words Of his wife, who is dearer than all ; — The soul-touching penitent tears Of those who have stray'd from the light. When they come, with their hopes and their fears. To ask us to lead them aright ; — i6o MODERN SONGS AND The frank, cordial look of a foe We have conquer'd by kindness and peace, And the pure satisfaction to know, That a friendship begun will increase ; — And then, in our calm chimney-nook, Alone, with a fire burning bright. How welcome a newly-brought book, That has startled the world with delight ! How welcome one's own printed name To our first happy efforts in song, And the first grateful whisper of fame, That bids us speed bravely along I There are many more subjects, no doubt. If my muse had but language and time ; But there's something I must not leave out, It will gracefully finish my rhyme : From a friend how heart-warming to hear What his lips with sincerity say, " Why, your presence brings comfort and cheer ; You're as welcome as flowers in May!" BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. i6i THE POET TO HIS WIFE. By William Mort. I SAW thee in the noisy town, a unit 'mid the throng, Wending thy way, a thing of light, the crowded streets along ; The eyes of men were fix'd upon thy blushing brow and cheek, As, like a timid fawn, thou pass'd — so beautiful, so meek. Again, within the sacred dome, I saw thee bent in prayer, — Oh, well might angels envy man a child so purely fair! Gracefully as the fuchsia's flower thy gentle head was bow'd. And sweetly droop'd thine eyes beneath their soft and fringed shroud. I know not if 'twere then a sin to have so strange a thought, But I did look on thee as one from heavenly regions brought ; And though I long'd to touch thy hand, I fcar'd the spirit's rod Might smite me as the man was smote who touch'd the ark of God ! And back I shrunk within myself, like one who had madly striven To tread with mortal footsteps on the threshold of high heaven : L 1 62 MODERN SONGS AND Upon thy face I gazed again, nor half my danger knew, Till one sweet glance of thine proclaim'd that thou wert mortal too. And then within thy quiet home I saw thee yet once more, When smiles as bright as happiness thy cheek were flitting o'er ; When duty, truth, and love engross'd thy every thought and care, And not a doubt came o'er thy soul to cast a shadow there ! And now thou art my own, beloved, my own most faithful wife, The silken cord that fetters me to happiness and life. A gentle tyrant art thou, love, and I hug my chains and thee, — And who but death shall dare attempt to set the cap- tive free ! THE FIRST-BORN. By Mrs Trafford Whitehead. Sleep, baby, sleep, — and o'er thy infant dreams Bend the bright angels, murmuring low and sweet, Guiding, with shining hands, the soft sunbeams Upon thy future, — and beneath thy feet Holding the shadows that would upward creep. Calm be the peace around ! — sleep, baby, sleep ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 163 What hath the future 'neath those dreaming eyes ? Childhood's hght joys, and babbhng griefs and fears, And youth's bewildering thoughts, deep, wild, and wise. Bright flitting summer clouds that break in tears, And manhood's whirling night-mists, hurrying past j The stormy wind, guidmg to port at last. Hath Time some secret to disclose to thee, Thou with the tiny hands, that to the world Shall bring new light, making the darkness flee ? Perchance the cloak of ignorance to chaos hurl'd. Hath life some mystery that thou shalt live to reap. That God hath saved for thee ? Sleep, baby, sleep ! How faint thy wailing cry, that loud and shrill May wake the echoes from the vales of gloom, Where ignorance hovers, — mind and power of will Do fling a radiance of immortal doom ! Weak be thy waving arms, — yet in their circling hold Shall mortals limit truths God hath not told. We know the future hath a glorious store. We know that life is vast and serious ; And those that fate hath bless'd are known before, And weave materials imperious. The weakest grasp may give the grandest gift, — The tardiest step may far outrace the swift. And who shall say that, in their counsels low, The murmuring angels may not yet unseal Some mystery the world doth pant to know, Those infant lips are chosen to reveal ? The thread that shall unroll trutli's gordian coil Perchance lies in those hands' allotted toil. 1 64 MODERN SONGS AND I would not ask that glory's daiiovi peal Should sound thy name loud through the wander- ing earth ; But that its accents human hearts should feel, When high was meeded honour, lauded worth ; Where'er the great and good, the pure and free Are found, — there in the shining midst, would I seek thee ! COME WHOAM TO THI CHILDER AN' ME." By Edwin Waugh, Aw 'vE just mended th' fire wi' a cob ; Owd Swaddle has brought thi new shoon ; There's some nice bacon collops o' th' hob, An' a quart o' ale-posset i' th' oon ; Aw've brought thi top cwot, does ta know, For th' rain 's comin' deawn very dree ; An' th' har'stone 's as white as new snow ; Come whoam to thi childer an' me. When aw put little Sally to bed, Hoo cried, 'cose her feyther weren't theer. So aw kiss'd th' little thing, an' aw said Thae'd bring her a ribbin fro' th' fair ; An' aw gav' her her doll, an' some rags, An' a nice little white cotton bo' ; An' aw kiss'd her again ; but hoo said 'At hoo wanted to kiss thee an' o. BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 165 An' Dick, too, aw 'd sich wark vvi' him. Afore aw could get him up-stairs ; Thae towd him thae 'd bring him a drum, He said, when he 're sayin' his prayers ; Then he look'd i' my faze, an' he said, " Has th' boggarts taen houd o' my dad ?" An' he cried whol his een were quite red ; — He hkes thee some weel, does yon lad ! At th' lung-length aw geet him laid still ; An' aw hearken't folks' feet 'at went by ; So aw iron't o my clooas reet weel. An' aw hang'd 'em o' th' maiden to dry ; When aw 'd mended thi stockin's an' shirts, Aw sit deawn to knit i' my cheer, An' aw rayley did feel rayther hurt,— Mon, aw 'm one ly when theaw artn't theer. "Aw 've a drum and a trumpet for Dick ; Aw've a yard o' blue ribbin for Sal ; Aw 've a book full o' babs ; an' a stick. An' some bacco an' pipes for mysel ; Aw 've brought thee some coffee an' tay,— Iv thae'11/^r/i' my pocket, thae '11 see; An' aw 've bought tho a new cap to-day,— But aw olez bring summat for thee / " God bless thee, my lass ; aw '11 go whoam, An' aw '11 kiss thee an' th' childer o reawnd ; Thae knows, 'at wJicerevcr aw roam, Aw 'm fain to get back to th' owd greawnd ; 1 66 MODERN SONGS AND Aw can do \vi' a crack o'er a glass ; Aw can do wi' a bit ov a spree ; But aw've no gradely comfort, my lass, Except wi' yon childer an' thee." THE STAR OF THE HOUSEHOLD. By John Critchley Prince. An angel in the house ? Ah, yes ! There is a precious angel there ; A woman, form'd to soothe and bless, Good, if she be not fair ; A Kindly, patient, faithful wife, Cheerful, and of a temper mild, One who can lend new charms to life. And make man reconciled. Oh ! 'tis a pleasant thing to see Such being going to and fro. With aspect genial and free, Yet pure as spotless snow : One who performs her duties, too, With steady and becoming grace, Giving to each attention due. In fitting time and place. One who can use her husband's means With careful thrift from day to day, And when misfortune intervenes Put needless wants away ; BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 167 Who smooths the wrinkles from his brow, When more than common cares oppress ; And cheers him— faithful to her vow— With hopeful tenderness. One who, when sorrow comes, can feel With woman's tenderness of heart ; And yet can strive with quiet zeal To ease another's smart ; One who, when fortune's sun grows bright, And flings the clouds of care aside, Can bask with pleasure in its light, Yet feel no foohsh pride. One who can check, with saint-like power, Wild thoughts that spring to dangerous birth, And wake pure feelings, as the shower Of spring awakes the earth ; Bring forth the latent virtues shrined Within the compass of the breast, And to the weak and tortured mind Give confidence and rest. Good neighbour— not to envy prone ; True wife, in luxury or need ; Fond mother, not unwisely shown ; Blameless in thought and deed : Whoever claims so rare a wife. Thus should his earnest words be given- " She is the angel of my life. And makes my home a heaven ! " 1 68 MODERN SONGS AND "'TIS SWEET TO MEET THE FRIEND WE LOVE." By George Richardson, 'Tis sweet to meet the friend we love, By distance kept apart for years ; And dearer when such joys are link'd To those which kindred more endears. Give me the still, domestic home — The humble hearth, the lowly state — Contentment, and inspiring peace — Life's chiefest blessings to await. The welcome fare, the cheerful smile, The tree-embower'd cot of thatch ; My gentle wife and offspring dear, With none but friend to raise my latch. These are the chiefest worldly gifts, Sweet joys which final blessings prove ; And what is life, unless to live In social intercourse and love ? I ask not honour, crave not wealth, But just enough of fortune's smile To check adversity and want, By honest means and moderate toil. With these to move in decent pride. Through varied scenes this chequer'd maze — To love and live endear'd to mine, And pass in peacefulness my days ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 169 WELCOME, BONNY BRID ! By Samuel Laycock. Tha 'rt welcome, little bonny brid, But shouldn't ha' come just when tha did ; Toimes are bad. We 're short o' pobbies for eawr Joe, But that, of course, tha didn't know, Did ta, lad ? Aw 've often yeard mi feyther tell, 'At when aw coom i' th' world misel Trade wur slack ; An' neaw it's hard wark pooin' throo — But aw munno fear thee ; iv aw do Tha '11 go back. Cheer up ! these toimes 'ull awter soon ; Aw 'm beavvn to bcigh another spoon — One for thee ; An' as tha's sich a pratty face, Aw '11 let thee have eawr Charley's place On mi knee. God bless thee, love, aw 'm fain tha 'rt come, Just try an' mak thisel awhoam : What ar 't co'd ? Tha'rt loikc thi mother to a tec, But tha's thi feyther's nose, aw sec, Well, aw 'm blow'd ! 170 MODERN SONGS AND Come, come, tha needn't look so shy, Aw am no' blackin' thee, not I ; Settle deawn, An' tak this haup'ney for thisel', There 's lots o' sugar-sticks to sell Deawn i' th' teawn. Aw know when furst aw coom to th' leet Aw 're fond o' owt 'at tasted sweet ; Tha '11 be th' same. But come, tha's never towd thi dad What he 's to co thi yet, mi lad — What 's thi name ? Hush ! hush ! tha munno cry this way, But get this sope o' cinder tay While it 's warm ; Mi mother used to give it me, When aw wur sich a lad as thee, In her arm. ■ Hush a babby, hush a bee — Oh, what a temper ! dear a-me Heaw tha skroikes : Here 's a bit o' sugar, sithee ; Howd thi noise, an' then aw '11 gie thee Owt tha loikes. We 'n nobbut getten coarsish fare. But eawt o' this tha'st ha' thi share. Never fear. Aw hope tha '11 never want a meel. But alius fill thi bally weel While tha 'rt here. BA LLA DS OF LA NCA SHIRE. 1 7 1 Thi feyther 's noan bin wed so long, An' yet tha see^ he 's middlin' throng \Vi' yo' o : Besides thi httle brother, Ted, We 'n one up-steers, asleep i' bed Wi' eawr Joe. But though we 'n childer two or three, We '11 mak' a bit o' reawm for thee — Bless thee, lad ! Tha'rt th' prattiest brid we han i' th' nest ; Come, hutch up closer to mi breast — Aw 'm thi dad. THE LOST BROTHER. By William Mort. Mother, look forth on yon beautiful cloud, That sails o'er the bright blue sky, And flings to the winds its misty shroud As it makcth its course on high ; And tell me if that is my brother, who 's gone To those dwellings of light above, Where the sun in his glory for ever hath shone .-' ■^That is 7iot thy brother, my love ! Look, mother, look at yon twinkling star, That glows like a light on the sea, And sccmcth as though from its palace afar It were steadfastly gazing on ine. 172 MODERN SONGS AND Is not that my brother who fled away From his home hke a wild stock-dove, And left me all alone to play ? — That is not thy brother, my love ! List, mother, list to the soft low tone That comes on the evening breeze, Like the musical sounds some night-birds moan As it steals through the old elm-trees ; Is not that the voice of my brother, who's telling The joys of his home above — Where the throat of archangel with rapture is swelling ? — That is not thy brother, my love ! The clouds that flit o'er the sky so bright, Soon, soon have pass'd away ; And the star that cheereth the gloom of night Is gone ere the break of day. But thy brother — oh think not, my love, that he Doth change like the things of air ! The heaven of heavens no eye can see — Thy brother, thy brother is there ! BALLADS OF LANCASHIRE. 173 EVENING SONG. (from "hours with the muses.") By J. C. Prince. 'Tis wearing late ! 'tis wearing late ! I hear the vesper bell ! And' o'er yon misty hill the sun hath look'd a bright farewell ; The bee is in its honey-home, the bird is in its nest, And every living being yearns for solace and for rest ; The household gathers round the hearth, and loving souls draw near, — Young mothers, rock, young mothers, rock, oh, rock your children cfear. It is the hour, the happy hour, when I was wont to be Hush'd to a calm and blessed sleep upon my mother's knee ; While she would sing, with voice subdued, and ever- tuneful tongue. Some well-remember'd melody, some old and simple song; And sometimes on my check would fall affection's holy tear, — • Young mothers, rocl':> THE NEGLECTED TAR BY THE LATE EDWARD RUSHTON. To ocean's sons I lift the strain, A race renown'd in story ; A race whose wrongs are Britain's stain, Whose deeds are Britain's glory. By them, when courts have banish'd peace, Your sea-girt land's protected ; But when war's horrid thunderings cease, These bulwarks are neglected. When thickest darkness covers all, Far on the trackless ocean ; When lightnings dart and thunders roll, And all is wild commotion ; When o'er the barque the foam-capt waves With boisterous sweep are rolling ; The seaman feels, yet nobly braves. The storm's terrific howling. 3i6 MODERN SONGS AND When long becalm'd on southern brine, Where scorching beams assail him ; When all the canvas hangs supine, And food and water fail him. Then oft he dreams of that loved shore, Where joys are ever reigning ; — The watch is call'd, — his rapture 's o'er,- He sighs, but scorns complaining. Now deep immersed in sulphurous smoke, Behold him at his station , He loads his gun, he cracks his joke, And moves all animation. The battle roars, the ship's a wreck. He smiles amid the danger ; And though his messmates strew the deck. To fear his soul 's a stranger. Or, burning on that noxious coast, Where death so oft befriends him ; Or pinch'd by hoary Greenland's frost, True courage still attends him. No clime can this eradicate. He glories in annoyance ; He, fearless, braves the storms of fate, And bids grim death defiance. Why should the man who knows no fear In peace be thus neglected ? Behold him move along the pier, Pale, meagre, and dejected ; BALL A DS OF LA JVC A SHIRE, 3 1 7 He asks a berth, with downcast eye, His prayers are disregarded -, Refused — ah ! hear the veteran sigh, And say — are tars rewarded ? Much to these fearless souls you owe ; In peace would you neglect them ? What say you, patriot souls ? Oh no ! Admire, preserve, protect them. And oh ! reflect, if war again Should menace your undoing, Reflect who then would sweep the main, And shield your realm from ruin. Chorus. — Then oh ! protect the hardy tar ; Be mindful of his merit ; And if pure justice urge the war, He '11 show his daring spirit. THE LASS OF LIVERPOOL. By the late Edward Rushton. Where cocoas lift their tufted heads, And orange-blossoms scent the breeze, Her charms the mild Mulatto spreads, And moves with soft and wanton ease. And I have seen her witching smiles. And I have kept my bosom cool ; For how could I forget thy smiles, O lovely lass of Liverpool ! 3i8 MODERN SONGS AND The softest tint the conch displays, The cheek of her I love outvies ; And the sea-breeze, 'midst burning rays, Is not more cheering than her eyes. Dark as the petrel is her hair, — And Sam, who calls me love-sick fool, Ne'er saw a tropic bird more fair Than my sweet lass of Liverpool. Though doom'd from early life to brave The feverish swamp and furious blast ; Though doom'd to face the foam capt wave, And mount the yard and quivering mast ; Though doom'd to brave each noxious soil, And train'd in stern misfortune's school ; Yet still, oh ! 'twould be bliss to toil For thee, sweet lass of Liverpool. And when we reach the crowded pier, And the broad yards are quickly mann'd ; Oh ! should my lovely girl be near, And sweetly smile, and wave her hand ; With ardent soul I 'd spring to shore. And, scorning dull decorum's rule, To my fond bosom o'er and o'er 'Would press the lass of Liverpool. BA LLADS OF LANCA SHIRE. 3 1 9 "WHEN THE BROAD ARCH OF HEAVEN.'* song— written for the anniversary of the lan- caster marine society. By the late Edward Rushton. When the broad arch of heaven is blue and serene, And the ocean reflects the bright day ; When, unswell'd by the breeze, the bleach'd canvas is seen, And the bows are unwash'd by the spray ; When the morn is thus smiling, each mariner knows. Who the perilous tempest oft braves. That the loftiest barque, ere the day's dreadful close. May float a mere wreck on the waves. So on life's changeful ocean, with souls all elate, And with prospects all placid and clear ; While fortune's soft gales on our efforts await. For wealth's flattering harbour we steer : When lo ! disappointment's dark vapours arise, And the winds of adversity roar ; And hope's towering canvas in tatters soon flies, And sorrow's wild waves whelm us o'er. Since life's brightest azure may thus be o'ercast, And soon threatening clouds may appear ; Oh ! 'tis wise to prepare for the soul-piercing blast, Ere you feel its destructive career. ♦ This song has never before been iiublished. 320 MODERN SONGS, ETC. Yes, yc men of old Lune, to the surge long inured, Oh ! 'twas wise this fair harbour to form ; Where your dearest connexions may one day be moor'd, Unexposed to the pitiless storm. At eve, when the little ones climb your loved knee, And the mother looks on with a smile, When they prattle around you all frolic and glee. And soften the day's rugged toil ; When you view the loved group with affection's strong glow. When you feel sensibility's tear ; Oh ! reflect, men of Lune, that should death lay you low. Protectors and guardians are here. And oft, when the petrel his dark wing displays. In the trough of the mountainous wave ; When the craggy lee-shore is perceived through the haze, And the breakers all dreadfully rave ; 'Neath the vertical sun, when contagions arise. Or when battle the atmosphere rends ; Oh ! with comfort reflect that your soul's dearest ties Shall here find protectors and friends. Ballaiityne, Roberts, dr= Company, Printers, Edinburgh. Cleffflut (]5iTt Booli, Just published, price 5s.; or Large Paper Edition, price 2is., LANCASHIRE LYRICS: MODERN SONGS AND BALLADS OF THE COUNTY PALATINE. Edited by JOHN HARLAND, F.S.A. This selection from the recent and living poets and song-^vl^ters of Lancashire will, it is hoped, prove the affluence of the county in this branch of literature ; and tend to refute the notion, too much the fashion at a distance, that the mental and moral soil of the County Palatine is too hard and cold to give birth or nourishment to poetic genius. The two companion volumes, the old and the ncd) " Songs and Bal- lads of Lancashire," would form an elegant present to a young friend of either sex, as a Birth-day or New Year's Gift, Keepsake, or Sotivenir. WHITTAKER & CO., LONDON. Just published, price is., cloth, THE SONGS OF THE WILSONS; WitJi a Memoir of the Family, AND SEVERAL ADDITIONAL SONGS, NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. Compiled and Edited by JOHN HARLAND, F.S.A. The deceased song-writers of the Wilson family, a father (Michael) and two sons, (Thomas and Alexander,) all of Manchester, were re- markable for their graphic power of humorous delineation in song, of the most striking events and celebrated places and institutions of that city. Their songs there, and in the surrounding district, have a wide and lasting popularity. The humours of " Kcrsal Moor Races," "Smithy Door Market," "Salford Fair," "Tinkers' Gardens," &c., will long excite the smiles, or provoke the laughter of thousands. A limited number printed on large paper, price 5s. WHITTAKER & CO., LONDON. Price 5s., printed on the finest toned paper, and bound in extra cloth. A limited number on large paper, crown 4to, price 2 is. THE Ballads and So7tgs of Lancashire, CHIEFLY OLDER THAN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. COLLECTED, COMPILED, AND EDITED, WITH NOTES, BY JOHN HARLAND, F.S.A. NOTICES OF THE PRESS. " Many of them [the Ballads] are rich in idiomatic force, and throw much light, not only upon local customs, but upon the feelings of the masses at various periods." — Athenaum. " This handsomely-printed little volume will be welcome to all who take an interest in the County Palatine." — ISiotes and Queries. "This is the kind of volume we want for every county in England." — Literary Gazette. " An elegant and interesting book." — Theolof^cal Revieiu. " An interescmg and unexpected contribution to the ballad literature oi England." — Edinburgh Evening Courant. " For the first time literature is enriched with reliable specimens of modern ballads still in use in these districts." — Manchester Guardian. " Probably the very best sjecimens of the Lancashire ballad are here given." — Manchester Examiner and Times. "This book deserves to be, and doubtless will be, popular."— J^>7«- chester Courier. " It will be looked upon as a treasure by every one interested in the literary history of the county." — Liverpool Mercury. " The book is a most interesting publication, and it will long be appreciated as a monument of Mr Harland's taste, learning, and research. The work is J^eautifully printed, and excellently got out." — Preston Chronicle. LONDON: WIIITTAKER & CO., AVE MARIA LANE. ■<^ W z^ UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped belqw. 3 1158 01243 6423 -jy^ r^.