F] 
 
 
 
 i lou^hx 
 
 
 - -^ s?s>'sj;«e».-' 
 
 
 s
 
 LOSSOMS 
 
 Author OF Tal€s,<'S^^ /r^^'^'- 
 Sketches ofLanca§bjf^|:C^\ 
 
 
 * . 
 
 Whilst Drvads, decked m dev/y ceivis7"?9 
 
 <*i,«^<r%<i-. • gg 
 
 MANCHESTER: 
 Published by J. Andrew & Co.. 1. Warren Street, off Cross Street
 
 
 MANCHESTER : 
 J. Andrew & Co., Printers, i, Warren Street, Cross Street. 
 
 1S93. 
 
 8667G3
 
 vu. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 BIOGKAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 From Momtis, 1879. 
 
 A GAi-LERV of Lancashire worthies would be indeed in- 
 complete without the well-known features of Ben Brierley, whose 
 name is a " household word " in every home, and whose 
 individuality is a type of Lancashire pathos and humour with all 
 its quaint conceits and dialectic mannerisms. He has achieved 
 his popularity not only by voluminous literary work, but by a 
 large-hearted and discreet philantrophy that endeavours to 
 elevate the class from which he sprung by calling attention to its 
 wants and grievances, and at the same time instilling those 
 habits of self-help and self-control, without which all charitable 
 organizations are simply worthless. Mr. Brierley was born at 
 the Rocks, in Failsworth, June 2Gth, 1S25. He attended the 
 school in that village till his sixth year, when his parents, who 
 were in very humble circumstances, removing to Hollinwood, 
 little Benny lost the advantages of a day school, his services 
 being required at the bobbin-wheel. But to him who is bent on 
 self-improvement, difficulties are only obstacles to be surmounted, 
 and at the Hollinwood Night and Primitive Methodist Sunday 
 Schools, our hero was grafted in the rudiments of the three R's, 
 and such was his love for reading, that at the very early age of 
 seven, he had read his bible through no less than three times. 
 In 1840 he returned to Failsworth Old School, and was
 
 Vlll. 
 
 instrumental in forming a Mutual Improvement Society, which 
 proved to be the germ of a Mechanics' Institute. To an uncle, 
 who was a leading spirit in that school he owes his introduction 
 to Shakspere, Byron, and Shelley, the perusal of whose works 
 had a marked effect on his future career, 
 
 " And lured Iiiin on to those inspiring toils 
 By which man masters men." 
 
 At any rate, about this time his " muse began to labour," and one 
 of the very first deliveries was a sketch entitled " My uncle's 
 garden," commemorative of the Sunday mornings spent therein 
 happy and edifying conversation, which was," as Brierley says, 
 something to be remembered for a lifetime. This sketch was 
 publishod in 1S49, in the supplement of the Manchester Spcctatoy ; 
 but his labours, consecutively as hand-loom weaver, piecer, and 
 silk warper, prevented him for some time from following the bent 
 of his inclination. When we state that for nine years he had to 
 walk to and from his work nine miles each day our readers may 
 imagine he had but little time for the cultivation of his literary 
 faculties, and it was only during those peregrinations to and fro 
 that he could find time to indulge in reading, which had now 
 becomeoneof the necessities of his existence. In 1S55 he married ; 
 and, shortley afterwards, work in his branch of trade failing, 
 accepted the sub-editorship of the Oldham Times, but left that 
 situation in 1S62, having obtained a short engagement in London. 
 During his stay in the metropolis he was introduced to the Savage 
 Club, and made the acquaintance of the Brough Brothers, Andrew 
 Halliday, Tom Robertson, and other well-known dramatic 
 celebrities. When Colman's Magazine which had been started by 
 members of the club, collasped, Mr. Brierley returned to Man- 
 chester, where he has since resided, settling down as an author 
 and reader of his own works, in both of which capacities he has 
 achieved a popularity second to no man in the county. The 
 library of a Lancashire home would mdeed be incomplete without 
 the works of Ben Brierley — his unadulterated patois being alike 
 relished by his readers and hearers throughout the whole 
 Palatinate.
 
 IX. 
 
 Mr. Brierley's married and literary career may be said to be 
 co-existent, for in 1855 was written " Jimmie the Jobber " a little 
 story which he submitted to a friend, who strongly advised him 
 not to publish it ; but, stimulated by the success of Edwin Waugh, 
 whose ''Come whoam to thi childer an' me " had about that time 
 rendered its author famous, he resolved to publish it in one form 
 or another, and the sketch appeared in the Manchestey Spectator, 
 and, being afterwards published in book form, had a good sale, 
 as had also his succeeding ventures. His success led to his intro- 
 duction to the editor of the Weekly Times, and he at once com- 
 mencec to write for the supplement of that journal. But strong 
 as was Brierley's attachment to journalistic literature, his love of 
 the drama was still stronger; and, aspiring to histrionic honours, 
 he produced a dramatic version of his " Lay rock of Langley- 
 side," in which he himself played the principal part, and achieved 
 a decided success as an impersonator of Lancashire character. 
 As an author, Mr. Brierley possesses the qualifications of genial 
 humour and touching pathos ; and his early associations have 
 given him a grip of his subject of which he has not been slow to 
 avail himself, his mind being quick to appropriate those quaint 
 oddities of Lancashire life which his keen eye is ever ready 
 to detect. 
 
 A turning point in his life was the institution of Ben Brierley's 
 Journal, which attained great popularity, and a marvellous cir- 
 culation, the '• gude fowk " of Lancashire being delighted with 
 the bright and healthy stories, written in their own idiomatic 
 language, and with a grasp of their social characteristics which 
 an intimate acquaintance can alone evolve. Though Ben's poetry 
 is overshadowed by his prose, he has an undeniable poetic 
 temperament, and some of his shorter pieces are real gems. In 
 a short sketch like this we cannot enumerate his multitudinous 
 works which, if we mistake not, have been published in a complete 
 form in some fifteen or twenty volumes. 
 
 In the November of 1875 Mr. Brierley was elected a City 
 Councillor, and although his candidature had been almost 
 regarded as a joke, Ab'-o'th'-Yate was not long in proving to his
 
 X. 
 
 constituents that their confidence had not been misplaced. His 
 maiden speech was in support of the Free Libraries Committee's 
 successful attempt to prevent the Reference Department being 
 located in the attic of the New Town Hall. The peroration will 
 be long remembered by the parody on Longfellow's " Excelsior," 
 the concluding lines of which were as follow — 
 
 " Oh ! what would Grundy say, or Lamb, 
 If, without aid of 'bus or tram. 
 They sought up there their heads to cram ? 
 All right Excelsior — but d — n 
 
 The Town Hall Stairs." 
 
 On resuming his seat, amid shouts of laughter and applause, 
 Alderman Lamb rose to reply, but confessed it required consider- 
 able nerve to follow the new councillor. Ben Brierley had made 
 his mark, and the first vacancy found him one of the Free Libraries 
 Committee. His municipal e.xperiences, more especially in 
 connection with the Nuisances Committee, led him to raise the 
 question " What shall we do with our poor ?" No man was better 
 qualified to give an opinion on the subject, and the dailies, by 
 ventilating the question, proved that he had hit the right nail on 
 the head. The Artisans' Dwelling Act, although shelved by the 
 Health Committee, was another instance of Brierley's sympathies 
 for the humbler classes ; and his letter on the " Domestic Economy 
 Congress," entitled A Flourish of Trumpets was described by a 
 well-known barrister as a " skinner." 
 
 His sphere of usefulness may be most aptly described by the 
 fact that he has, during his municipal career, served on a greater 
 numberof Committees and Sub-Committees of General purposes, 
 than perhaps any other member of the Corporation, viz : 
 "Nuisances," "Hackney Coach," "Lamp and Scavenging," 
 " Free Libraries," " Parks and Cemeteries," and " Baths and 
 Wash-houses Committees, ' " Public Rooms and Printing and 
 Stationery Sub-Committees." 
 
 Here is an amount of work of which any Councillor may well 
 be proud ; but in addition to this Mr. Brierley, in connection 
 with the relief organisations during the past winter, assisted on
 
 XI. 
 
 the platform in no less than twenty-two entertainments, his ser- 
 vices always being gratuitous, even to the payment of his 
 personal expenses. 
 
 Such a man may well be popular, and when Ab'-o'th'-Yate 
 crosses the Atlantic, on a visit to our American cousins, during 
 the ensuing autumn, and such I believe is his intention, thou- 
 sands of admirers will not only wish him God speed, but a quick 
 return to the old country — spots which his graphic pen has ren- 
 dered dear to many a town-dweller. I have before alluded to 
 his dramatic instincts, and may as well call attention to the fact 
 that he, in conjunction with his friend Mr. Dottie, will appear 
 during the month of September at the Theatre Royal, in his own 
 drama of "The Lancashire Weaver Lad." The occasion will be 
 a most interesting one, and no doubt advantage will be taken of 
 such an opportunity to prove to Ben Brierley the estimation in 
 which he is held bv his fellow-citizens.
 
 Xlll. 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 May   3 
 
 Wigan Sam 5 
 
 Owd Pigeon 10 
 
 To Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Edinburgh on her 
 
 Wedding 12 
 
 " Owd Ab's" Lament over Knott Mill Fair 17 
 
 Fotchin' th' Keaws up iS 
 
 The Bonnie Lad with th' Apron on (Masonic Sung, 21 
 
 Fall of Sebastopol 23 
 
 The Waverlow Bells 26 
 
 The Bonnie Blue Ribbon 28 
 
 To my Wife 30 
 
 Welcome to our Old Friend, " Ben " 31 
 
 To Benjamin Brierley, Esq., in view of of his Leaving this 
 
 Country for a Tour fn the U. S. A 33 
 
 Lancashire's Ben 35 
 
 Farewell to America 37 
 
 A " Daughter of Eve" 39 
 
 Burns's Birthday 40 
 
 Lament for the Fails worth " Pole" 43 
 
 The Stonebreaker's Song 45 
 
 To Edwin W'augh 49 
 
 on attaining his 70th Year 54 
 
 Those Town Hall Stairs 56 
 
 Epilogue 60 
 
 Johnny over the Salt Sea 62 
 
 Lines Addressed by Sam Laycock to the " Failsworth 
 
 Gathering," March 2gth 64 
 
 Jone o' Greenfilt's Ghost 66 
 
 Bath ing 70 
 
 Celia 74 
 
 Johnny an' Peggy 7^ 
 
 A Cot o' yo'r Own S3
 
 XIV. 
 
 PAdE 
 
 Go tak' thi Ragged Childer and Flit S5 
 
 Bill Babby's Frolic 88 
 
 The Gardener and his Flowers 9^ 
 
 Thou'rt Lonely, my Jammie 93 
 
 Little Annie's Birds   • 95 
 
 The Cambrian's Welcome to the Queen, on Her Majesty's 
 
 Visit to North Wales, August, 1SS9 97 
 
 To Henry Irving, Esq., President of 'The Arts Club," 
 
 Manchester 99 
 
 The Fair Drummer Boy 102 
 
 Whoam-Brewed 104 
 
 Th' Owd Tin Kettle 106 
 
 Ab-o'th'-Yate's Welcome to Prince Albert Victor, on his 
 
 Vi=it to Manchester, October 27th, 1SS8 loS 
 
 Gypsies no 
 
 " We are on our Journey Home " 112 
 
 Hard Times (Song) 114 
 
 The Beautiful Snow "7 
 
 Sam Bamford's Grave 118 
 
 Prologue •• 122 
 
 Red Bill's Monkey 124 
 
 "Pre livin' when Boney wur ta'en 126 
 
 The Weaver of Welbrook 12S 
 
 Lancastrians in London 1 3° 
 
 Two Homes 132 
 
 Masonic Epitho-Threnody : An Allegory 134 
 
 The Thunderbolt 136 
 
 In Memokiam Poems : — 
 
 Annie, only Child of Ben. and Esther Brierley ... 138 
 
 Samuel Bamf or d 14° 
 
 Charles Swain 142 
 
 John Bright i45 
 
 Edwin Waugh 14^ 
 
 Allen Mellor 148 
 
 At my Daughter's Grave 149 
 
 "Tips" 152
 
 TO ALL GOOD AND TRUE 
 FREEMASONS, 
 
 FROM 
 HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRIXCE OF WALES, 
 
 DOWNWARDS, 
 
 THIS BOOK IS, WITH BROTHERLY 
 AFFECTION, INSCRIBED. 
 
 Harpurhev, 
 
 AIanchester.
 
 MAY 
 
 (Manchester Guardian, 1854.) 
 
 IV /TAY is come ! — the month of flowers, — 
 -LV_L O'er tlie banks, and through tlie bowers, 
 Laughing breezes, light and gay, 
 Bear the greeting — " Welcome May !" 
 
 Drinking ether as he sings. 
 Flashing sunlight from his wings, 
 The soaring lark, with merry throat. 
 Warbles shrill his Maying note. 
 Other songsters from the grove. 
 Pour their matin songs of love, 
 And blithely hop from spray to spray, 
 Hailing nature's holiday. 
 
 Trooping down the vale below, — 
 Weaving garlands as they go ; 
 Sweet as heav'nly seraphim, 
 Little vale nymphs chant their hymn, — 
 
 " Come, ye children, hither come, 
 Through the woodlands let us roam, 
 And chase the wand'ring butterfly, 
 Ere he seeks some other sky. 
 Let us go where flowery banks 
 Offer up their morning thanks. 
 To the home of every pray'r.
 
 For the pretty robes tiiey wear. 
 There watch how fairy hands distil 
 SparkHng wine-drops from the rill ; 
 And pass the cup from flow'r to flow'r, 
 To celebrate the festal hour ; 
 Whilst Dryads,   decked in dewy gems. 
 
 Gaily trip it o'er the lea, 
 To tiny bells, on nodding stems, 
 
 Ringing elfin minstrelsy. 
 Merry shouts ring tlirough the dell ; 
 Ling'ring whispers haunt the well ; 
 Echo calls from far away, 
 List ye what its voices say —   
 
 " Away, and seek the greenwood shade 
 Come each village youth and maid. 
 Bring ye flowers fresh and ga}-. 
 To strew before the Queen of May. 
 Here are dainties to allure 
 From his feast the epicure ; 
 For the simple honey bee 
 Hath a sweeter feast than he. 
 _ Bring the old, the hale, the young, — 
 Bring the feeble and the strong. 
 To watch the merry pranking troop 
 Round the flow'ry May Queen group. 
 Mingle in the dance and song, 
 All who would their lives prolong, 
 And ne'er rest till shadows gray 
 Indicate the close of day, 
 For 'tis May ! 'tis May ! 'tis May ! 
 
 * Dryads, wood nymphs.
 
 WIG AN SAM. 
 
 r I 1HERE is in Bury's ancient town 
 -L An inn of good report ; 
 
 'Tis not the "Albion," " Keys," nor "Queens," 
 Nor one of humbler sort. 
 
 But high it towers above the roofs 
 
 Of " Swans," "Grey Mares," and "Grapes ;" 
 And many a peddling hostelry, 
 
 Its grander neighbour apes. 
 
 But none can match the " Eagle's Nest" 
 
 In quality of fare, 
 Though some aver the figure's high ; 
 
 But such are poor and rare. 
 
 The cream of good society. 
 
 The privileged, and proud, 
 Have on oiu" inn, for j-ears gone b}', 
 
 Their patronage bestowed. 
 
 Look on the stately front, and say 
 
 Who of plebeian soil 
 Shall e'er presume to take it's wines. 
 
 Or share the barmaid's smile ? 
 
 The host, than whom a neater man 
 
 Is known in Bury town. 
 Can either welcome with a bow. 
 
 Or freeze you with a frown.
 
 That means, when you're good company, 
 
 Or tavern laws transgress ; 
 But though he turns on points so nice, 
 
 Esteem him not the less. 
 
 A wit he is, and fond of joke, 
 
 Albeit of high degree ; 
 And though he courts a coronet, 
 
 To lowly worth is free. 
 
 What can be said of man the more, 
 
 However high his birth ? 
 The wight who owns a generous heart 
 
 Is emperor of the earth ! 
 
 A tyke there came to Bury town, 
 
 One " Vvigan Sam " by name ; 
 A dog whom neither house, nor clan, 
 
 Nor parish cared to claim. 
 
 Friends he had none, nor kith, nor kin, — 
 
 No home wherein to creep 
 When winds were fierce, and frosts were keen. 
 
 And snows were wild and deep, 
 
 Save the " big house " upon the hill, 
 
 Where dwell the lost to earth — 
 Where feeds the vagabond beside 
 
 The wreck of humble worth. 
 
 Sam lay in fallow half his time 
 Within those sheltering walls,
 
 7 
 
 Nor sought to lift by fruitful toil 
 Himself to higher calls. 
 
 But when the flowers began to peep, 
 
 And birds began to sing, 
 And nettles grew on sunny banks — 
 
 The firstlings of the spring, — 
 
 Then Sam would from his furrow creep. 
 
 And shaking off the earth 
 That pauper sloth had heaped on him, 
 
 For change would wander forth. 
 
 'Mongst brick-crofts, farms, and buildings new, 
 
 A living, Sam would make, 
 And sleep at nights in barn or stall, 
 
 Or taproom lodgings take. 
 
 When other work could not be found, 
 
 A basket he would sling, 
 And vend youug onions, mustard, cress — 
 
 The edibles of spring 
 
 
 Or he would trundle through the street, 
 A one-wheeled truck, with sand 
 
 And " idle-back " for rags and bones. 
 Or " aught " that came to hand. 
 
 ^&' 
 
 But Sam had one ambitious wish. 
 Though paltry it might seem. 
 
 To raise a modest donkey cart, 
 With single brute, or team.
 
 8 
 
 Yet how the needtul to obtain, 
 
 Such " roHing stock " to buy, 
 Had bothered oft his scheming pate, 
 
 And turned his wits awr}'. 
 
 But, hdcky thought ! each dog's his hour, 
 
 And Sam's had come at last ; 
 His wand'rings through the streets one day 
 
 The " Eyrie " led him past. 
 
 Mine host just out of band-box turned, 
 
 Stood whistling at the door, 
 Witli hands deep in his pockets thrust. 
 
 Their contents jingling o'er. 
 
 Our vagabond from Wigan town 
 
 Soon Boniface espied, 
 And, waxing keen to try a joke, 
 
 Thus to the yokel cried. 
 
 " Hollo, old sinner ! what's your game ? 
 
 You're out again, I see. 
 No work ? Eh, eh ! Old story, Sam ; 
 
 Oh, — want to speak to me ? 
 
 Well, cut it short. What is't you want ?" 
 
 "A friend," was Sam's reply; 
 " I vvant to raise a suvverin 
 
 A jackass cart to buy. 
 
 I know wheere I con have a moke 
 Two days a week or so ;
 
 An' if yo'n lend me th' twenty bob 
 Yo'n be th' best friend I know." 
 
 " But -what sccui'ity can t' give ?" 
 
 IMine host said with a grin ; 
 " A man tliese times must have some hold 
 
 Before he parts with tin."' 
 
 " That's bothered me for weeks an' months," 
 
 Said Sam witli hopeful leer ; 
 " But now I've getten o'er it straight 
 
 An' tidy. It's just here — 
 
 I're thinkm', if yo' lent me th' brass, 
 
 Ut I could make a start, 
 For securit}-, an' sich as that, 
 
 Yu' could have joy name on th'' cart.'"'
 
 lO 
 
 OWD PIGEON. 
 
 "THE RULING PASSION' STRONG IN DEATH." 
 
 OWD PIGEON war as dry a brid 
 As ever swiped his drink ; 
 He liked to see a frothy pint 
 Smile at his nose, an' wink. 
 
 At morn or neet, 'twur aulas reet, 
 
 A quart, or pint, or gill 
 Wur tir same to him ; if th' pot wur full 
 
 He never had his fill. 
 
 If e'er he geet his breeches' knees 
 
 Beneath a taproom table, 
 He'd sit, an' drink, an' smoke, an' wink 
 
 As long as he wur ahle. 
 
 He'd grown so firm to th' alehouse nook. 
 
 An' swiped so mony mixtures, 
 That when it coom to changin' bonds 
 
 He're reckoned among th' fixtures. 
 
 Whene'er their Betty brewed a " peck," 
 
 If he could find a jug. 
 He wouldno' wait till th' ale wur "tunned," 
 
 He'd lade it eaut o'th' mug. 
 
 One neet Owd Pigeon flew to'ard whoam, 
 Wi' a very wobblin' flutter ;
 
 II 
 
 Sometimes he'd tumble into th' hedge, 
 An' sometimes into th' gutter. 
 
 He knew he're late, an' didno" want 
 
 Their Betty t' see a leet ; 
 So crept upstairs to bed i'th' dark 
 
 An' in his stockin' feet. 
 
 He groped abeaut i'th' sleepin' cote. 
 An' felt for tli' drawers an' tli' bed ; 
 
 But nowt he touched till th' bedpost flew, 
 An' banged again his yead. 
 
 " Theigher," said Pigeon, " that's a go ; 
 
 There' someb'dy bin workin' charms ; 
 For it's th' fust time e'er I knew mi nose 
 
 Wur longer than mi arms." 
 
 But poor Owd Pigeon's time had come, 
 An' when his will he'd signt. 
 
 He said he ailed nowt nobbut " drooth," 
 An' begged for another pint. 
 
 His " rulin passion " stuck till death, 
 An' as th' Slayer raised his dart, 
 
 He licked his lips, an' faintly said, 
 " Just mak' it int' a quart. 
 
 I wouldno' care a pin for th" grave. 
 Though Pm totterin' upo' th' brink, 
 
 If I could come back wi' th' bur\ in' folk. 
 An' ha' my share o'th' drink."
 
 12 
 
 TO HER PiOYAL HIGHNESS 
 
 THE DUCHESS OP EDINBURGH 
 
 ON HER WEDDING. 
 
 HAIL to thee, chick o'th' eagle hee, 
 Ut flaps its wings o'er th' Baltic Sea ; 
 Theau'rt welcome to eaiir Sal an' me, 
 
 An' Walmsley Fowt. 
 
 Theau comes wi' th' snowdrops, fair as they, 
 Peepin' eaut at th' wintry day ; 
 l!ut soon theau'll see an English May 
 
 r Lunnon Fowt. 
 
 Theau should ha' come'n some years bygone, 
 Just when Fre shepst'rin'='= th' owdest son, 
 Feforc thoose feights wur lost and won 
 
 Fth' Crimean Fowt. 
 
 Theau met ha' saved us summat then, 
 
 F peawther, gowd, an' lives o' men ; 
 
 But theau'd hardly crept ho' under th' hen, 
 
 When th' War-cocks fowght. 
 
 Come o'er t'eaur heause — bring Alfred, too ; 
 Beaut him th' owd rib mit jealous groo — 
 We'n have a glorious Lanky brew, 
 
 F Walmsley Fowt. 
 
 * Shepst'rin, nursing.
 
 13 
 
 We"n have a crimbly-crusted pie 
 O' Paddy's grapes ; an' if theau'll try 
 A plateful on"t, soon tlr news "11 fly 
 
 To Peter's fowt. 
 
 They'd raise a steeam o' Neva's shore 
 Would keep tli' owd brook fro' freezin' o'er. 
 An' warm folk as they'rn ne'er warmed before. 
 
 Not e'en wi' tlr Knout. 
 
 I'll show thee what theau's seldom seen- 
 Some happier folks than king or queen ; 
 Wheere warmer hearts an' breeter e'en 
 
 Ne'er blessed a fowt. 
 
 For o that, we'r no' donned like thee, 
 r silk an" gowd and hddle-de-de : 
 Blue print is eaur best hnery, 
 
 r W'almsle}'- T'owt. 
 
 We are no' fed o' nifles rare ; 
 An' yet we'n just a little t' spare 
 For folk ut han their cubborts bare, 
 
 r any fowt. 
 
 Themis not had porritch twice a da3^ 
 As Fve had mony a time, nor tae 
 Ut's tasted like a brew o ha}'. 
 
 An' sometimes iioivt.
 
 It's hardly likely theau'll e'er see 
 A whitenin' lip an' glazin' e'e, 
 Through want o' that God sent for me, 
 
 An' o i'th fowt. 
 
 Theau wmno' yer a little moan 
 I'th neet-time, when theau'rt feelin' lone. 
 When hps lian muttered — " Is there noane- 
 
 No bread i'th' fowt ?" 
 
 But why wi' back-thowts fill my e'en ? 
 That th' wo'ld's groon breeter may be seen- 
 On every face, an' hearth, an' green, 
 
 r mony a fowt. 
 
 Thcaiis made it breeter \vi' that star 
 O' promise theau's browt from afar, 
 Ut tells us love shall conquer war, 
 
 r every fowt. 
 
 Better' ha weddin'-bells than th' clang 
 O' glitterin' steel, or cannon's bang : 
 A welcomer peal than thine ne'er rang 
 
 O'er ne'er a fowt. 
 
 Yo'r Alfred's thine an' England's pride- 
 Spotless he laft his mother's side ; 
 An' may no good that tongue betide 
 Ut says he's prowt,
 
 Look to him, then, wi' wifely care, 
 To keep him shy o' wicked snare ; 
 Guard him wi' booath hont an' prayer. 
 
 When eaut i'th' fowt ; 
 
 For princes are no common folk. 
 But marks at which to fire a joke, 
 An' dirty wits their fun to poke, 
 
 r every fowt. 
 
 That brother-in-law o' thine — yo'r Ned — 
 Ever sin' he their Alick wed, 
 Has had a deeal abeaut hini said 
 
 r mony a towt. 
 
 But I ne'er tak' o in ut's towd : 
 A mon may be as good as gowd. 
 An' scandil's tongue shall have him jowed 
 
 An' pown to nowt. 
 
 If e'er th' owd woman meddles o' thee — 
 But surely that con never be — 
 Dunno' like some wives, goo on th' spree, 
 
 An' tell o tir fowt ; 
 
 But use her kindly — hers has been 
 A life ne'er lived by other queen. 
 No wrong words ever passed between 
 
 Her an' her fowt-
 
 i6 
 
 Walk theau i'th' track her shoon ban made, 
 An' tak no heed o' whisperin' jade, 
 Ut yers things that han ne'er been said, 
 
 r ne'er a fowt. 
 
 Happen theau'll have a family — 
 A big un, sometime — we shall see. 
 If th' fust's a lad, then send for me 
 
 To Walmsley Fowt ; 
 
 An' I'll be godfeyther to th' bab — 
 (Just tak' a hint an' co' him Ab) — 
 Then wouldno' there be a a roarin' gab 
 
 r England Fowt ?
 
 17 
 
 OWD AB'S" LAMENT OYER KNOTT 
 MILL FAIR. 
 
 Air. — TJie harp that once through Taya's Halls, 
 
 T 
 
 HE lungs that once through Knott Mill Fair 
 
 Their classic music shed, 
 Are now as mute in Knott Mill Fair 
 
 As if that voice were dead. 
 So gone's the strut of former days, 
 
 So tinselled glory's o'er ; 
 And hearts that beat to penny praise 
 
 Now feel that throb no more. 
 
 No more the chief with tawdry dight 
 
 The roar of tumult swells ; 
 Tlie noise alone that's heard at night 
 
 Its tale of drinkin' tells. 
 Thus talent now whene'er it wakes. 
 
 Our feelings to engage, 
 Is when some poor old Thespian takes 
 
 A taproom for a stage.
 
 i8 
 
 rOTCHIX TH' KEAWS UP. 
 
 o 
 
 ^NE Slimmer e'enin 
 
 When tlie screenin 
 Cleauds drew o'er the settin sun. 
 
 Madge went trippin 
 
 Eaut o'th' shipp'n, — 
 Fotchin th' keaws, as oft hoo'd done. 
 
 In th' owd lane 
 
 Hoo met a swain 
 Pkickin blossoms from the spray. 
 
 " Madge," said he, — 
 
 " It's strange to see 
 Thee fotchin th' keaws so late i'th' day." 
 
 Madge said nowt, 
 
 Yet truly thowt 
 Ther summat wicked in his e'e : 
 
 But when her waist 
 
 He tightly pressed 
 Heaw could hoo longer silent be ? 
 
 Hoo said — " Jini Dawson, 
 
 Eh, theau fause un, 
 What dos't think my mam'll say, 
 
 If hoo sees thee 
 
 Offer t' squeeze me — 
 Fotchin th' keaws up late i'th' day ?
 
 19 
 
 " Let me goo, Jim ; 
 
 Neaw, then, do, Jim — 
 Aw've no time for stoppin here." 
 
 But the youth, 
 
 To tell the truth, 
 Wi' cobweb could ha' held her theere : 
 
 Then the gate 
 
 Was not too strait 
 For two to pass, an' goo ther Vv'ay : 
 
 But who could pass 
 
 A bonny lass, 
 When fotchin th' keaws up late i'th' day ? 
 
 " Madge," said Jim — 
 
 Whilst hoo to him 
 As closely clung as he to her — 
 
 " It's strange if tune 
 
 r th' summer's prime 
 An heaur to lovers conno spare. 
 
 If th' owd sun's gone, 
 
 Ther's th' young moon yon, 
 Stringin' silver beads on th' hay ; 
 
 An' thoos bits o' 
 
 Leet that flit so. 
 Are keaws hoo's fotchin' late i'th' day. 
 
 " Two cleauds meeting', 
 
 Neaw are greetin' ; 
 See 'em kissin' as they pass ?" 
 
 Madge, not thinkin' 
 
 111, said, shrinkin', 
 ■" Which is th' lad, an' which is th' lass ?"
 
 20 
 
 " That," said Jim, 
 
 " Ut's breet an' slim, 
 Must be the lass, neaw on her way 
 
 Spreadin' charms 
 
 O'er heaven's farms, 
 Whilst fotchin th' keaws up late i'tli' day. 
 
 'T had been a wonder 
 
 An' a blunder, 
 Had the skies their lessons lost ; 
 
 If two cleauds, meetin', 
 
 Did o'th' greetin', 
 Why did Jim the maid accost ? 
 
 But oh ! the kisses, 
 
 And the blisses, 
 That took Madge's heart away ! 
 
 Neaw hoo's fain 
 
 Hoo met a swain 
 When fotchin th' keaws up late i'th' day.
 
 21 
 
 THE BONNIE LAD AVI' TH' APRON OX.* 
 
 (masonic song.) 
 
 Music by Bi'O. Past Mastcy N. Dumvillc. Manchesiey : 
 Hwic and Addison ; Forsyth Bi'otlievs. 
 
 MY JAMIE is a Mason bold 
 His mother's age ten seventy seven 
 His word to me's as good as gold 
 
 His soul's as pure as smile from Heaven. 
 Whene'er we take our walks at eve, 
 A face for him — there's only one ; 
 Than lose his heart a world I'd give — 
 My bonnie lad v^^i' th' apron on ! 
 
 He jewels wears upon his breast, 
 
 And three upon his brat so white ; 
 And when he's donned up in his best, 
 
 Oh, is he not m}' heart's delight ? 
 He says I ought to cautious be 
 
 When other lads try on their fun ; 
 But surely he's no doubts of me — 
 
 My bonnie lad wi' th' apron on ! 
 
 Why need he says he's on the square, 
 And true his life to rule and plumb? 
 
 You'll find few young men anywhere, 
 That virtues such as his become.
 
 22 
 
 He kissed me at the gate to-neet, 
 And now he to his lodge is gone ; 
 
 But later on I'm bound to meet 
 My bonnie lad wi' th' apron on. 
 
 A day he's named — a day to come, 
 
 When I must take the first degree 
 In the Free Masonry of home, 
 
 Then happy sister shall I be. 
 His secrets I already know, 
 
 And in the grips we both are one ; 
 A spotless vesture soon I'll show 
 
 My bonnie lad wi' th' apron on ! 
 
 *Dedicated to Bro. Colonel Le Gendre N. Starkie, Rt. Wor- 
 shipful Prov. Grand Master of Masons in East Lancashire. 
 
 wi:^w^
 
 23 
 
 FALL OF SEBASTOPOL. 
 
 HUSH ! methought I lieard a sound, 
 As 'twere a booming thunder-bursty 
 Awake the startled echoes 'round, 
 
 And cleave the midnight air. The first 
 Hath scarcely died ere pealing flies 
 A second volley to the skies : — 
 A third ! and now a crash of bells 
 The new-born tale of triumph tells. 
 
 Strange whispers pass from door to door. 
 Which grow to shouts from street to street, 
 
 'Till swelling in one distant roar, — 
 Where rushing myriads, myriads meet, 
 Is climax'd b}' one thundering voice — 
 " Sebastopol hath fallen !" 
 
 Rejoice, 
 Ye youths and maidens of the land ; 
 Ye grev-haired sires, a noble band ; 
 Ye mothers of a race as brave 
 As ever fought on field, or wave, — 
 Rejoice ! this is no time to mourn, 
 Though heroes bleed and cities burn. 
 From crimson rain shall vineyards flow, — 
 From smouldering ashes harvests grow. 
 
 Beside a humble cottage door 
 A woman stood, who oft before 
 Had lingered there to read of wars. 
 As presaged in the book of stars.
 
 24 
 
 At times the face of heaven would seem 
 
 As if illumed by glory's beam. 
 
 At others, drops of lurid light 
 
 Would leave the sky to blackest night. 
 
 Then would despair the watcher seize, 
 
 Who, falling on her suppliant knees. 
 
 Would pray — and would 'twere not in vain ! — 
 
 Her " Geordie" might come home again. 
 
 " What does it mean ?" the woman cries, 
 As past her door a neighbour flies. 
 " What does it mean ? — What does it mean ? 
 The war is o'er, — God bless the Queen !" 
 " The war is o'er ; and England won ! 
 Then shall I see — again — my son." 
 Yes, in thy visions, woman grey. 
 But not in dance or revel gay. 
 Look, where the battle's smoke divides; 
 Where 'mongst the slain the victor rides ; 
 There see, the rising cloud reveals 
 A form that from a saddle reels. 
 A wound, made by a sabre stroke, 
 Like winter sun through fog and smoke, 
 Or iron bar in heated forge, 
 Marks for the grave thy darling George. 
 
 " What will they say in England now?" 
 Exclaims the youth, with bleeding brow. 
 " Alas ! I shall not hear what's said, 
 For now I'm quartered with the dead !" 
 Then takes he from his breast a charm, 
 Worn not to shield from battle's harm.
 
 25 
 
 But one to kiss at evening prayer — 
 It is a lock of silver iiair. 
 
 " What will they say in mine'own land ?" 
 Exclaims a youth of another band. 
 Victorious you, and conquered we — 
 Thougli wliy we fought's unknown to me. 
 That fatal cut was from my sword, 
 And your own steel my lilood hath gored !" 
 Then takes he from his breast a charm, 
 Worn not to shield from battle's harm. 
 But one to kiss at evening prayer — • 
 It is a lock of golden hair. 
 
 Two hands are clasped in death's embrace 
 Two foes are prostrate, face to face. 
 " You leave a mother,'' said the one — 
 His power of utterance nearly gone : 
 " I leave a wife and children dear ; 
 And 'twas not glory led me here. 
 They said 'twas fealty to the Czar 
 That forced his subjects into war. 
 But why it was that I slew you. 
 Or why it was that me you slew, 
 Is not for us but kings to say, 
 On Greater Field and Greater Da}'." 
 
 Locked in each other's arms, the twain 
 Were told at roll-call with the slain. 
 As foes they fought, as friends they bled — 
 The martyr triumph of tlie dead. 
 What holier voice could sound afar 
 A protest 'gainst the sin of war ?
 
 26 
 
 THE WAYERLOW BELLS. 
 
 OLD Jammie and Ailse went a-do\vn the brookside, 
 Arm-in-arm, as when young, before Ailse was a 
 bride ; 
 
 And what made them pause near the Hollybank wells ? 
 Twas to list to the chimes of the Waverlow bells. 
 
 " How sweet," said old Jammie, " How sweet on the ear, 
 Comes the ding-donging sound of yon curfew, my dear !" 
 But old Ailse ne'er replies — for her bosom now swells — 
 Oh, she loved in her childhood those Waverlow bells. 
 
 "Thou remember'st," said Jammie "the night we first 
 met. 
 
 Near the Abbey Field gate — the old gate is there yet — 
 
 When we roamed in the moonlight, o'er fields and 
 through dells. 
 
 And our hearts beat along witli the Waverlow bells. 
 
 " And then that wakes morning, so early at church. 
 When I led thee a bride through the old ivy porch. 
 And our new home we made where the curate now dwells. 
 And we danced to the music of Waverlow bells. 
 
 "And when that wakes morning came round the next 
 year, 
 
 How we bore a sweet child to the christ'ning font there; 
 
 But our joy-peals soon changed to the saddest of knells, 
 
 And we mourned at the sound of the Waverlow bells."
 
 27 
 
 Then in silence, a moment, the old couple stood, 
 Their hearts in the churchyard, their eyes on the flood ; 
 And the tear, as it starts, a sad memory tells — 
 Oh ! they heard a loved voice in those Waverlow bells, 
 
 " Our Ann,"' said old Ailse, " was the fairest of girls ; 
 She had heaven in her face, and the sun in her curls; 
 Now she sleeps in a bed where the worm makes its cells. 
 And her lullaby's sung by the Waverlow bells." 
 
 " But her soul," Jammie said, '' she'd a soul in her eyes. 
 
 And their brightness is gone to its home in the skies ; 
 
 We may meet iier there yet, where the good spirit dwells,. 
 
 When we'll hear them no more — those old \\'aver]ow 
 bells." 
 
 Once again — only once — this old couple were seen 
 Stepping out in the gloaming across the old green, 
 And to wander adown by the Hollybank wells. 
 Just to list to the chimes of the Waverlow bells. 
 
 Now the good folks are sleeping beneath the cold scd, 
 But their souls are in bliss with their daughter and God, 
 And each maid in the village now mournfully tells 
 How old Jammie and Ailse loved the Waverlow bells.
 
 28 
 
 THE BONxXIE BLUE KIBBON. 
 
 'rnWAS down in the vale, 
 
 -■- Where the Medlock runs clear, 
 
 That I met with young Colin, 
 
 In the fall of the year. 
 The glance that he gave. 
 
 Made my heart bound with glee, — 
 He'd a bonnie blue ribbon. 
 
 Tied under his knee. 
 
 He asked for my heart, 
 
 But he'd had it before ; 
 If I'd twenty to fjive, 
 
 I'd have given him a score. 
 My looks must have told him 
 
 What I could not see, — 
 Oh, the bonnie blue ribbon. 
 
 Tied under the knee. 
 
 His voice is so tender. 
 
 So mellow and sweet. 
 Which the thrush in the gloaming 
 
 Its tones would repeat. 
 The mirth of the village 
 
 No c'narm had for me ; 
 'Twas the bonnie blue ribbon. 
 
 Tied under the knee.
 
 29 
 
 But woe's me, my love 
 
 Has been pressed to the wars ; 
 He'll return crowned with glor)-, 
 
 Or covered with scars. 
 If the fates be as kind, 
 
 As his heart's been to me, 
 He'll wear the blue ribbon, 
 
 Tied under the knee. 
 
 The summer is past 
 
 And the birds are all fled. 
 Yet no word of my Colin, 
 
 Is he living, or dead ? 
 If he'd send me a line, 
 
 'Twould be hearts-ease to me ;, 
 Or thie bonnie blue ribbon, 
 
 Tied under the knee. 
 
 Oh, why this strange feeling, 
 
 This hope and this fear ? 
 There's something that tells me 
 
 My lover is near. 
 'Tis my Colin come back, 
 
 To his home, and to me ; 
 With the bonnie l)lue ribbon, 
 
 Tied under his knee. 
 
 r'-<_>j"o
 
 N 
 
 30 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 (on her 5gTH BIRTHDAY.) 
 
 0\V " all that glitters is not gold," 
 
 A lesson learn from that, dear wife ! 
 
 The sun that's bright at morning-tide. 
 
 Is like the transient morn of life. 
 At noon it pales its morning beams ; 
 
 The sky assumes a sober grey, 
 As if the calm of eventide, 
 
 Would chase in sleep all cares away. 
 
 Another morn, a brighter morn, 
 
 May greet with joy our waking hour, 
 A sun of Heavenly gold may shine. 
 
 Not plated o'er by earthl)' power, 
 But gemmed as with a coronal. 
 
 Formed of the purest crystal ray. 
 And stream afar, like an angel's smile ; 
 
 The light of an Eternal day. 
 
 Hall Street, Moston, 
 
 April 2(jili, 1S93.
 
 WELCOME TO OUR OLD EMEND, 
 
 "BEN." 
 
 WELCOME, "OwdBrid!" We give thee hearty 
 cheer, 
 
 In this, the happiest place of all th}' life. 
 
 Oft have we heard thee sing, with voice so clear, 
 
 Of all the charms with which it is so rife. 
 
 Here hast thou gazed, as only Poets can, 
 And felt the landscape not the work of man ; 
 And, gazing thus, thy soul has filled with light, 
 To brighten up the wearied '• Cotter's Night ;" 
 And, bursting forth in man}' a joyous strain, 
 Hast made the welkin fairly ring again. 
 
 And now that thou dost come to bid " Adieu !" 
 To all the scenes that made thy boyhood bright, 
 
 And hast the Valleys of tlie West in view 
 (Yet none so happy as this one to-night). 
 
 We bid thee welcome ; and, with hearts made light. 
 
 Would cheer up thine, tliat it may now feel right.
 
 32 
 
 Come ! keep thi drooping "pecker" up, "owd lad," 
 It will no' do that thou shouldst now be sad ; 
 We'll keep th}^ memory dear — and fresh and green- 
 Though other features come upon the scene. 
 
 We'll not forget " Owd Ab," nor all his ways ; 
 
 And when he's landed on yon distant shore, 
 Ma}^ riches crown the warbling of his lays, 
 
 And all his sighings and his cares be o'er. 
 
 Ma}' " mighty dollars" rain upon his path. 
 
 And comforts give (which here have been but few),. 
 
 That what lie there may get, and what he hath, 
 Be quite sufficient for the end in view. 
 
 And should he, as the dreary months roll on. 
 
 For England and for Failsworth once more pine. 
 
 We'll hail the ship that brings us back a Son, 
 And give him welcome with a loud " lang syne ;" 
 
 We'll sing " lang syne" with all our might and main,. 
 
 And welcome back our Old Friend Ben again. 
 
 Julius. 
 
 March 2Sth, 1884.
 
 33 
 
 TO BENJAMIN BEIERLEY, ESQ., 
 
 In View of his Leaving this Country for a Tour 
 
 in the u. s. a. 
 
 {Copyright.) 
 
 ~rri AREWELL ! thou son of song ; 
 -L Well dost thou stand among 
 
 Th' elite of men ! 
 Thy name and fame are great ; 
 We now congratulate 
 In full and fitting state, 
 
 Thy gifted pen. 
 
 Thy pen has facile pow'r ! 
 In volumetric show'r 
 
 And gifted grace ; 
 Thy quill has writ of truth 
 And beauty ; and, forsooth, 
 Of man : his moral growth 
 
 And chequered race.
 
 34 
 
 Perchance in yon great land — 
 The deep blue sea beyond — 
 
 A welcome sweet ; 
 Replete with gen'rous love, 
 And sweet as voice of dove, 
 In tidal waves may move 
 
 Th)' soul to greet. 
 
 The people there are great 
 In virtue and in state — - 
 
 A noble race ! 
 Their speech is England's tongue ; 
 Their life is grand and young ; 
 Their love is pure and strong : 
 
 Go thou and trace. 
 
 A joyous voyage then, 
 To thee, beloved " Ben," 
 
 And safe return ! 
 O'er ocean's rudest wave 
 May He, that's mighty, save 
 A life that's more than brave : 
 
 Then we'll not mourn. 
 
 Arnica. 
 
 Moston Pviory, Manchester, 
 March stii, 18S4.
 
 35 
 
 LANCASHIRE" S BEN. 
 
 1 ACH branch of Art and Science boasts, 
 •^ Within our own and other coasts, 
 
 Peculiarly its famous Ben, 
 Who sways by tongue or brush or pen. 
 The world of politics, you'll own. 
 Few bolder than Ben Dizzy's known. 
 The Drama —ne'er to be effaced — 
 By "rare Ben Jonson" has been graced, 
 And by Ben Webster, eke, I ween — 
 Illumined by their talents' sheen ! 
 Ben Franklin, philosophic guide! 
 Achieved renown as fair as wide ; 
 While as a painter, lo, Ben West, 
 By Western States is counted best. 
 Nay, nature, high o'er woods and glens, 
 Displays and revels in lier Bens : 
 Ben Nevis, and Ben Lomond, too ; 
 Ben Ledi and brave Ben Venue. 
 E'en London has its own " Big Ben," 
 O'er its Cathedral reared by Wren.
 
 36 
 
 And in this busy sliire, we ken 
 
 A glorious and victorious Ben, 
 
 With greenest laurels on his brow, 
 
 \^^hom it delights to honour now, 
 
 With golden tokens of regard, 
 
 As author, humorist, and bard — 
 
 Oh, say, where shall we meet a life 
 
 With truer love of freedom rife. 
 
 More free from spurious sentiments, 
 
 More in the people's welfare spent ? 
 
 His banter, when in fullest play. 
 
 Is sparkling as the summer's ray ; 
 
 His wit, though keen as rapier found, 
 
 Unlike the rapier, ne'er doth wound ; 
 
 His homely virtues him endear 
 
 To hosts of friends both far and near. 
 
 Who bid him " God-speed"' o'er the main, 
 
 And wish him safely home again ! 
 
 James Holden. 
 
 Rochdale
 
 37 
 
 FAREWELL TO AMERICA, 
 
 TjlAREWELL, land of "booms," "tickets," 
 
 -L " platforms," and " vetoes," 
 
 Of lightenin;::,^ bugs, whistling frogs, snakes and 
 mosquitoes. 
 
 Land of fried oysters, of clam-bakes, and chowder, 
 
 And the rowdy's best arguments, bullets and powder ; 
 
 Land of all races, all colours, and mixings, 
 
 Of candy and peanuts, of notions and fixings, 
 
 Where prohibitive laws do not stop folks from drinking. 
 
 But old Bourbon and rye can be had for the winking. 
 
 Where a man who robs banks is held up as a " smart 
 one ; " 
 
 But let him take bread that will just keep life's cart on, 
 
 He'll get it quite hot from the judge who ne'er justice 
 meant. 
 
 And sent up for weeks to the home of the penitent. 
 
 Land of " road agents," of pedlars, and " drummers," 
 
 Of confidence tricksters, " bushwhackers," and 
 " bummers," 
 
 Where political knaves fatten out of the taxes. 
 
 And how they get hold of them no man e'er " axes."
 
 3B 
 
 If I tell thee thv faults 'tis because that I love thee, — 
 
 Oh, land of the free ! while the bird soars above thee, 
 
 That swoops on thy foes like thy blizzards and cyclones, 
 
 'Twixt thee and old England may bygones be bygones 1 
 
 Do what has been done by thy mother before thee. 
 
 Deeds blazoned in history, ballad, and story ; 
 
 Drive out the vile rascals that plunder thy coffers, 
 
 And cease to be jeered at by railers and scoffers. 
 
 Take the bull by the horns, — not the "John" of that 
 " aire " name ; 
 
 And throw down the beast that has trod on thy fair 
 fame ; 
 
 'Twill have to be done either sooner or later, — 
 
 So here's to the doing of 't my " darlin' young crater ! " 
 
 ''So long! "- 
 
 *So Long. The American term for " good bye ! "
 
 39 
 
 A "DAUGHTER OF EVE." 
 
 A BLACKPOOL IDYL. 
 
 PENSIVE she sat — alone — upon the pier, 
 Watching the setting sun its lessening disc 
 Dip in the western wave. And long she gazed. 
 Andromeda, held captive in the sea, 
 Was not more sad than she — sad beyond tears. 
 I picture to myself the fading form 
 Of some fair barque, bound for a foreign shore, 
 And with it all she loved on earth. 
 I tried to read her thoughts. Were maidens fair, 
 And matchless in their beauty, in that land 
 Towards where the swelling sails their canvas bent ? 
 And would a glance from their dark eyes so fill 
 The soul with the sweet ecstasy of love. 
 That he'd forget the love he'd left behind ? 
 She'd heard of syrens hid in ocean caves 
 That so beguile the faithless marmer 
 With soul-enslaving harmonies, that he 
 Forgets he's mortal, and's for ever lost. 
 Anon she did avert her face, then cast 
 Her eyes again across the angry deep. 
 I ventured to ask the cause of all her grief — 
 Why she, like Niobe, was all in tears ? 
 She sighed, and said — " Wait till I get him ivhoam /"
 
 40 
 
 BURNS' S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 OYE wha hae nae higher aims 
 Than fill wi' drink your drouthy wames, 
 Ye need hae schoolings frae your dames 
 
 When ye forget 
 That nichts are langer at your hames 
 
 Than where ye set. 
 
 I am nae Solomon, nor sage,   
 Whose virtue only comes with age, 
 Who war eternal nightly wage 
 
 'Gainst saups o' drink ; 
 But tak a drop i' " Tammy's Cage " 
 
 To mak 'em wink. 
 
 This day young Rab first saw the light 
 Shine o'er his head — a wond'rous sight ! 
 'Twas like a holy nimbus, bright, 
 
 To greet his birth. 
 
 Then darkness skelpit like the night 
 
 Frae off the earth.
 
 41 
 
 He saw around him as he grew, 
 A grabbin, keen, and selfish crew. 
 To naething but their int'rests true 
 
 The God they serve. 
 Aught good in man they naething knew 
 
 To make tliem swerve. 
 
 On hypocrite lie laid the stick 
 They kept for decent folk, an' sic 
 As woulda, like dumb spaniels, lick 
 
 Their dirty neive. 
 (I maun keep friendly wi' Auld Nick, 
 
 He hands my brief.) 
 
 He made the sanctimonious squeal, 
 Like rattons in an empty biel ; 
 The Sunday saint an' Monday de'il 
 
 He wouldna spare : 
 But like a doughty, honest chiel, 
 
 He'd strip them bare. 
 
 But in his gentler nature he 
 
 In wounded hare a friend could see ; 
 
 Or birdie, wounded wantonly. 
 
 (They ca' it game 
 A bairn sae scared, an' canno flee. 
 
 Is just the same). 
 
 For poor auld " Mailie " he'd a tear 
 To shed beside her mountain bier ; 
 He ca'd the sheep frae far an' near, 
 
 Wi' grief to wrestle ; 
 But " ]\Iailie "' was beyont the fear 
 
 Of butcher's trestle.
 
 42 
 
 And een the wee an' tremblin mousie, 
 He wouldna' rob of its bit housie. 
 He made that crawHn pest, the , 
 
 A judge o' fashions : 
 An' gave to it, sae prim an' doucie, 
 
 A critic's notions. 
 
 Wha kens wha Rabbie might ha been. 
 If Hfe a longer lease had gi'en ? 
 Yet ere he left this earthly scene, 
 
 P'or Death's dark portal, 
 A simple flower •■ o' modest mien. 
 
 He'd made immortal. 
 
 * The Daisy.
 
 43 
 
 LAMENT FOR THE FAILS WORTH 
 "POLE." 
 
 This ancient landmark, so well known throughout the country, 
 has been taken down, as it was deemed unsafe on account of decay. 
 " Ab " overhears the wail of the wooden relic on his return one 
 evening from the " Old Bell." — Manchester Guardian. 
 
 THEY'VE ta'en me down at last, theau sees, 
 Becose I'm gettin rotten, 
 An' that's no wonder wlien I think 
 I've been so long forgotten. 
 
 There's nob'dy tricked me eaut wi' paint, 
 Nor trniimed my vane an" points. 
 
 Nor weshed my face, nor combed my yure. 
 Nor oiled my creakin joints, 
 
 Sin' Ere put here to face the storm. 
 
 An' wintry frosts an' snows : 
 An' not a drop o' comfort sent 
 
 To thaw my frozen nose. 
 
 It wurno so when th' lord o'th' lond 
 
 Wi' ribbons decked by yead. 
 An' made me change my politics 
 
 By turnin blue to red. 
 
 I wonder what th' " Owd Ship'" would say, 
 
 An' " Trumpet-foot -^ " would do. 
 If they could rise before their time. 
 
 An' see what I've come to ?
 
 44 
 
 Th' owJ " smith*" would make his anvil ring, 
 
 An' eke his bellows blow, 
 If he wur towd th' " V. R." war gone 
 
 He'd fashioned years ago. 
 
 An' chanticleer has left his perch, 
 
 Becose he're eaut o' place ; 
 To stond wi' th' creawn beneath his tail 
 
 He felt wur a disgrace. • 
 
 So long as we'n a Queen to rule 
 
 The fates of fowls an' men, 
 An' show us th' way eaur feelins blow. 
 
 It owt t' ha' been a hen. 
 
 Farewell, owd biid! an' when I'm trone 
 
 To join the shades o' men, 
 They'll wish they'd spared a bit o' paint 
 
 To mak me young again. 
 
 But neaw another'll tak my place, 
 
 A masher for a time. 
 But he'll come deawn to rust and chips 
 
 Before he's past his prime. 
 
 So 'tis wi' men as weel as pows. 
 
 Neglected i' their day ; 
 An' when they're come to coffin dust 
 
 They'll find a bed o' clay. 
 
 Local Celebrities of the past.
 
 45 
 
 THE STONEBREAKEirS SONG. 
 
 It was a study to see him at work. Seated on a wisp of hay- 
 that he had twisted and coiled into a cushion ; a girdle of the same 
 material laid on a large flat-surfaced stone in front of him ; a large 
 hammer laid by his side, and in his hand a smaller one, with which 
 he would now and then peg away, as if in the act of breaking 
 Jacobins' heads by the score ; a visor of wire-cloth suspended over 
 his face, to prevent splinters of stone from flying into his eyes; an 
 old blue jacket, that at one time had been a coat, looped over a red 
 plush " singlet " of perhaps twenty or even forty years' wear: his 
 almost hairless sconce bared to the sun, from which it had received 
 an imperishable coating of tan, he was an object that few would 
 pass without hailing with observations, either concerning the 
 weather, or the crops or the idle gossip of the time. 
 
 Strange! This Sunday morning the old fellow was at z^'orA' — busily, 
 merrily at work. The church bells seemed to swing in time to the 
 song he was trolling; and the lark that would poise itself over the 
 patch of wrinkled tan as if it had been a note-book, sang in a strain 
 that made the hammer quicken in its descent ; and the splinters of 
 stone would be threshed out of the girdle till the tawny patch 
 would be as pearled over with dew as were the fields around. 
 Suddenly he paused to take wind. He wiped his shining sconce 
 with a tattered napkin, and raised his visor to look about him. 
 How still and serene and Sabbath-like were the old road-mender's 
 reflections, as he contemplated the quiet and sunny landscape 
 before him — " meetily " Sabbath-like ! — and he listened to the bells 
 again. 
 
 "What is ther up at th' church this mornin!" he asked him- 
 self, wiping his face, and listening again. " Is some foo or other 
 gettin wed, I wonder ? Ay, I dar'say ; ther's aulus someb'dy thinkin 
 they con mend other folk's wark ; it's th' natur of a foo." And down
 
 46 
 
 went the visor with a jerk ; "click " went the hammer, and showers 
 of spHnters flew out of the girdle as he sang — 
 
 Young Robin at th' smithy a-cooarten did go, 
 With his heigh smithy bahis an' anvil an" o ! 
 He war cue score an' notliin, just th' age for a foo', 
 But owder wur Kit by a haytime or two. 
 
 Singin derry down, Robin. 
 
 No sighin nor sobbin 
 Wll e'er tee a love-knot 'tween Kitty an" thee. 
 
 Neaw Robin he begged, as he stood i'th' heause porch, 
 
 Ut Kitty ud let him just tak her to th' church ; 
 
 But Kitty said, " Nawe, lad, no churcii yet for me ; 
 
 For a yer or two lunger aw meean to be free." 
 
 Singin derry down, ditty, 
 A snicket wur Kitty ; 
 
 Her heart wur as hard as a weightstone, aw'm sure. 
 
 " He should ha" gan her a whizz i'th earhole, an' axed her how 
 hoo liked that," commented the singer, raising his hammer and 
 bringing it down with a force that made more fragments than were 
 intended. " Nowt like a good hommerin for a saucy besom ut 
 wants so — husk!- so mich trouble makkin on her," and again the 
 stones flew out of the girdle, and again the road-mender took up 
 the strain — 
 
 Her lover had waited a twelvemonth or more, 
 An' neetly he'd striven her heart to get o'er ; 
 But seein at last ut hoo laafed as he spoke. 
 His pluck dropt so low ut iie're ready to choke. 
 
 Singin derry down, Robin, 
 Theau's done to mich sobbin, 
 Cock thi hat o' one side, an' goo whistlin whoam.
 
 47 
 
 "Aw'll see thee once moore," young Robin he said, 
 c'An' ax thee agcn if theau means to be wed ; 
 An' if theau says ncn.'e, theau may go to th' owd lad, 
 For Margit o' Peter's is toyert of her dad." 
 
 Singin bravely spoke, Robin, 
 That's better nor sobbin ; 
 Hoo'U smile no moore yet at th' breet side ov her een. 
 
 " Ay, that trick onswers sometimes. Try some other wench on 
 — someb'dy they care no' mich about. It'll be as straight forrad as 
 hay makkin i' good sun and wynt. Then th' tother '11 come round 
 like midsummer, or a rent day ; an' be as whinin an' as fain as a 
 new-byetten hound. Ay, ay ; better nor churnin ee-wayter, an' 
 pooin a face as long an' as feaw as a milestone ut's had smo'-pox." 
 
 Next time he went armed wi' a peavver he'd ne'er tried, 
 An' owd oak back-spittle''- he'd slung by his side, 
 Ut wur chalked o'er wi X's, hauve moon's an' reaund O's, 
 Wi' a lot o' straight strokes ut wur set eaut i' rows. 
 
 Singin derry down, Robin, 
 Theau's entered a job in 
 Ut'll be murder to Kitty, an' hangin to thee. 
 
 " Owd Nanny i'th' fowt used to reckon up her shop-scores o' 
 that fashion. A A' stood for a farthin ; a stiaight stroke for a penny ; 
 a hauve moon for a sixpence, and a reaund for a shillin. Hoo'd 
 every inch o' wood i'th' shop chalked o'er once for brass ut wur 
 owin ; an' when ther nowt else ut 'ud howd a ligger hoo began o' 
 scorin upo' their Ned's back, till lads abeaut coed him th' walkin 
 shopbook," 
 
 " Well, does theau say Jiaye yet ?" 3'oung Robin he said. 
 Kitty made him no onswer, but threw up her yed. 
 " Then look here at this — pay me o ut theau owes." 
 An' he flourished th' owd back-spittle under her nose. 
 
 Singin derry down, ditty, 
 
 A floorer for Kitty, 
 W^ir th' A"5, straight strokes, an' reaund O's, an' liaiivc moons.
 
 48 
 
 " He should ha' laid it on her back till her stays ud ha' skriked 
 out. / would ha' done. " 
 
 " This is what aw wore on thee last yer," Robin cried, 
 " For a fippunny pincushion t' hang bi thi side ; 
 Two link of a necklace, a pu:i for thi gown 
 An a new fleawred huzziff aw breaw^t eaut o'tli' teawn." 
 
 Singin derry down, Robin, 
 Theaii's set Kit a-sobbin ; 
 Theau'll have her i' fits if theau reads any moore. 
 
 " Then aw I took thee to th' fair," Robin said with a sigh, 
 " An' bowt thee some nuts an' a gingy bread pie ; 
 Some porter aw paid for at th' ' Skewer an' Cop,' 
 An" two eaunces o' towfy at owd Nanny's shop." 
 
 Singin derry down, Kitty, 
 Thy Robin's no pity. 
 Or else he'd wipe th' score off an' set thi hont free. 
 
 " Th' next byets cock-feightin." 
 
 Kitty sighed, and said " Robin, aw'll pay thee thi shot ; 
 
 Wilt have it i' mone}', or papper, or what ?" 
 
 But, before he could spake hoo'd her arm reaund ii is neck,. 
 
 An' th' owd oak back-spittle were wiped to a speck. 
 
 Singin derry down, ditty, 
 Neaw Robin an' Kitty 
 
 Han chalked up a score ut'll last 'em for life.
 
 49 
 
 TO EDWIN WAUGH. 
 
 The writer had not heard from his poetical friend for a con- 
 siderable time. The circumstance suggested this epistle, which 
 Mr. Waugh included in an edition of his own poems. 
 
 "TXTHAT ails thee, Ned ? Thour't not as 'twur, 
 
 ^ ^ Or else no' what I took thee for, 
 When fust thou made sich noise an' stir 
 
 I' this quare pleck. 
 Hast' flown at Fame wi' sich a her, 
 
 As t' break thy neck ? 
 
 Or arta droppin' fithers, eh ; 
 
 An' keepin' th' neest warm till some day, 
 
 Toart April-tide, or sunny May, 
 
 \\'hen thou may'st spring, 
 An' warble out a new-made lay, 
 
 On strengthened wing ? 
 
 For brids o' sung mun ha' tiier mou't, 
 
 As weel as other brids I doubt ; 
 
 But though they peearch beneatli a spout, 
 
 Or roost 'mong heather, 
 They're saved fro' mony a shiverin' bout. 
 
 By hutchin' t'gether. 
 
 D
 
 50 
 
 Come, let owd Mother Dumps a-be, 
 An' wag thy yead wi' friendly glee ; 
 P'ly o'er, a humble l)rid to see — 
 
 This wo'ld is wide — 
 There's reaum for booath thee an' me, 
 
 An' more beside. 
 
 Come, scrat' thy bill, an' bat thy wings; 
 Hark how the merry " Layrock " smgs ! 
 Good news fro' flowerlond he brings 
 
 In his glad throat ; 
 An' conno' thou, 'mong lesser things, 
 
 Put in a note ? 
 
 The buds that peep fro' every spray ; 
 The cock that wakkens up the day ; 
 The thrush that sings its roundelay 
 
 r bower an' tree. 
 Shout — " Come, owd brid, an' have a say 
 
 r nature's spree !" 
 
 For 'tis a spree, this life o' ours ; 
 Drinkm' wine fro' cups o' flowers. 
 An' takkin' insence in i' showers, 
 
 Enoogh to crack us; 
 Or havin' glorious neetly cowers 
 
 \Vi' a fathered Bacchus. 
 
 Fly o'er thysel, or if thou chooses 
 
 To bring some other brids o' th' Muses, 
 
 Pike out a flock, an' come an' rooze this, 
 
 My peearchin cote ; 
 The mou't seize him who then refuses 
 
 To tune his throat.
 
 51 
 
 Foremost in flight, on gentle wing, 
 The " Prestwich Philomela " ^ bring. 
 It swells my crop to yer him sing, 
 
 r plaintive strain ; 
 To squeeze his claw wi' friendly wring 
 
 I would be fain. 
 
 Then ther's that owd gray-toppined lark, 
 Who sang when thou an' I wur dark. 
 Long years sin', o'er toart th' " Little Park," 
 
 " Bamford "- his name ; 
 Let's give our yeads a reverent jark, 
 
 An' own his fame. 
 
 Bring in thy train thoose brids o' note. 
 Blithe " Charlie,"^ with his wattled throat. 
 An' " Dick,'"' '' who never sang nor wrote 
 
 To hurt his fellow ; 
 With him, ^ who aye wi' " seed-box" sote 
 
 To mak' brids mellow. 
 
 Bring him who to the Past still clings,'' 
 Who in some moss-grown ruin sings. 
 Whilst delvin' deep for bygone things 
 
 r tombs an' ditches ; 
 Now croonin' o'er the deeds o' kings. 
 
 Or pranks o' witches. 
 
 2 Samuel Bamford; author of "Passages in the Life of a 
 Radical. " &c. 
 
 3 Charles Hardwick ; author of " The History of Preston," &c- 
 
 4 R. R. Bealey ; author of " After Business Jottings," &c. 
 
 5 Joseph Chatwood, President of the Manchester Literary Club. 
 
 6 John Harland ; Editor of " Baine's History of Lancashire," 
 
 [etc.
 
 52 
 
 An' bring that honest soul thy skoo' in,' 
 Who notes what otlier birds are dooin' ; 
 Who at a "weed ' is aules pooin', 
 
 To sweei his throttle ; 
 Who if he's mute is surely brewin' 
 
 Some genial prattle. 
 
 An' bring that grizzly weazen t wren," 
 Who twitters nobbut now an' then ; 
 Who " ale " prescribes to " physic " men, 
 
 An' brids as weel. 
 (If souls obeyed his guidin' ken, 
 
 They'd starve the de'il.) 
 
 An' to mak' up the festive cage. 
 
 Bring that plump brid, the " Happy Page 
 
 Who'd give in song the exact gauge 
 
 Of throat o' viper, ^^ 
 An' tell, by countin' fithers, th' age 
 
 O' woodland piper. 
 
 Wi' hop an' twitter, chirp an' sung, 
 We'd drive the scamperin' hours alung ; 
 An' it thy glee, an' 'Lijah's lung, 
 
 I' tone should slacken, 
 Ther'd be enoogh o' Charlie's tongue 
 
 To keep us wakken. 
 
 7 j. P. Stokes, Esq., Correspondent of the Times. 
 
 8 Elijah Ridings ; author of the " Village ]\Iuse," &c. 
 
 9 John Page (Felix Folio) ; author of " Street Dealers and 
 Ouacks," &c. 
 
 lo Mr. Page, in " Letters on Natural History," maintains that 
 the viper, in time of danger, swallows its young.
 
 53 
 
 We'd ha' " Tim's Grave,"an" Th' Sweetheart Gate," 
 An' "Owd Pegge's " cure for th' wakkerin' state ;'' 
 An "Jerry," ^" too, should shake his pate 
 
 Wi' monke}' claiver ; 
 An' if yo'rn short o' rh^min prate, 
 
 I'd croon " Tla' Owd Wayver." 
 
 We mit o' love an' friendship sing ; 
 O' Charity's exhaustless spring ; 
 O' Beauty, that wi' radiant wnng, 
 
 Charms brid and liard ; 
 An' then, for th' sake o'tli' fun 'twould l>ring, 
 
 Try th' jokin' '' card." ^'''' 
 
 A neet o' sich like mirthfu' croozin', 
 No friend forgettin' — no foe abusin'; 
 Now leaud i' sung, now sweetly musin', 
 
 A\"ere " bliss divine ;" 
 An' to the soul a deep infusin' 
 
 O' Jove's best wine. 
 
 Thus may we flutter through life's grove. 
 Now crack't wi' glee, now steeped i' love, 
 Till wingin' to that roost above. 
 
 Where dw^ell the blest, 
 We find, like Noah's faithful dove, 
 
 A place o' rest. 
 
 11 Vide "Ale versus Physic," by Elijah Ridings. 
 
 12 Alhiding to a humorous story about a " monkey," told with 
 considerable gusto by Charles Hardwick. 
 
 13 A term much used in conversstion by one of the worthies 
 -above named.
 
 54 
 
 On Attaining His 70TH Year, January agTH, 188; 
 
 'Tis over thirty years, friend Waugh, 
 
 Since thou and I first met. 
 A manly face, a twinkUng eye, 
 
 A voice to music set. 
 
 Were thine to please, to charm, to win, 
 
 All round tlie social board. 
 Where kindly sympathetic ears 
 
 Hung on each tuneful word. 
 
 Since then I've roamed the moorland wild, 
 
 With poesy and thee ; 
 And pressed the fragrant heather bell 
 
 With footstep light and free. 
 
 And I have known thee since, when care 
 
 And dire affliction traced 
 The lines that tell of weary days 
 
 No healing hath eff'aced — 
 
 When silver crept amongst thy hair. 
 
 Now changed to wintry rime : 
 And stooped thy form beneath the load 
 
 Of unrelenting Time. 
 
 Thy lyre hath sounded mid the strife 
 Of worldly thoughts and ways ; 
 
 Thy song hath cheered the helpless wight, 
 With dreams of happier days.
 
 55 
 
 Soon thou must lay tliy harp aside, 
 Hushed for the passing liour ; 
 
 But Memory may wake its tones 
 With echoes of its power. 
 
 Tlie sun of thy poetic day 
 
 For ever may have set ; 
 But rosy are the twihglit tints 
 
 That linger round thee yet. 
 
 Ere these dissolve in darksome night, 
 And leave thy soul forlorn, 
 
 May'st thou behokl the breaking light 
 Of an eternal morn.
 
 56 
 
 THOSE TOWN HALL STAIKS. 
 
 MAIDEN SPEECH 
 
 Delivered in the Manchester City Council, May 3, 1876, on the question 
 locating the Free Reference Library in the upper rooms of the New Town 
 
 Hall. 
 
 In November, 1875, Mr. Brierley was elected a city councillor, 
 and his maiden speech was in support of the Free Libraries 
 Committee's successful attempt to prevent the reference department 
 being located in the attic of the Town Hall. Here \\as his 
 opportunity. The chairman of the Free Libraries Committee, Mr. 
 Alderman (afterwards Sir Thomas) liaker, said, addressing Mr. 
 Brierley, ' We shall want all the help we can get, see what you can 
 do.' On the day fixed for the debate, Mr. Brierley rose and said — 
 ' He felt that to place a vast collection of literary treasures out of 
 the reach of many for whom they were got together would be 
 legislating backwards, unless it were the desire of the Corporation 
 to preserve them as some country dames did their copper kettles, 
 by never allowing them to be made use of. (Laughter.) Great 
 stress had been laid, but mostly inside the Council, upon the cost 
 of an independent structure erected in a central part of the city. 
 Whoever brought that argument forward as an objection to a 
 general scheme forgot the importance of the institution sought to be 
 located, and the great value set upon such institutions by our 
 neighbours across the Channel. A North Country friend of his, 
 describing the extent and splendour of the temples devoted to the 
 arts, the sciences, and the literature of a nation, to be met with in 
 even the smaller cities of continental Europe, and comparing them 
 with our own, observed — ' VVhy, men, we're not in it at a'.' 
 {Laughter.) He told the truth, we are nnt in it. (Hear, hear.) 
 When a few months ago the Watch Committee asked the Council 
 for an additional ^^40,000 to enlarge an already palatial residence 
 for our criminal population, not a murmur was raised against the 
 demand. But when they asked that a powerful instrument for 
 preventing crime might be properly and not extravagantly housed, 
 they were told that an attic in the new Town Hall was quite good 
 enough for the purpose. And what was this retreat, or sepulchre, 
 for the great minds of the world ? To paraphrase a favourite 
 couplet of Mr. Fox Turner's — 
 
 I liave been there, but would not go 
 Again, I'd rather stay below.
 
 51 
 
 (Laughter.) Independent of other considerations, a library of 
 reference was of little service unless it were of ready access ; and 
 locating it at an altitude that could not be reached without having 
 to climb steps to the number of 120, would be like placing a piece 
 of bread on a dog's nose, and counting 120 before allowing it to be 
 snapped up. (Loud laughter.) His experience of this part of the 
 building had more than confirmed, if possible, the opinions he had 
 always held as to its unsuitableness for any important purpose 
 whatever. A. few weeks ago he had been one of an e.xpedition that 
 had volunteered to explore the mysterious regions of the carillons, 
 and the conclusion he then came to was, that none but such 
 adventurous spirits as the Mayor and Mr. Alderman Heywood 
 would ever have the hardihood to climb that giddy height. 
 (Laughter.) The whole party commenced the ascent of the stairs 
 at the same time, but like amateur mountaineers climbing Ben 
 Lomond, they gradually became separated — some hanging on here 
 and there by a balustrade, and others trying to emulate the prankc 
 of their boyish days by a grotesque attempt to look nimble. 
 (Laughter.) By dint of dogged perseverance they all reached the 
 top, but not in a body. They turned up in panting and perspiring 
 driblets (laughter), the last man being a little over ten minutes 
 behind his immediate predecessor. (Renewed Laughter.) He 
 would not repeat the expression this laggard made use of on landing, 
 but would describe it as an empathic kind of thinking aloud. 
 (Laughter.) If, then, such difficulties presented themselves to the 
 active and energetic members of the City Council, what would they 
 be to men of more than ordinary bulk, and when getting into years ? 
 Only imagine an elderly man of fifteen stone spending half an hour 
 in worming himself up this crenated corkscrew for the purpose of 
 ascertaining at what period of the world's history Manchester was 
 besieged by the Shandeans. (Laughter.) He imagined it to be 
 some such possibility that gave the idea for the construction of a 
 piece of doggrel that had recently come under his notice. Whether 
 it be from the pen of Long-Short-or-any-other-fellow he would 
 leave them to surmise when they had given it the favour of a 
 hearing. It was as follows : — 
 
 The shades of night were falHng fast, 
 As up the Town Hall steps there passed, 
 A man who on his shoulders bore 
 Full seventy winters, — and he swore — 
 " These cursed stairs ! " 
 
 Firmly he grasped an alpenstock, 
 To help his legs from block to block ;
 
 58 
 
 And as he toiled his way along, 
 Throughout each corridor there rang — 
 " Confound these stairs ! " 
 
 From warehouse window came no light, 
 Which could illume that misty height ; 
 And when he found himself alone, 
 From out his breast escaped a groan — 
 " These Town Hall stairs ! " 
 
 " Wither goest thou ? " a porter said, 
 With buttons on his coat o'erspread. 
 "I go to con historic lore ; 
 But clamber up I'll never more 
 
 These Town Hall stairs ! " 
 
 A maiden old, with features brown. 
 The balusters was cleaning down ; 
 And as the pilgrim raised his head, 
 Half frightened at the sight she said — 
 " Oh, drat these stairs." 
 
 Rough was the night, the storm without 
 - A torrent made in lead and spout, 
 And rattled 'gainst the window pane. 
 That none could hear the echo, vain — 
 " Where are the stau's ? " 
 
 At early morn, as duty-ward 
 The porters trod the pavement hard, 
 They heard a voice call from on high, 
 As if 'twere shouted from the sky — 
 - " Where are the stairs ? "
 
 59 
 
 There on the cold mosiac, lay 
 The old man bent, and worn, and gre}'. 
 He"d been locked in ; and as he grasped 
 An Alpenstock, he faintly gasped — 
 " These Town Hall stairs ! " 
 
 Ye who of Helicon have quaffed, 
 And studied till 3"Ou're nearly daft, 
 Is this the watchword of your craft 
 You'd shout along that spiral shaft — 
 '• Excelsior ? "' 
 
 Oh I what would Grundv say, or Lamb. 
 
 If without aid of 'bus or tram. 
 
 They'd thus to climb, their heads to cram ? 
 
 " All right, Excelsior, but d 
 
 These Town Hall stairs I " 
 
 The reading of these verses caused much merriment, and Mr. 
 Brierley sat down amid shouts of laughter and cheers. 
 
 " Mr. Alderman Lamb said he must confess that it required 
 one to be possessed of considerable nerve who rose to speak after 
 what they had just heard from the new councillor, &c., &c. 
 
 " The report was adopted by a large majority. 
 
 " When the council rose ;\Ir. Alderman Baker, slapping Mr. 
 Brierley on the shoulder, said — 'You've settled the question. No 
 ofher man in the council could have done it.' 
 
 " Thus, an uneducated weaver, almost fresh from the loom, 
 had to champion the cause of the learned societies of Manchester, 
 a service that has not yet been acknowledged. Mr. Brierley had 
 made his mark as a councillor.
 
 6o 
 
 EPILOGUE, 
 
 Delivered on the occasion of closing the Oldham Exhibition, 
 January ^tJi, 1S84. 
 
 NOW does the engine end its busy run, 
 Rake out its fires, and say its work is done. 
 No more its throbbings, scarcely heard or felt, 
 Shall send pulsations through each cord and belt- 
 But like a giant whose journey's at it's close, 
 Lays down its limbs, and seeks well-earned repose. 
 No more we'll listen to the throstle's song, — 
 Not the wild notes w^e hear when days are long. 
 But more like hum of bee when at its toil, 
 (I think my Muse requires a little oil.) 
 No more we'll watch the steady pace of mule, — 
 Not the queer animal from Balaam's school — 
 But from that stud erst vitalised by Watt, 
 And given shape and motion by a Piatt. 
 No more we'll see Niagara from a pump. 
 Nor feel old times renewed in " double bump," 
 No more the rattle of the busy loom 
 Shall ears assail, as 'twere the tongue of doom. 
 No more we'll watch with wondering regards 
 Grow line by line the sharp and bristling cards, —
 
 6i 
 
 I do not mean those square and painted things, 
 
 On which we see quaint forms of queens and kings, — 
 
 With which sometimes we're skinned to the last 
 "rap," 
 
 By joining in a friendly game at " nap " — 
 
 But cards to comb with, as we comb our hair, — • 
 
 Not as our wives do with a stool or chair. 
 
 No more we'll see how without wheels, or cranks, 
 
 They weave a worsted covering for our shanks ; 
 
 Nor feel as if some danger near might lurk, 
 
 By seeing the " devil " (printers') at his work. 
 
 No more we'll see the " masher " at the bar, 
 
 Ord'ring his B. and S., and a cigar. 
 
 Whilst " Hebe," with Skye terrier fringe or " bang," 
 
 Smiles as she listens to his pretty slang. 
 
 Gone are the visions, or shall soon depart. 
 
 Of those creations struck from the mould of art : — 
 
 The painted canvass, or the sculptured form, — 
 
 The peaceful landscape, and old ocean's storm. 
 
 To things that touch the soul, and charm the eye 
 
 We now must bid a lingering good-bye. 
 
 No, not to all, thanks to the "Rough-head's" pluck. — 
 
 (The envious might say 'twas only luck) — 
 
 Some things of beauty will remain to be 
 
 A j&y for aye — a life's eternity. 
 
 Who would have thought the time would ever come 
 
 When Art in Oldham would have found a home ? 
 
 Yet here she is, well housed, and clothed, and fed ; 
 
 To Industry allied, to Science wed. 
 
 But now for words I'm getting sorely pressed, — 
 
 So mote it he ! the Mayor will do the rest.
 
 62 
 
 JOHNNY OVER THE SALT SEA. 
 
 [Betty-o' ev-tli -lone'' s song in the " Layroch of LangleysideJ") 
 
 IT was down by yonder river side 
 Wliere cat-tails they do grow, 
 I met a pretty fair maid 
 
 With bosom white as snow, 
 I said, my pretty maiden fair, 
 
 My dearest love, said I, 
 Wilt thou be mine in sweet wedlock ? 
 Come answer me property. 
 
 She blushed and took from off her neck. 
 
 From off her neck she took, 
 A ribbon fair tied with a bow, 
 
 And then gave me a look. 
 
 She said, you see this ribbon fair. 
 
 This ribbon fair you see ; 
 Oh, I prize it more than silver or gold. 
 
 For my true-love gave it me.
 
 63 
 
 i\I_v Jolmny's gone o'er the salt sea 
 
 On hoard of a man-of-war, 
 And letters I get every month 
 
 From my true-liearted tar. 
 Don't tliink thai I would him deceive. 
 
 Who constant thus hath been ; 
 But I said, my dear, I'll soon settle that, 
 
 Your Johnny I have seen. 
 
 She fainted straight into my arms 
 
 At the mention of Johnny's name ; 
 Then said, oh, tell me, is he still. 
 
 Oh, IS he still the same ? 
 I said he'd married a black-a-moor. 
 
 All in East ludi-a ; 
 And he would never come to England more 
 
 Across the wide salt sea. 
 
 This maiden then the ribbon took 
 
 All by that cat-tailed river. 
 And tlirew as far as she could throw 
 
 The keepsake of her lover ; 
 She said, kind sir, your wife I'll be, 
 
 If 3'ou'll be true to me. 
 And I never will think of Johnny more, 
 
 All over the salt sea.
 
 64 
 
 LINES 
 
 Addressed by Sam Laycock to the "Failsworth 
 Gathering," March 29TH. 
 
 OLD friends of Ben Brier ley, I'm sure your are right 
 In promoting this praisworthy gathering to-night ; 
 And all thoughtful right-minded men will approve 
 Of the spirit displayed in the " labour of love ;" 
 So it seems that the country is wakening at last 
 To the errors our forefathers made in the past. 
 Namely, treating their bees as no better than drones, 
 And, when dead, raising monuments over their bones ; 
 They neglected the tune till the player was mute. 
 Then all they could do was to honour the flute. 
 Well, now, friends, I think I may venture to say 
 Than in matters like this we are wiser to-day ; 
 And, if we may judge from this gathering to-night. 
 The outlook for authors is getting more bright. 
 I feel proud of this meeting ; like good men and true. 
 You give honour to one to whom honour is due ; 
 For while London reared Dickens, and others as great. 
 It was Failsworth that reared the renowned Ab-o'th'-Yate. 
 It was here the weaver lad spent his young days. 
 And here as a man composed lus first lays ;
 
 65 
 
 And it seems only natural, and fitting;, that now, 
 
 When age and the deep lines of care mark his brow, 
 
 You should honour the bard with his silvery hairs, 
 
 And as far as you can do so — lighten his cares ; 
 
 And authors have cares, there is not the least doubt, 
 
 Yes, cares that the world can know little about. 
 
 For have you not read of " Wearisome toil," 
 
 In some attic, aloft, burning '• midnight oil," 
 
 And nothing on earth seems more certain or sure, 
 
 Tiian this well-known fact that " all poets are poor." 
 
 Well, who is to blame, then, for this state ot things — 
 
 The people who hear, or the singer who sings ? 
 
 Which needs the most effort ? let tins be the test, 
 
 And then common sense will decide all the rett. 
 
 But the feeling that seems to be current to day, 
 
 Is to give those who need it '' a lift on the way ;" 
 
 I honour Tom Nash, with his warm manly heart. 
 
 For taking so noble and active a part. 
 
 And to my mind it greatly enhances the deed. 
 
 When we take in account his political creed. 
 
 It shows that the bard is esteemed for his worth, 
 
 Irrespective of politics, favour or birth. 
 
 I should like to be with you to shov/ the regard 
 
 That I have for my genial and famed brother bard ; 
 
 But |his must not be, so I cannot do less 
 
 Than wish that your meeting may prove a success. 
 
 God bless "Ab-o'th'-Yate" in his basket and store, 
 
 And when he lands safe on Columbian's shore, 
 
 May he meet with kind friends, true in heart and in hand 
 
 As those he will leave in his own native land.
 
 66 
 
 JONE O' GRINFILT'S GHOST. 
 
 I 'RE sitting one neet in my owd two-armed chair, 
 Wi' m}' feet upo' th' fender — my nose cocked I'th' 
 air ; 
 
 AVhen I thowt I smelt summat like matches ablaze, 
 Then a hont cowd as ice coom an' felt at my face. 
 Thinks I — Am I wick ; 
 Or is this chap Owd Nick, 
 Comn a fotchin me deawn to his whoam. 
 
 Yo'r sure I're weel waken't an, gloppent wi' th' shock; 
 
 I groped o reawnd th' hearthstone, an" felt up at th' 
 clock ; 
 
 Peeped under th' couch-cheear, an'th' table i'th' nook ; 
 
 Felt abeawt th' cbimdy bottom, an' struck th' rack-an- 
 hook ; 
 
 But nowt could I feel 
 
 Ut wur owt like the di'el, 
 
 ^ Nor see what I couldno' mak eawt. 
 
 So I seete deawn agen an' kept lookin' o reawnd ; 
 But nowt could I see, an' could yer not a scawnd. 
 Till til' clock dinged eawt ten, an' then — eh, what a seat! 
 Ther summat crept past in a blaze o' blue leet. 
 
 I hutcht i' mi lioide. 
 
 An' could hardly aboide 
 To look wheere it seete itsel' deawn.
 
 6; 
 
 I said — " Mesther Sooty, if that's what yo'r co'ed, 
 What maks you come here, so far eawt o yo'r road ? 
 I'd ha' thowt ther moore pikin' i' Lunnon nor here, 
 For ther's lots o' fat sinners I'm towd liven theer." 
 Th' owd lad he ne'er stir'd, 
 An' he spoke not a word, 
 But kept sittin' an' starin' at me. 
 
 When he gleawert awhile wi' a look quite as keen 
 As the bore of a gimlet, he twinkled his een ; 
 An' his face looked so mich like a face ut I'd known, 
 Ut I couldno' help sheawtin' — "By gad, it's Owd Jone ! " 
 
 He said — " Dody Kicker, — 
 
 Heaw arta for liquor ? 
 It's dry wheere I come fro' theaw'rt sure. 
 
 *' I've chew'd coffin lids till my teeth are like saws, 
 
 An' gravestones are rayther too hard for my jaws ; 
 
 Hast getten owt better, if nobbut a snack ; 
 
 For digesshun's noane good when one's laid o' ther 
 back. 
 
 So bring out thy table, 
 
 And get what theaw'rt able, — 
 
 I'm wambly wi' trudgin' so far." 
 
 I said — " If that's thee, theaw'st ha' th' best I con 
 , bring ; 
 
 But times are so bad sin' we geet a new king ; 
 
 I've nowt nobbut way ther just drawn eaut o'th' well. 
 
 An' a cob o breawn jannock I'd saved for m\ser. 
 
 Theaw'rt welcome to feed on't, 
 
 If mayte theaw has need on't. 
 An' I'll whistle for th' next ut'll come."
 
 68 
 
 Owcl Jone shaked his noddle, and felt at his chin — 
 " Bring it out then " he said, " for I long to begin. 
 Dost no' think theaw con get me a drop o viaiit tae ; 
 For wayther's a bad thing for keepin' one's clay. 
 
 A drop o good toddy's 
 
 A comfort for bodies, 
 Whether livin' or laid into the ground." 
 
 "Just wait thee a minnit," I said, an' I'll goo 
 An' see if Owd Mall has a sope o' th' last brew ; 
 Put thy hont into th' cul>bart an' tak' what ther' is ; 
 If theaw's had nowt but coffins theaw'U donoan amiss.'' 
 
 So wi' til' jug eawt I salhes, 
 
 An' runs to Owd Mally's, 
 An' gets it brim full o' breawn ale. 
 
 When I geet back to th' heawse Jone wur wipin' his 
 Hps ; 
 
 He seemed to ihinV jauiioch wur better than cliips. 
 
 " Gie me howd o' that pitcher," he said, an' let's drink; 
 
 Yo've no' mich better oft' nor what wc are, I think. 
 
 O' th' jannock, to be sure, 
 
 I could do wi' some moore ; 
 But th' beef win o' gristle I'll swear." 
 
 ^\ i' that he swiped ih' ale up, and looked into th' pot. 
 
 Took his neetcap an' crutches, an' said he must trot ; 
 
 But what he used th' sticks for I never could tell, 
 
 For he dropt straight through th' floor an' — left uic by 
 mysel. 
 
 Then wonnerin' an' starin', 
 
 Thinks I, theaw'rt a quare un, 
 
 li beef thesLW could find where ther' noane.
 
 6g 
 
 I struck up a leet, for neaw th' heawse wur o' dark, 
 
 An' I skeawlt deavvn at th' floor, but I fund not a mark ; 
 
 When at the table I looked — tlieer wur th' liecls u' mi 
 shooii, 
 
 Ut I'd just stumpt wi' hobnails an' put upo' th" oon. 
 
 An' hea.w Jail nock an' leather 
 
 Ud mix up together, 
 
 Owd Jone happen knows afore neaw. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 A moral, I'm sure, yo' con see i' this sung ; 
 
 It may ha' bin taydious, it may ha' bin lung ; 
 
 But o' this ther's no deawt, that heaw hungry one feels, 
 
 There are others wur off if they"n tackle slioon heels ; 
 
 So let's give o'er sighin' 
 
 An' grumblin' an' cryin'. 
 An' try to do th' best ut we con.
 
 ro 
 
 BATHING. 
 
 (Not after Thomson.) 
 
 THE sea hove gently, frilled with tin}' waves, 
 That shimmered on the beach, or crept in 
 caves, — 
 
 As if, with infant breezes, raised to show 
 How liquid smiles o'er Ocean's face may flow. 
 
 And their soft kisses fell on tide-borne limbs — 
 Fair as the Oceanides of old ; 
 
 And favoured wavelets wantoned with the threads 
 Of unbound tresses — ravelled webs of gold, — 
 
 When Damon, idly strolling on the shore. 
 His hands within his pockets, turning o'er 
 The friendly coins, hears IMusidora's voice — 
 " Eh, Mary, do come in, — it is so noice !" 
 
 The youth turns round, beholds the straggling vans 
 
 Dipping their thirsty axles in the wave ; 
 
 And, by a green one, numbered "23," 
 
 A timid nymph her shivering form doth lave.
 
 It is his Musidora ; he had missed 
 Her from the pier an hour ago, but wist 
 Not that she'd laid aside her prudish ways, 
 In azure sack to court the vulgar gaze. 
 
 Her hair aoout her shoulders floateth free ; 
 (The bunch that held her hat sublimely poised 
 Upon her burthened head, in van is stored, — 
 'Twas bought in Manchester, and's highly prized). 
 
 And now she's gone, — the waves meet where she 
 stood : 
 
 '• Oh, that I were the sea, or some such flood !" 
 
 The youth exclaims. Again he hears the voice — 
 
 " Eh, Mary, do come in, — it is so noice !" 
 
 The two had come from Oldham, via trips 
 
 By speculative gentlemen got up, 
 
 To gather shells, ride " donks," and see the ships ; 
 
 Then home return, on prawns and shrimps to sup. 
 
 And there were other nymphs within the van, 
 Yclept IMary, Sally, and Selina Ann ; 
 The three were getting ready for a dash 
 Into the briny billow, there to — splash. 
 
 Anon a timid foot steps down the stair — 
 'Tis Mary's. Shrinking from a wave, whose hp 
 Hath kissed her ankle, she in fear exclaims — 
 " Eh, Bet, I wisli Tre back again wi' th' trip !"
 
 72 
 
 But Sal, less timid, ventures down behind. 
 And, with a push more vigorous than kind, 
 Poor Mary sends adrift ; then plunging in 
 Herself, a war of splashing doth begin. 
 
 Whilst Musidora, vulgarly called " Bet," 
 
 In swimming attitude cleaves wave '3'ond wave ; 
 
 Tracing a line of foam, as with one foot 
 
 (The other hopping) she the tide doth brave. 
 
 The battle rages near ; Selina Ann 
 Hath scarcely left the threshold of the van 
 Ere she is " ducked," and held a moment down, 
 Whilst Sally's head is yet dry at the crown. 
 
 Then booms a thundering shout along the shore — 
 '' Duck th' big un, lasses ! " meaning Sal the bold. 
 And Sal is seized, and made to kiss the sand 
 And promise quarter ere they loose their hold. 
 
 Now all go down ; the bubbling waves close o'er- 
 Then comes a whistle from the far-off shore ; — 
 The train is starting ; Damon, franctic tries 
 To stop it — vain attempt — yet on he flies. 
 
 The others scream and toss their arms on high ; 
 Their sack-encumbered limbs divide the spray, 
 Then to the privacy of " 23 " 
 The dripping mermaids mount the laddered way.
 
 73 
 
 The train is gone, and with it Damon too ; — 
 All, why to Musidora so untrue ? 
 And why leave Mary and Selina Ann 
 With Sal to quarrel in that cursed van ? 
 
 When rose the moon upon the tranquil beach — 
 (The sun had got his nightcap on, and lay 
 As if in cradled slumber) from a bank 
 Four weeping fair ones watched the closing day. 
 
 The night set in ; the midwatch came and went ; 
 The god of morn his golden iris bent 
 O'er eastern wave ; yet these four maidens slept 
 Upon the bank where they had watched and wept. 
 
 And now the tale is told in Oldham town. 
 
 How Musidora Damon's letters tore ; 
 
 And by next trip to " pool," or " port," went down. 
 
 And strewed the fragments on th' avenging shore. 

 
 74 
 
 C E L I A. 
 
 r 
 
 Colin. Where art thou, Celia, idol of ni}- heart ! 
 
 Thou lovely truant from my l)leatin,i( 
 fold? 
 Art thou a-hide-and-seeking in the grove, 
 Or gathering bilberries on the tangled 
 wold ? 
 
 [" Celia" who is more frequently called " Sally," and 
 who does not tend slieep, hears not lier Colix's invoca- 
 tion ; but leaning against the posts of the kitchen-door, 
 is listening to the commonplace wooing of a less poetic 
 rival. This youtli, whom vulgar people call " Joe o' 
 Juddie's," but whom poets would perhaps have named 
 " Celadon," is plying his importunities with commend- 
 able zeal ; and the heart of the maiden being but a 
 zi/oman's, and held to be as unimpressible as stone, in- 
 clineth her ear to listen. But she has not yielded as 
 yet ; and Colin's voice is again making the woods 
 musical with plaintive invocation ]
 
 75 
 
 Colin. Vainly, my Celia, have I searched each 
 bower 
 
 Where oft in happier moments thou hast 
 been ; 
 
 As fruitlessly have I the moorland swept ; 
 
 Thou wert not there, nor elsewhere to be 
 seen. 
 
 Celadon (to Celia). — Well, if theau's made up thy 
 mind for t' ha' yon po'try-writing leatheryead, I'll shift 
 my shanks eaut o' this cote. But before I goo let me 
 tell thee ut I've brass i' th' bank. 
 
 Celia. — So has Robin (uicauiug Colin). 
 
 Celadon, — I've won a pig in a raffle, an' when it's 
 ready for killin' I'se sell it, an' buy a keaw. 
 
 Celia. — Robin has a keaw o ready an' two shares in 
 a buildin' club. 
 
 [Celadon is silent, and Colin resumes the duties of 
 poetical bellman.] 
 
 Colin. The orb of light is not more true to earth ; 
 
 The seasons not more constant in their 
 run ; 
 
 The magnet looks not with less wavering 
 point 
 
 Polewards, than I to thee, mjMovely one I 
 
 Celadon {making anotlicr spurt). — I'll buy thee a new 
 bonnet if theau'll give yond mon up, an' tee thysel to me. 
 
 Celia. — My mother's promised me one against th' 
 wakes.
 
 76 
 
 Celadon. — A new frock, then, 
 
 Celia. — I've one i' makkin' neaw. 
 
 [Celadon is again at Iiis whit's end for an accept- 
 able " votive offering," and applies himself to a 
 primitive mode of hair-dressing to help him over 
 the difficulty. The sylvan-crier still prosecutes 
 his inquiries.] 
 
 Colin. Then say, my Cell\, why from me dost hide ? 
 
 Why rack thy Colin's breast with doubt 
 and pain ? 
 
 Is it for Celadon thy heart's reserved ? 
 
 Say, faithless maiden, have I loved in 
 vain ? 
 
 Celadon [ivho begins to suspect he has been going on the 
 ■wrong tack, strikes out a new cou/se). — -Am I too quiet for 
 thee, as theau howds out so lung ? Becose, if I am, I 
 con be a bit different. I con leather Bob any day if it 
 comes to a tussle. Look at that, neaw. (Raises a 
 mountain of muscle on his right arm). Ther's some 
 peawer theere. I con throw two fifty-sixes o'er my 
 yead at once. 
 
 Cell\. — Theau conno lift me up wi' one arm. 
 
 Celadon. — Connot I ? We'n see whether I con or 
 not. (Takes hold of Cella by the waist, and raises her from 
 her feet. Cella utters a faint scream.) 
 
 Colin. The hour is past when I was wont to see 
 
 Thy sylph -like form appear beyond the 
 gate ;
 
 77 
 
 The poultry roostward pick their noiseless 
 
 way, 
 
 And still thou art not here. Oh, why so 
 late ? 
 
 Ah, now I see what's kept thee from my 
 arms ! 
 
 That viper, Celadon, has stopt the way. 
 
 Now farewell. Muse ! — Come Mars with 
 vengeful steel. 
 
 And help my triumph in the coming fray ! 
 
 [Strangely enough, Celavon, whilst in tlic act of testing 
 the weight of his inamorata, somehoii) manages to bring the 
 lip of his nose into close proximity with that of Celia's. 
 They pass each other ; retnrn ; pass and return again ; a 
 smacking sound folloiijing, which evidently is only too delightful 
 not to repeat. This iveighiiig operation seals the fate of the 
 poetic suitor, ivho arriva on the scene fust as his rival is in the 
 act of trying the strength of his left arm. Their clogs meet ; 
 hut the maiden decides in favour of Celadon ; and Colin 
 takes to a new mistress, and a more successful method of wooing. \ 
 
 For " steel " read " clogs."
 
 78 
 
 JOHNXY AN' PEGGY. 
 
 " TT'S two score year an' ten, owd lass, 
 
 -L Sin' fust I coorted thee ; 
 Yo' lived that time at Katty Green, 
 
 At top o' Bowman's Lea. 
 
 " I'd seen thee trip through Coppie \Vood ; 
 
 I'd met thee at the steel ; 
 But when I tried to spake to thee, 
 
 Heaw quare my heart did feel ! 
 
 " A printed bedgeawn then theau wore, — 
 
 A hailstorm pattern co'ed, 
 Wi' linsey skirt, an' apron white. 
 
 An" bonnet deep an' broad. 
 
 " I used to think thy e'en wur like 
 
 Two diamonds in a well. 
 To get at which, an' share their leet, 
 
 I'd tumble in mysel'. 
 
 " For weeks an' months I hung abeaut, 
 
 An' thro yo'r window peeped ; 
 An' soiked, an' longed, an' fretted sore, 
 
 Ikit word I never cheeped-
 
 ■" Till once when primed wi' fettled ale 
 
 I'd had at th' owd Blue Bo, 
 I mustered pluck for t' knock at tli' dur, 
 
 An shout thy name an' o. 
 
 " My heart did pant, my yure stood up, 
 
 But ne'er a foot I yerd, 
 Till th' window rickled up aboon, 
 
 An' th' chamber curtains stirred. 
 
 •" Then summat coome — plash on my yeacl, — 
 (It war th' neet o' th' weshin-da}'). 
 
 An' I fund I 're covered o'er wi' suds, 
 As white as blossomed spray. 
 
 •" W'i' pluck quite cooled, I crept to'ard whoam. 
 
 But vowed within mysel', 
 If e'er I geet a chance to do't, 
 
 I'd pick thee into th' well 
 
 ■" My mother sauced me — wsll hoo mit — 
 
 An' said, ' Th' dules i'th' men ! 
 I sarved thy feyther wur than that, 
 
 But still he coome again. 
 
 " ' I'stead o' carry in' on that wa}', 
 
 An' snurchin' till theau'rt blynt. 
 Go thee once moore an' punce at th' dur. 
 
 An' whistle while theau's w)-nt. 
 
 " ' An' if hoo doesno' come for that, 
 
 There's lots on Bowman's Lea 
 As farrantly an' good as hoo, 
 
 Ut would be preawd o' thee.'
 
 8o 
 
 " I mustered up my pluck once more — 
 
 This time beaut fettled ale — 
 An' swung my clogs to Katty Green, 
 
 An' jumped yo'r garden rail. 
 
 " Crash int' a fayiierry tree I leet, 
 
 Ut under th' window grew, 
 An' th' noise it made thy shuttle stopt, 
 
 An' eaut thy candle blew. 
 
 " Then someb'dy come — 'twur thee, owd lass !- 
 
 I knew by th' slioinin' strip 
 O' leet ut shot deawn th' garden fowt ; 
 
 An' my heart wur at my lip. 
 
 " 'Art hurt ?' theau axt. ' I am,' I said ; 
 
 ' But th' pain I have 's inside ; 
 No fayberry tree nor garden rail 
 
 Had caused it if they'd tried. 
 
 " ' It's thy two een lian shot me through, 
 
 Wi' bullets made o' iiame ; 
 An' if I dee, they'n say abeaut 
 
 There's nobbut thee to l)lame.' 
 
 " ' I shouldno' like t' l)e hanged,' theau said. 
 
 An' raised me to my feet ; 
 ' So if a word '11 cure thy pain, 
 
 I'll give it thee to-neet.' 
 
 " ' Theau said that word ; "twur one as sweet 
 
 As ever music trilled ; 
 To yer it hauve as sweet again 
 
 I'd ten times o'er be killed.
 
 Sr 
 
 " We made it up that neet, owd lass 
 An' pledged eanr love i'th poorch ; 
 
 An' when that tree bore fruit again 
 We'd said ' / will '—at th' church. ' 
 
 ' Twas on their fiftieth wedding-day 
 
 That thus old Johnny spoke ; 
 Nor e'er a pair on Bowman's Lea 
 
 Had borne so hght a yoke. 
 
 Their cliildren, four, had wed away, 
 
 And left tiie couple lone, 
 Save with the dear companionship 
 
 Of memories sweetly known. 
 
 That day came round again, as 'twill 
 
 When time flies quickly o'er, 
 And found old Johnny and his wife 
 
 Discoursing as before. 
 
 " By th' mon ! " said he, and up he sprang,. 
 
 " I feel as young as then ! 
 Let's fancy we'n ne'er lived this time, 
 
 An' cooart it o'er again. 
 
 " ni goo eautside, an' knock at th' dur, 
 
 An' whistle — 'tisno' late — 
 An' 'stead o' breakin' fayberry trees, 
 
 I'll rickle th' garden gate. 
 
 " Then theau mun come, an' say to me 
 
 That word theau said before, 
 An' seeal eaur love i'th' poorch, as then, 
 
 Wi' hearty smacks a score."
 
 82 
 
 *' Well, well," said peggy, " go thee eaut, 
 
 An' play thy part as t' con ; 
 An' I'll play mine as if I'd ne'er 
 
 Yet spokken to a mon." 
 
 Agreed, — they each their several parts 
 
 Proceeded to fulfil ; 
 The old man shooked the garden gate. 
 
 And whistled loud and shrill. 
 
 Up went the window overhead, 
 
 The curtains fluttered white. 
 Then down on Johnny's hatless pate 
 
 A shower-bath did alight. 
 
 *' 'Od sink thee, Peg !" the old man cried, 
 
 " I bargained noane for that, 
 Theau's weet me through ; an' did ta know 
 
 Pre here witheaut my hat ?" 
 
 " Theau's played thy part, an' Pve played mine," 
 Said Peggy from her room ; 
 
 *■' fvc nohhut sarvcd tliec th' same to-ncct 
 As I did til fust ncct tlicaii cooiiie."
 
 S3 
 A COT 0' YOR OWN. 
 
 MUSIC BY JAS. BATCHELDER. 
 
 (From '^ Begiiuiiiig the World.") 
 
 C^OME, lads, lend yo'r ears, an' I'll sing you a song 
 •^ That isno' o' battle an' strife, 
 But peace an' good will between mon an' his kind, — 
 
 A bond between husband an' wife. 
 It's be yo'r own mester an' landlord beside, 
 
 Feight shy o' bumbailiff an' dun ; 
 Plant yo'r vine an' yo"r figtree afore it's too late. 
 An' live in a cot o' yo'r own. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then live for to-morn, lads, an' dunno be foos, 
 But wortch an' lay by while yo' con ; 
 While yo'r lithsome an' limber 
 Pile up bricks an' timber. 
 An' live in a cot o' yo'r own. 
 
 A mon ut's a shop-book '11 never get on, 
 
 If he's credit he pays for't, that's sure ; 
 Let him pay ready brass, spend no moore tlian he gets, 
 
 An' he'll never be hampered nor poor. 
 A rent-day's a care-day as oft as it comes, 
 
 When a londlord's as hard as a stone ; 
 Put this weekly vexation ne'er troubles the heart 
 
 Of a mon that's a cot of his own. 
 
 Then live for to-morn, &c.
 
 84 
 
 Ther's one o' my neighbours, how wealthy he's grown 
 
 \\'i' lendin', and screwin', an' jobs ; 
 But if nobody'd borrowed, an' paid double back, 
 
 How mich better for other folk's fobs ! 
 
 What yo' pay'n through yo'r nose i' both shopscores 
 an' rent, 
 
 An' interest to popshop an' "loan," 
 
 Would soon lay th' foundations o' prosperous days, 
 
 An' build yo' a cot o' yo'r own. 
 
 Then live for to-morn, &c. 
 
 Yo' conno raise hay if yo' sown nowt but wynt ; 
 
 Loud talkin' '11 gather no corn ; 
 But delve, plough, an' harrow, an' scatter good seed,. 
 
 An' yo'n fill both yo'r meal-poke an' churn. 
 Then here's to a mon ut'll strive for tlie best, 
 
 And lay up for owd age Avhile he con. 
 An' ut ne'er shuts his dur on a shelterless friend, 
 
 While he lives in a cot o' his own. 
 
 Then live for to-morn, &:c.
 
 85 
 
 GO TAK' THE RAGGED CHILDER 
 AN' FLIT. 
 
 THE REVERSE SIDE OF THE PICTURE TO "COME WHOAM 
 TO THI CHILDREN AN' ME." 
 
 HAS eaur Jammy been here to-neet ? 
 O theau'rt thccv, theau great dhrunken 
 slotcti ! 
 
 It's sthrange if aw nowt elze to do 
 Bo ha' thee every bed-time to fotch. 
 
 Come whoam ; or aw'll goo an' go t' bed, 
 An' leeov thee t' sleep where theau art ; 
 
 For theau'rt here every neet o' thi hfe, 
 
 As soon's theau gets th' hoss eaut o'th' cart. 
 
 What is ther' for th' supper ? Ther's nowt ! 
 
 Beaut theau tak's a red herrin' fro' Sol's. 
 Heaw con t' think aw con get thi owt good, 
 
 When theau leeovs me nowt bo th' bare walls ? 
 If theau'd gie me thi wage as theau owt, 
 
 Aw could do summat farrantly then ; 
 Bo aw getten a thowt i' mi yed 
 
 We mun ne'er ha' nowt gradel}^ ogen.
 
 86 
 
 Have aw browt thi top-cwot ? Go thi look ! 
 
 Aw'd ha' browt thi th' strct-jachet as soon ; 
 Theau knows aw've ha' t' qui it up th' speaiit, 
 
 For money to pay for thi shoon. 
 Ther's rent-chap just bin, an' he swears 
 
 He can never catch nob'dy a-whoam i 
 He's bin four or five times to-day, 
 
 Bo aw'r cant, an' aw couldna weel come. 
 
 Nawe ; I ha'na bin dhrinkin' misel ; 
 Aw've ne'er tastut " tiger " to-day ; 
 
 Bo aw bin o'er to Plattin' to yo'r Nan's, 
 An' hoo would mak' mi t' stop to mi tae. 
 
 If we han had a toothful o' rum, 
 
 Hoo paid for 't, an' that's nowt to thee ; 
 
 If it's done me some good, tlicc ne'er fret- 
 Bo theau never thinks nowt about me. 
 
 What's made thee bring th' childher 3'on toys ? 
 
 Theau't likker t' ha' browt thi brass whoam ; 
 For Sal has poo'd th' yead off her doll, 
 
 An' Dick's sent his clog through his dhrum ; 
 An' then ther's yon fal-dher.dal cap, 
 
 Stick't full o' pink ribbons, theau's browt ; 
 If theau'd browt mi two black uns i'th' stid, 
 
 Theau'd ha' done summat like as theau owt. 
 
 Will t' come whoam ? Then tarry wheer t' art 
 For aw'm cussed if aw ax thee ogen ; 
 
 Eh ! this world 'ud soon be at an eend 
 If wimmen wur owt like yo' men.
 
 87 
 
 Nawe ! aw'll see thi befar 'fore aw'll sup, 
 Aw'd reyther throw th' pot at thi yead ; 
 
 An aw've twenty good minds for to do't, 
 If it's nobbut for what theau's just sed. 
 
 Will t' hit mi ? Ay, do, if theau dar ! 
 
 An' aw'll just ha' thi walkt eaut o'th' dur ; 
 Theau thinks, 'cose tlieau plaguet t'other ivife, 
 
 Theau'll ha me at th' same rate as theau'd her 
 Bo aw'll show thi a sperrit, mi lad, 
 
 'At'll noa tak' a blow for a buss ; 
 An' if t' tries thi owd capers wi' me, 
 
 As bad as tlieau does aw'll do wus. 
 
 So wind up thi lip an' chew that, 
 
 An' tarry o neet if theau will ; 
 If they'n tak thi, an' keep thi, it's reet, 
 
 For aw'm blest if aw've not had mi fill. 
 If theaurt toyart o' livm wi' me, — 
 
 Go, tak' thi ragged childher an' flit. 
 For if f bycts me to th' seet o' iiiyseV , 
 
 Theau'll ne'er iiiah' mi t' entitle a bit.
 
 88 
 
 BILL BABBY'S FEOLIC. 
 
 A FAILSWORTH STORY OF PETERLOO, 
 
 BILL Babby went to Peterloo, 
 By patriotism or fancy led ; 
 But what's more likely, love of fun, 
 Or ought that tumbled int' his 3'ead, 
 
 He'd seen that morn a mug o' stew, 
 
 Just flakin' o'er wi' fat i'th' oon, 
 Wi' marjoram, an' other yarbs, 
 
 To mak it sweet — rare wark for th' spoon. 
 
 Ther howsome " slip.throat "' hung i' rags, 
 An' sweet oatcakes, just nicel}- browned 
 
 I'th' front o'th' fire — made clogs feel leet — 
 They bounced like corks when touchin' th' ground. 
 
 Bill geet a carter's dose o' this. 
 
 Then of he went to Peterloo ; 
 He'd fotch the dule fro' eaut his den, 
 
 When backed wi' some three pints o' stew.
 
 89 
 
 So grand a day he had not seen — 
 
 So mony lasses donned i' white ! 
 Wi' banners wavin — what a sect ! — 
 
 To mak his lieart jump wi' dehght. 
 
 But th' fun were o'er ere it began — 
 
 Bill knew, by th'sound, ther summat wrong ; 
 
 But what it wur he could no' tell 
 
 That moved an' swelled that mighty throng. 
 
 He thowt tw'ur time t' be leeavin th' row 
 To those ut like't to feight it eaut, 
 
 But when he tried to stir — by th' mass ! 
 He fund no road to get abeaut. 
 
 At last he spied a narrow gate 
 
 That led to streets unknown before ; 
 
 An' feeling safe fro' cut-throat harm, 
 
 He whistled, sang, an' sometimes swore. 
 
 Whene'er he yerd the sound o' strife 
 Come nearer, he backed int' his hole, 
 
 Where he stood peepin' like a rat. 
 But venture out ! — not for his soul. 
 
 There coome a wind-fall straight fro' th' clouds, 
 A new French horn, o' glittering brass, 
 
 Lay like a tempting bit o' gowd. 
 Or honest smile fro' wmsome lass. 
 
 Bill blew a blast on that theere horn 
 That sounded like the crack o' doom. 
 
 Or jackass wi' its tail teed down, 
 Or wayver gruntin' at his loom.
 
 go 
 
 Just then a troop o' horsemen rode 
 
 Reet past wheere Bill had pitched his tent. 
 
 Or rayther wheere he'd crommed his rags — 
 Tiien th' second blast the welkin rent. 
 
 The horsemen reeled — the horses' hoofs 
 Struck fire as back the heroes rode ; 
 
 Bill blew an' blew till th' troopers swore 
 They'rn no far off th' dule's abode. 
 
 Soon th' street wur cleared, then out Bill crept. 
 An' fund he'd Newton Lone t' hissel ; 
 
 An', when he'd seeted th' " pow," he said 
 T'wur th' fust time e'er he'd bin i' h 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Whene'er yor on a frolic bent, 
 Don't go to scenes like Peterloo ; 
 
 Nor blow a horn i' th' d I's band 
 
 Unless yor poke's well lined wi' stc 
 
 w. 
 
 /^.
 
 91 
 
 THE GAEDENER AND HIS FLOWERS. 
 
 WHY do I dwell alone, you ask, 
 With ne'er a soul my lot to share ? 
 These children have such claims on me 
 That I have little love to spare. 
 
 My children ? Yes, I mean my flowers ; 
 
 They prattle to me just like bairns, 
 They speak a language of their own. 
 
 Which only a loving parent learns. 
 
 They're at their morning prayers now ; 
 
 You'll see them fold their tiny hands. 
 To lisp their orisons like babes, 
 
 Obedient to God's commands. 
 
 You'll see them look at me, and smile, 
 As 'tis their wont when praj'ers are said ; 
 
 They're not like children of the poor, 
 Who have to earn their daily bread. 
 
 They toil not, neither do they spin, 
 
 When on the Mount, our Saviour said. 
 
 Yet Solomon, with all his pride, 
 Was not like one of these arrayed.
 
 92 
 
 They give me no anxieties 
 
 About their liats, and shoes, and socks ; 
 Nor ought they wear. They're quite content 
 
 To cloth their hml:)s witli robes or frocks. 
 
 From these, the meek-eyed monitors, 
 Our maidens might a lesson take ; 
 
 They show no airs, put on no " side," 
 As if God's work they would unmake. 
 
 They're quite contented with their lot, 
 Nor care if riches came in showers ; 
 
 If they bedeck the paths of queens. 
 
 They won't forget they're only flowers. 
 
 It grieves me when they'i'e short of rain, 
 With not a drop to wet their lips ; 
 
 But, oh, how thankful each one seems, 
 When dew, like liquid gems, it sips. 
 
 I'm fretful only when one dies. 
 
 To see it droop its tiny head. 
 And smile a farewell to the sun ; 
 
 Ah, then I know the flower is dead !
 
 93 
 
 THOU'RT LONELY, MY JAMMIE. 
 
 rpHOU'RT lonely, my Jammie, art ill, or i' love ? 
 -■- Thou goes mopsin, an' sighin' about ; 
 An' thy clooas don't fit thee as weel as they did — 
 
 Thou'rt like a poor leet goin' out. 
 Han they vexed thee, or what maks thy lip hang so low ? 
 
 Or hast' lost o thy marbles again ? 
 
 But they sigh noane o'er marbles, nor fret when they're 
 lost— ' 
 
 Thou'rt i' love ; that to me is quite plain. 
 
 Thou'rt quick goin' out, but thou'rt slow momin' in, 
 
 An' thy clogs seem too big for thy feet ; 
 
 They're too heavy to trail when thou'rt gooin' t' thy 
 wark, 
 
 But leetsome an' limber at neet. 
 
 An' thy nose aulus points to'ard Owd Johnny Brookes'' 
 farm. 
 
 As if pigeons wur flyin' o'er th' roof; 
 
 But I think Johnny's lass has moore likins to thee, 
 
 At neet, when hoo's trippin deawn th' cloof. 
 
 Thou'rt moane like thy feyther when he coome to me, 
 
 He did no' stond starin' at nowt, 
 
 He'd ha' stood at th' heause-end, an' ha' whistled an'' 
 sung. 
 
 Till thy gronfeyther'd ha' punsed him deawn th' fowt. 
 Then ha' shown up th' neet after as brazent as brass, 
 
 An' mto eaur heause chuckt his hat, 
 Neaw, Jammie, iff wants to get th' heart of a lass, 
 
 Show some pluck, an' hoo'll like thee for that.
 
 94 
 
 Neaw go thy ways off, lad, an' come noane again, 
 
 Till \vi' Jennie theau's made it o reet. 
 I know ut th' lass likes thee, but connot for shame 
 
 To ax thee t' walk eaut of a neet. 
 Owd Johnnie '11 no' like it when he gets to know ; 
 
 He thinks daisies an' mayfleawers o' Jane. 
 He'll grumble an' swear, but he'll hardly say " No," 
 
 When he comes to his senses again. 
 
 Jammie's off like a greyhound ut's just seen a hare, 
 
 An' w^hat time he'll come back nob'dy knows. 
 If he's gone i' good yearnest I dunno' mich care. 
 
 Lest owd Jolmnie an' he come to blows. 
 Eh, this coortin's rough wark, but I'd rayther 'twur so, 
 
 Than this maklvin th' heause nice for him t' come, 
 There's honester sweethearts stond whistlin' at th' dur, 
 
 Than are welcomed as if they'rn awhoam. 
 
 It's reet ! There's eaur Jammie, I know by his foot ; 
 
 Catch a mother not knowin' by th' seaund. 
 An' he's managed his job ; summat towd me he'd dot't, 
 
 An' we're gladsome an' happy o reaund. 
 Come, Jammie, an' buss thy owd mother i'tli' nook, 
 
 There's nowt like a good, honest face ; 
 I knew if theau gan th' lass a fair lovin' look, 
 
 In her heart, lad, hoo'd find thee a place. 
 
 ^f^ 
 
 y^cScir-
 
 95 
 LITTLE ANNIE'S BIRDS. 
 
 A LESSON OF KINDNESS. 
 
 THE snow lay on tlie gronnd, and made 
 A Druid of each oak, 
 When Annie stepped from the kitchen door 
 To feed her feathered folk. 
 
 They flew in circlets round, and perched 
 
 In chattering groups about ; 
 Some fanned the snow froui clothes-line stumps, 
 
 And others shared a spout. 
 
 Then down they came in quick descent, 
 
 Soon as the crumbs w-ere spread ; 
 And Annie's glee shone out in smiles 
 
 At each waggling tail and head. 
 
 She knows which are the baby birds^ 
 They are so wild at first, and shy ; 
 
 But as they grow they get more bold. 
 And push their elders by. 
 
 ■" 'Tis naughty of them," she admits, 
 
 " And selfish, too," she says ; 
 •" But who can blame them for it, when 
 
 So human are their ways ? " 
 
 She loved to see upon the snow 
 
 The prints of tiny feet. 
 Like patterns traced on summer dews, 
 
 Where fairies nightly meet.
 
 g6 
 
 " You won't come when the snow is gone. 
 And summer brings you food, 
 
 To pick the seeds, and flowers, and fruity 
 To feed 3'our little brood ? " 
 
 Thus Annie spoke, and round there went 
 A twittering that said " No ;" 
 
 And Annie gave her word that she 
 Would feed them during snow 
 
 The pledge was kept ; each summer time,. 
 
 When gardens suffered most, 
 Of Annie's little crop of peas 
 
 Not one was to her lost. 
 
 The birds would come and sing for her. 
 
 Or chatter from each tree. 
 But ne'er descend to garden bed. 
 
 Or with the fruit make free. 
 
 Thus kindness an immunit\' 
 
 From pilf'ring had secured, 
 And neighbours wondered at the cause,. 
 
 Whilst they such thefts endured. 
 
 Ah me ! my friends, when yon are bent 
 
 On strife-begetting words. 
 Take council, and a lesson learn 
 
 From Annie and her birds.
 
 97 
 
 THE CAMBEIAN'S WELCOME TO 
 THE QUEEN, 
 
 On Her Majesty's Visit to North Wales, 
 August, 1889. 
 
 ~1 TAIL, chief of England's royal race ! 
 -■ — L The sons of Cambria welcome tliee ; 
 But not with conquered spirit bowed, 
 Nor hearts bereft of chivalry. 
 
 The hands that once in mailed might, 
 The foeman seized with deadly grasp. 
 
 And wielded battle-axe and sword. 
 Now folded are in friendly clasp. 
 
 Dead are the feuds of bygone years ; 
 
 And buried 'neath embattled towers ; 
 And where the blood of Kings hath flowed, 
 
 Is now bedight witii Peace's flowers. 
 
 Thou'rt welcome to this glorious land, 
 
 Where for their homes the Cymri fought ; 
 
 And love of freedom nerved the arm 
 
 That erst great deeds of valour wrought. 
 
 Who would not fight for land so fair. 
 
 Each mountain, stream, and forest green, 
 
 Where Nature in her grandeur sits — 
 A crownless — not a throneless Queen ? 
 
 G
 
 98 
 
 Each mountain is a regal tlirone ; 
 
 Each stream a harp whose echoes raise 
 The tones that thrill the Cambrian's breast 
 
 With memories of warlike days. 
 
 But rings not now the clarion's note, 
 That summoned to the field of strife, 
 
 When Celt and Saxon met in fray, 
 And gave to slaughter life for life. 
 
 Thou hear'st the roll of other sounds. 
 
 The hymn of praise bestowed on thee, 
 Bv children of thine ancient foes, 
 
 And tuned to " bardic " minstrelsy ; 
 
 The strange, weird music of the past. 
 That fills us with religious awe. 
 
 And bends the knee to worship forms 
 Whereon is writ Creation's law. 
 
 We pray thee not forget this day, 
 When homed within thy Saxon hall ; 
 
 But think what love thy presence wakes, 
 When patriotism and duty call. 
 
 Visiting at Llangollen, 
 
 August 26th, 1889.
 
 99 
 
 TO HENRY IRVING, ESQ., 
 
 PRESIDENT OF "THE ARTS CLUB," MANCHESTER. 
 
 "FjlRIEND Irving, let me shake thy neive, 
 -■- If but in spirit. I would weave 
 A song to thee ; but that I'll leave 
 
 To abler pens, — 
 But not more honest, I believe, 
 
 Than poor old Ben's. 
 
 Thou hast essayed the highest rung 
 
 Of Fame's steep ladder. Pen and tongue 
 
 Have each tiiy well-earned praises suni 
 
 In tuneful strain 
 And e'en thy pagans have been rung 
 
 Across the mam. 
 
 'g 
 
 Thou'lt know me ? The old " Titan Club," 
 
 With name Shakespearian •■ did me dub. 
 
 It was not " Hamlet," — " There's the rub," — 
 
 But now I've got em, — 
 May every Thespian set his tub 
 
 On its own " Bottom ! " 
 
 *Every member of the Titan Club had to assume the name of one 
 of Shakespear's characters. The writer's name was " Bottom," 
 the Weaver.
 
 lOO 
 
 I trust that on Life's busy stage 
 
 I've played a part — from youth to age ; 
 
 Nor shrank from ought that did engage 
 
 My humble wits ; 
 But eyed with fear the critic's page, 
 
 And where he sits. 
 
 I've played at times in many parts ; 
 
 But never dealt in broken hearts, 
 
 Nor meddled much with Cupid's darts, — 
 
 (I've shot a true one.) 
 When from his line a fool departs. 
 
 He's something t' rue on. 
 
 I've done my shout among the rabble, 
 And easy " lengths " have dared to babble ; 
 I've played a " king," but failed grab all 
 
 His royal treasure. 
 In poetry I've dared to dabble, 
 
 Just for my pleasure. 
 
 How many messages I've borne 
 
 To dukes and lords and braved their scorn ! — 
 
 Which messages were often torn, 
 
 Or trod to dust. 
 Because the vintner said he'd sworn 
 
 No further trust. 
 
 As " Seacoal " I got taunts and blows, 
 Because the pimple on my nose 
 (Quite big enough for bud of rose) 
 
 Had made me squint. 
 George Sheffield put on't all the glows 
 
 Of " Bardolph's " tint.
 
 lOI 
 
 Melpomene, the peevish slut, 
 
 Persuaded me I need but strut 
 
 And shout " The time ?i'/// come !" to put 
 
 Cash in thy purse, 
 But found by practising I got 
 
 From bad to worse. 
 
 Now I'm a long way past my noon. 
 And in the "slippered pantaloon," 
 The last age I shall be in soon, 
 
 Whate'er 'twill bring 
 Sans eyes ; sans teeth (fed with a spoon) ; 
 
 Sans everything 
 
 >g-
 
 I02 
 
 THE FAIR DRUMMER BOY. 
 
 I 
 
 'M off to the wars, love, to fight for Old England ; 
 Oh weep not, dear Mary, that now we must part ; 
 Though torn from thy presence to cross the wide billow, 
 Thine image shall leave not this fond loving heart. " 
 
 Thus spoke a brave guardsman, his foot on the gangway ; 
 
 The sails of the transport unfurled to the wind. 
 It was not faint heart wrung the sigh from his bosom ; 
 
 But leaving his Albion and Mary behind. 
 
 Up went the anchor, away sped each vessel 
 
 That bore a brave army to Spain's rocky coast ; 
 
 And soon in the smoke and the tumult of battle. 
 The image of love to our hero was lost 
 
 One night, as he lay by the camp-fire reposing, 
 A sweet, gentle voice whispered thus in his ear : 
 
 " Oh let not the sigh break thy wound-soothing slumber, 
 But rest, dearest rest, for thy Mary is near."
 
 103 
 
 He starts ! Hark ! the trumpet to battle is calling ; 
 
 The drum rolls its thunder ; the sword flashes bare ; 
 Up, up, ye brave guardsmen, the eagle is screeching. 
 
 And flapping its wings in the dull morning air ! 
 
 The sun gazed once more on that field red with carnage; 
 
 The dead and the dying lay thick on the ground ; 
 When a dnimmcv hoy knelt by a wounded young guards- 
 man, 
 
 And whisper'd of love while he bound up the wound. 
 
 " Who art thou, my youngster, that com'st with such 
 tidings, 
 
 To cheer me in sorrow ? '" the soldier he cried ; 
 But the boy answer'd not, for a stray shot came flying. 
 
 And Mary fell dead by her true lover's side. 
 
 ^■5- #---'.'
 
 I04 
 
 
 WHOAM-BRE WED. 
 
 (F/'OW '' Irkdah-;' &c.) 
 
 THER'S nowt i' this wo'Id like my own chimdy nook, 
 When my cheear up to th' fire I've poo'd ; 
 When th' wife has just rocked tli' little babby to sleep, 
 An' fotched me a mug o' whoam-brewed. 
 
 Hoo smiles, does th' owd dame, as if nobbut just wed, 
 When her caps an' her napkins hoo's blued. 
 
 Then warms up her face wi' a blink o' th' owd leet 
 Ut shines in a mug o' whoam-brewed. 
 
 It's as breet as a glent o' eaur Maytime o' life, 
 
 Or as ha via' owd pleasures renewed. 
 Is the sunleet ut fo's reaund my hearthstone at neet. 
 
 When seen through a sheawer o' whoam-brewed. 
 
 My heause is my castle has often bin sung. 
 Where no king, duke, or lord dar' intrude ; 
 
 But it needs no hard feightin to keep eaut a foe 
 When I truce wi' a mug o' whoam-brewed.
 
 I05 
 
 Care once coome a-neighbourin', an' pottert at th' dur 
 An' his nose into th' keyhole he screwed ; 
 
 But he soon scampered back to his fe3'ther, the dule, 
 When he smelt I'd a mug o' whoam-brewed. 
 
 When I'm thinkin' what toilin' an' frabbin' ther' needs 
 Through this wo'ld to get decently poo'd, 
 
 It melts into pastime, does th' hardest o' wark, 
 When it's helped wi' a mug o' whoam-brewed. 
 
 It'll help us to fettle both th' nation an' th' laws, 
 
 An' to so'der up mony a feud ; 
 An' if th' wo'ld has gone wrang, we con reet it again 
 
 By th' power of a mug o' whoam-brewed. 
 
 Then come to my elbow, thou primest o' drinks, 
 
 Wi' sweetest o' pleasures endued ; 
 The joUiest neighbour to jog wi' through life 
 
 Is a full peauchin mug o' whoam-brewed.
 
 io6 
 
 TH' OWD TIN KETTLE. 
 
 I 
 
 'IM a merry little kettle, 
 
 For I sing when I'm i' fettle ; 
 
 Besides that, I can tell a good tale. 
 I spit, and I sputter, 
 Like a tooad in a gutter. 
 
 When they fill my old belly wi' brown ale ; 
 I'd rayther it wur wa3'ter, 
 For a drop o' the " crayter," 
 
 Or an owd-fashint baggin — tae and rum. 
 Then th' steeam h'o' my spout 
 Maks th' childer give a shout. 
 
 An' they makken th' kitchen table int' a drum. 
 
 They wanten me for th' tae, 
 
 Whether hyson or Bohay, 
 (There's noather on 'em good until they're brewed) 
 
 An' I give th' owd mon a wink, 
 
 When he's sittin' deawn to drink, 
 Tae that's fit for nowt but th' pigs, becose it's stewed.
 
 But merrily I sing 
 
 When o' beauty there's a ring 
 
 Round the table, an' the toast is smokin' hot ; 
 Then loud is the chatter, 
 As the cups an' saucers clatter, 
 
 An' th' ambrosia goes ploppin out o' th' pot. 
 
 To the music of the mill 
 Grindin' coffee, I am still ; 
 
 I like to hear the sound when it's in tune. 
 Then th' aroma from the pot, 
 When my water's bilin' hot, 
 
 Is like turnin' frosty Kesmus into June. 
 Who wouldno' be a kettle 
 If they're made o' th' sort o' metal 
 
 Ut'll polish like a shillin' when it's new ? 
 
 When th' hearthstone's warm an' breet, 
 And young folk sit round at neet, 
 
 Oh, of merrier little kettles there are few !
 
 io8 
 
 AB-O'TH'-YATE'S WELCOME TO PRINCE 
 ALBERT VICTOR, 
 
 On his Visit to Manchester, October 27TH, 1888. 
 [With an apology to Edwin IVaugh.) 
 
 COME, Sarah, get thy bonnet on, 
 An' gang along wi' me, 
 An' we'n go deawn to Manchester, 
 
 This royal lad to see. 
 They say'n his face is like his mam's, 
 
 His e'en are like his dad's ; 
 But i' other things, if th' truth wur known, 
 He's mich like other lads. 
 
 His pasture's bin too rich for him — 
 
 He seldom porritch takes ; 
 An' nobd'y'll e'er be plagued wi' fat 
 
 That feeds on Eccles cakes. 
 If he'll come deawn to Daisy Nook, 
 
 Wi' Charlie, Frank, an' me, 
 We'n show him heaw to ratch his rags 
 
 Wi' a cheese an' bacon spree.
 
 log 
 
 We'n taich him heaw to swing his clogs, 
 
 An' heaw to use his spoon ; 
 An' heaw to whet an appetite 
 
 By peepin' into th' oon — 
 An' seein' theere a bubbhn' tin, 
 
 Just like a little sae ; 
 An' I'll be sworn when he goes whoam 
 
 He'll want no moore tae. 
 
 We'n pile some flesh on his bare bones, 
 
 Ut are grinnin' through his skin. 
 An' mak' him he'll no' know hissel 
 
 Before a week he's bin. 
 An' when wi' th' " Hencote's" fun an' song. 
 
 He's yerd the rafters ring, 
 He'll say — " Sup up, lads, I'll stond th' next- 
 
 I'm ' every inch a king ! "■■'• 
 
 * " Ay, every inch a King." — King Lear.
 
 no 
 
 GYPSIE S. 
 
 THRO' Cheetham Hill one summer day 
 I took a leisure tramp, 
 When down beside the Irk I came 
 Upon a gypsies' camp. 
 
 I knew they were gypsies by the roof 
 
 Of each wam-top shaped tent, 
 And canvas walls supported by 
 
 Strong ribs of ash-tree, bent. 
 
 The gate being open, in I went. 
 And scared the ducks and hens 
 
 That quacked and chucked behind the bars 
 And nets of several pens. 
 
 The " king " stood by in robe of state 
 
 (A jacket brown and patched), 
 And when I hailed his majestv. 
 
 His royal head he scratched. 
 
 " Do these perch out of doors ? " I ask, 
 
 As down the food he chucks; 
 He shrugs his shoulders, then replies — 
 
 " The hens do — not the ducks. "
 
 Ill 
 
 I knew by that I'd met a wag, 
 
 Albeit a gypsy chief; 
 And none would have suspected him 
 
 Of being a poultry thief. 
 
 We talked of breeding — eggs, and chicks. 
 
 And pullets by the way ; 
 But whether breeding paid or not, 
 
 The " king " had nought to say. 
 
 " I've tried to hatch some chicks, " he said, 
 "But the deuce was in my luck ; 
 
 The}' pined and died. What was the cause ? 
 The beggars wouldn't suck. " 
 
 I tried him on another tack — 
 
 This time to excite his fear — 
 '' Arn't you afraid of tliievcs ? " I asked, 
 
 " Or hen-roost 'cracks' being near ? 
 
 I saw he knew my meaning by 
 
 The way he threw his smiles — 
 " The aint a gypsy Campy said he, 
 
 '■'■But this ivithin ten miles.''' 
 
 U$:;^.C:^_.^iO^
 
 112 
 
 WE AEE OX OUR JOURNEY HOME." 
 
 THE church-bells rang with a cheerful chime, 
 And the sun was sinking low, 
 As tired with play the children tramped, 
 
 With weary steps and slow. 
 They were overcome by their holiday jaunt, 
 
 And no farther cared to roam ; 
 But they sang as with a joyful heart, 
 " We are on our journey home." 
 
 The children cheered as the milk-pails clang 
 
 Then- thirsty gathering hailed. 
 And buns were flying like balls at play, 
 
 And the baskets never failed. 
 The birds were watching the children feed. 
 
 Expecting that their turn would come ; 
 Then the children sang as a parting song — 
 
 " We are or. our journey home." 
 
 An old man bent 'neath a load of years, 
 
 His partner by his side, 
 Was gazing upward with vision dim 
 
 At a sign on a post, then sighed. 
 " We are on the right road, love," the old man said, 
 
 When he'd read this wooden tome ; 
 "'This way to the workhouse' — come darling bear 
 up, 
 
 We are on our journey home.
 
 113 
 
 " Nay, turn not to look," the old man said, 
 
 " It is not the church on the hill, 
 
 Where our dear one lies ; we could look on her 
 grave, 
 
 When we lived in the cot by the mill. 
 They are not the old bells we have list to so oft, 
 
 In the grey of the evening's gloam. 
 That seemed to say with a mournful voice, 
 
 ' You are on your journey home.' " 
 
 " Ah never more shall we hear those bells, 
 
 Nor look on the dear one's bed. 
 Nor trim the flowers that grow at their feet, 
 
 And garland her flaxen head. 
 I care not how short this journey will be. 
 
 Nor how soon the time may come, 
 When the kindly earth will be soft to our feet, 
 
 And we've ended our journey home." 
 
 Then towards the workhouse they wandered on. 
 
 But gave a farewell sigh, 
 When they'd looked their last on the cot they'd left, 
 
 And the graves where their kindred lie. 
 They are resting now from their earthly task ; 
 
 No more from their dwelling they'll roam. 
 In heaven they've found eternal repose ; 
 
 They have finished their journey home. 
 
 H
 
 1 1. 
 
 HARD TIME S. 
 
 (song.) 
 
 *' "VT'O' may talk o' hard times," said old Abram o' 
 X Dan's, 
 
 " But yo'n nobbut touched th' fringe on 'em 3^et. 
 
 They'rn harder when bacon wi' th' scithors wur cut. 
 
 An' porritch no wayver could get ; 
 
 When th' wynt would blow through yo' as if you'rn a 
 sieve. 
 
 An' whistled the keener it froze : 
 
 When we'd nothin' to fence eawT cowd bodies 'gen th' 
 cowd, 
 
 But creep-o'ers, an' howd-teh-bi-th'-wohs.* 
 
 *'They'n hard times when a crust o' Breawn George wur 
 too hard 
 
 For rottans to drag i' their holes ; 
 When childer wur more scientific than rats, 
 
 And bor'd for 't, like borin' for coals. 
 They made a big hole i' th' timbers o'er th' shelf, 
 
 Heaw they're done it, wheay, nobody knows : 
 But th' crust o' Breawn George disappeared like a ghost. 
 
 Then 'twur creep-o'ers, an' howd-teh-bi-th'-wohs.
 
 115 
 
 *' It wur dangerous t' turn eawt \vi' 5^0' r owler new 
 greased, 
 
 For yo'rn sure to be tackled by dogs. 
 If they'd smelt mutton fat they'd ha set yo' i' th' lone, 
 
 An' etten both tops off yo'r clogs. 
 If a bakin'-day happened, though seldom one coome, 
 
 My feyther'd get ready for blows ; 
 He'd ha guarded th' oon dur like sentry i' th' wars, 
 
 More creep-o'ers, an' howd-teh-bi-th'-wohs. 
 
 No pawnbroker strove eaut o' th' custom he geet, 
 
 Becose folk had nothin' to pop ; 
 They'd takken their rags till they'd none they could 
 spare, 
 
 Unless they'd ha' striped 'em i' th' shop. 
 
 Little help could be squeezed eaut o' th' rich i' thoose 
 days, 
 
 Noather i' niayte, fire, nor " thank yo, sir" clothes ; 
 
 They walled reaund their heauses, an' shut up their 
 hearts, 
 
 When we'd creep-o'ers an' howd-teh-bi-th'-wohs. 
 
 *' I've worn eaut my owler i' lookin' for wark, 
 
 But of wark thore wur none to be had ; 
 When th' mice emigrated, an' deed upo' th' road, 
 
 An" wi' th' rottans — why, things wur as bad. 
 When th' brids coome i' flocks to a cottager's dur, 
 
 An' showed 'em their frost-bitten toes ; 
 An' heaw slackly their feathers hung on to their backs, 
 They couldno' ate howd-teh-bi th'-wohs.
 
 ii6 
 
 I think it quite time these owd Hmbs wur at rest, 
 
 Or on their long journey to'ard whoam, 
 Wheere there's no frost or snow, an' no yammerin' 
 hearts 
 Nor hauve naked bodies con come. 
 I yerd a voice saying, " Ye sufferers on earth, 
 
 Come hither and try 3'our new clothes ! 
 For the poor shall be rich, and the rich all alike — 
 No nioore creep-o'ers or howd-teh-bi-th'-wohs." 
 
 * Creep-o'ers — " Creep over Stiles." Howd teh-bi-tW-wohs — " Howd- 
 tliee-by-the-walls," a kind of gruel sweetened with treacle. See 
 " Turn Grunt and Whistle Pig," by R. Walker.
 
 117 
 THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 
 
 A PARODY. 
 
 OH, the beautiful snow ! The beautiful snow, 
 How gently it falls on the earth below, 
 Like fleece newly blown from Ganymede's crest. 
 And floating away to some airy nest. 
 
 Says Johnny-i'-th'-Nook, " Come eaut an' slur," 
 Then fo's on his back at his gronfeyther's dur ; 
 *' Oh, that wur a bang !" he shouted. " Oh, oh !" 
 The beautiful, beautiful, beautiful snow ! 
 
 Oh, the beautiful snow, the beautiful snow ! 
 See it whirl through the air as tiie rude wind blows ; 
 Now weaves it a web of its gossamer flakes. 
 As along the valley it's course it takes. 
 
 Says Betty-at-Robin's, " Eh, what a nice slide ! 
 As breet as a kettle — ^I'll just have a ride ; 
 Come, stick to my hont ! ! ! — -why didta let go ?" 
 The beautiful, beautiful, beautiful snow ! 
 
 Oh, the beautiful snow, the beautiful snow ! 
 Now sweeps o'er the moor like a merciless foe. 
 And creeps under doors like a cowardly elf. 
 Afraid of the storm it created itself. 
 
 Owd Matty-o'-Besom's has gone eaut o'th' heause. 
 An' made to'ard a slide, as quiet as a meause ; 
 " I'll give it yond madam !" but strikes not a blow — 
 Hoo's measurt her lenjjth on the beautiful snow.
 
 ii8 
 
 SAM BAMFOED'S GKAVE. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS IDYL. 
 
 I STOOD beside Sam Bamford's grave, 
 Ut looks o'er Middle-teawn, - 
 An' th' owd lad woke within his yearth, 
 An' said, " Wheere arta beaun ?" 
 
 ' I'm gooin' deawn to Shuttlewo'th's 
 At th' sign o'th' Owd Boar's Yead, 
 To meet a ' Raker ' friend or two, 
 An' have a gill," I said.f 
 
 " Wheay, wheay, what's up, like ? Is it th 
 Wakes ? 
 
 Or is it th' Show ? " said Sam.. 
 " I fain w^ould like t' goo wi' thee, lad ; 
 
 It's dryish wheere I am. 
 
 " Is Ned wi' thee, or Page or Jim ? 
 
 Is Joe or Charley theere ? 
 'Lijah's gone whoam, I know, poor lad ! 
 
 He'd little t' stop for here. 
 
 t See " Tim Bobbin's Grave," by Sam Bamford.
 
 119 
 
 " Come, tell me o" an' moore beside, 
 
 I'm 'hutchm fain' to yer it ; 
 There's nob'd}' coes to tell me owt, 
 
 Nobbut neaw an' then a soerrit, 
 
 " Ut's bin a-makkin' furnityer 
 
 To caper on some floor. 
 Han poets begun a-bankin' yet ? 
 
 Are publishers come poor ? 
 
 " Han Frenchmen ta'en to seaur kreaut ? 
 
 Is Livingston come whoam ? 
 Are pa'sons gan o'r fratchin' yet ? 
 
 Is th' Church gone o'er to Rome ? 
 
 " Are th' Yankees talkin' leaud an' tall ? 
 
 Is Ireland satisfied ? 
 Han' th' Garmons drawn their feightin' brass ? 
 
 Has th' ballot e'er bin tried ? 
 
 " Are skoo-boards happy families? 
 
 Does eddication thrive ? 
 Is charity owt but a name ? 
 
 Is self-ism still alive ? 
 
 " What is it's browt thee here to-dny ? 
 
 Hast' bizness wi' the d'yed ? 
 Or arta come'n a trimmin' th" iieawers 
 
 That hem eaur little bed ?" 
 
 " I've come to chose a spot on which 
 
 To raise a stone," I said. 
 " Thy native teawn con gie thee that. 
 
 If it couldno' find thee bread."
 
 I20 
 
 *' What, what," he said — " a moniment ! — 
 
 A moniment to mc ? 
 Just hft that quarried keaunterpane. 
 
 An' help to set me free. 
 
 " I'll moniment 'em — that I will — 
 
 A changeful, wayward crew ! 
 Fust backbite me, then co me spy, 
 
 An' th' Judas o' Peterloo ! 
 
 *' Tliey raise a moniment to me ! 
 
 Believe in no sich thing ; 
 They'd rayther have a jumpin' match. 
 
 Or creawn a sond-chap king. 
 
 *' I need no moniment — not I ; 
 
 Well, not o' sculptured stone. 
 Look i' my 'Radical' — it's theere — 
 
 A tablet o' my own. 
 
 " Good deeds are their own moniments, 
 
 A biggish mon hath said ; 
 Good lives leave tracks that th' feet o' time 
 
 Pass o'er wi' kindly tread. 
 
 " Gi'e bread to th' poor, to th' weak give help, 
 Mak' hearthstones warm an' breet ; 
 
 A lesson taich to th' rich an' preaud. 
 To darkened minds give leet. 
 
 " An' if, when yo'n this duty done, 
 
 Yo'n gether reawnd my grave. 
 An' sing a hymn o' thankful praise, 
 
 I'll help yo' wi' a stave.
 
 121 
 
 " Neaw goo an' tell 'em what I've said ; 
 
 But if they're bent on stone, 
 Wheay, let 'em set abeaut it, then, 
 
 An' mak' their purpose known. 
 
 " An' let not year on year go past, 
 
 An' Wakes an' Show get o'er. 
 Then find theirsels at th' end o' time 
 
 Just wheere they wur before. 
 
 " If ived stood still i' thoose dark days 
 
 When patriots pined an' bled, 
 Heaw would yo'r minds have neaw been stored, 
 
 Yo'r bodies clothed an' fed ? 
 
 " Where would yo'r Lancashire ha' bin, 
 
 O' which yo'r o so preaud ? 
 Yo'r forges and yo'r factories 
 
 That now its valleys creawd ! 
 
 "But I'm happen a bit crankey, lad — 
 
 The3''n made me so wi' scorn ; 
 But bless 'em o ! Neaw let nie sleep 
 
 Till breaks my second morn." 
 
 Sam laid ///;;/ deawn, an' gan a grunt. 
 
 Said, " Mima, love, art' here ?" 
 An' I left him to his noble rest, 
 
 W^i' a freshly-started tear. 
 
 (T^^ST'T^
 
 122 
 
 PEOLOGUE. 
 
 (Intended by the author to have been delivered at the 
 Masonic Concert in aid of the boys' school, given at the Free 
 Trade Hall, but, through some misunderstanding, left out of the 
 programme.) 
 
 Y 
 
 E sons of Charity — and daughters too, 
 
 We must not leave you out, it would not do 
 To treat our fair ones to so grave a slight, 
 Considering they're here with us to-night. 
 We'll call you sisters ; that will make amends 
 For human thoughtlessness, so let's be friends. 
 Time was when charity was but a name — 
 An empty word that added nought to fame : 
 Till woman ventured in that void alone. 
 Struck out a plan, and made the work iier own ; 
 Sought out the needy, succoured the distressed, 
 And made the desert-home one truly blest. 
 
 'Twere no disgrace to aid in such a plan. 
 And give our sisters all the help we can ; 
 They're sure to help their brothers when in need, 
 Their presence here to-night were help indeed ! 
 They know 'tis better than to imitate 
 The gilded virtues of the Roman State. 
 A guarded prudence can be too severe. 
 If down the cheek unheeded rolls the tear.
 
 To be austerely just, and wise, and brave ; 
 But show no mercy to the suppHant slave, — 
 Begging for life that he might fill his days, 
 Training his children into virtue's ways. 
 
 A voice went forth ere breathed the human race, 
 " Let there be light," and darkness fled apace. 
 Then rose the fount of life, the glorious son, 
 At once he starts his heavenly course to run. 
 Ages have passed, and still that cry s the same : 
 " Let there be light ! " a cry without an aim. 
 Millions have heard it —scattered o'er the earth — 
 But still 'twas chaos till the voice went forth — 
 " Let there be intellectual light ! " Then furled 
 The cloud ; and Shakspere rose t' illume the world. 
 
 Thou Great Diffuser of that heavenly light 
 
 Throughout the universe, be here to-night. 
 
 And aid the work attempted in Thy name ; 
 
 To erring mortals none a nobler aim. 
 
 And, oh, Great Architect ! a Temple raise, 
 
 In which Thy worshippers may sound Thy praise ; 
 
 And fix for ever in the central porch — 
 
 To radiate o'er the world — Thy sacred torch ! 
 
 Though shown in symbols, Learning is the light, 
 
 To brighten which Ave're gathered here to-night. 
 
 May Light and Charity the orphans bless ! 
 
 To guide through life, to shelter from distress ! 
 
 So now prepare we for the song and jest. 
 
 We've done our share — come, Minstrels, do the rest. 
 
 Arthur Sullivan Lodge, 2156-
 
 1^4 
 
 KED BILL'S MONKEY. 
 
 OWD FOOT" drew up to th' fire one neet, 
 An' charged his pipe wi' 'bacco ; 
 An' Red Bill's monkey grinned i'th' nook — 
 A monkey they co'ed "Jacko." 
 
 "Ay, theau may bite tliy cheean," said Foot, 
 "But theau'll remember th' mortar ; 
 
 An' if theau tries to work again 
 They'll mak' it a bit shorter." 
 
 ''Work, did yo' say ? " "Ay, work," said Foot, 
 
 " He's a janious in his way ; 
 He's up to owt fro' plasterin' 
 
 To makkin a sope o' tae. 
 
 " I're daubin' up some holes one day, 
 
 An while I swigged my porter. 
 He picked up th' trowel, an' catchin' th' cat, 
 
 He filled her meauth wi' mortar. 
 
 "Another time he're watchin' Nell 
 
 Mak' tae for a lot o' women, 
 An' thinkin' he could mend her work. 
 He th' hearthstone set a swimmin'.
 
 125 
 
 " He watched hei" wheere hoo th' caddie put, 
 On th' chimbdy shelf o'er th' fire ; 
 
 But if hoo'd known what th' monkey meant 
 Hoo'd surely ha' put it higher. 
 
 " Her back wur turned, then up went Jack, 
 
 Ere yo' could say 'God bless all ! ' 
 Then th' box he seized, an liftm' th' lid, 
 He emptied th' tae i'th' ess-hole. 
 
 ''Then down he coome, like Steeplejack, 
 An' jumped on th' hob to th' kettle, 
 
 An' emptied that on th' hearthstone, too, 
 Thinkin' his job to settle. 
 
 " Jack thowt he could improve o' what 
 
 A mon or wench could do, 
 By stoppin' holes that drank his milk. 
 
 An, tae b\' whulsale brew. 
 
 "Oh, poor o\\d Jack, ! — he'll work no moore, 
 He're gettin' too fast for th' age ; 
 
 An' what wur th' use when o he geet 
 Wur a cheean i'stead o' wage ? " 
 
 e^'^p5^''^'<\
 
 126 
 
 "IRE LIVIN' WHEN BONEY- WUR 
 TA'EN." 
 
 THERE was an old dame used to come down our 
 lane, 
 
 And at walking you'd not find her match ; 
 She lived all alone in a one-storey cot, 
 
 And the roof of this dwelling was thatch. 
 She knew not her age any more than the clock, 
 
 " But I're born o' Good Friday they say'n ; 
 
 ^' An' somewheer abeaut th' time ut th' Embargo wur 
 kilt, 
 
 " But I're livin' when Boney wur ta'en," 
 
 No bonnet she'd worn since last rushcart was made ; 
 
 But a napkin tied o'er her cap screen 
 Made her face like two roses just bitten with frost, 
 
 Leaving traces of what they had been. 
 
 ^' You've seen something, Betty," the neighbours 
 would say, 
 
 " Ay, moor than I want t'see again." 
 
 Then she'd shake her old head — dust her pipe on the 
 
 bar — 
 
 " I're livin' when Boney wur ta'en." 
 
 A widow some years old Betty had been, 
 
 But none ever heard her repine. 
 " If I wanted to fish for a husband," she'd say, 
 
 " I've nobbut to throw in my line. 
 
 *\Vhen the First Napoleon was taken prisoner.
 
 127 
 
 *' Yo young uns done nowt but keep sidlin' abeaut, 
 
 " An lookin' as if yo'rn i' pain. 
 *' r my day 'twur snap-an-go-bang, an' get wed — 
 
 " But I re livin' when Boney wur ta'en." 
 
 On a dark winter night an old lantern she'd swing, 
 
 A lantern without horn or glass. 
 If the wind blew the light out, as oft was the case, 
 
 She'd say, " Drat yo, lads ! let me pass." 
 
 If she'd rubbed 'gainst a stump in the darkness, 
 she'd sa}', 
 
 " Neaw, Jammie, theau'rt auvish, it's plam, 
 
 ^' But I'st ne'er end my wits wi' a monkey like thee ; 
 
 " Pre livin' when Boney wur ta'en." 
 
 For singing and dancing old Betty'd no match, 
 
 Though only one song could she sing. 
 It was of one Chmaman, " Twinkle Turn Twang," 
 
 And the chorous was " Ding, a-ding, ding." 
 This song would she hum at from morning till night, 
 
 Then up with the layrock again ; 
 And if her voice failed her, " Ah, well," she would say, 
 
 " I'rc livin' when Boney wur ta'en " 
 
 Old Betty, with living alone, was afraid 
 Lest theives might her front door assail. 
 
 So when she went shopping she took out the key. 
 And hung it outside on a nail. 
 
 But poor old Betty, she could not get warm 
 
 That winter the snow filled the lane. 
 
 Then she said, " if owd Jack comes again he may 
 sit, — 
 
 " He're livin' when Boney wur ta'en."
 
 128 
 
 THE WEAVER OF WELBROOK. 
 
 (From " Clironiclcs of Wavci'loivy ) 
 
 YO gentlemen o \vi' yo'r hounds an' yo'r parks, 
 Yo may gamble an' sport till yo' dee ; 
 But a quiet heause nook, a good wife, an' a book, 
 Are more to the likin's o me - e. 
 
 Wi' my pickers an' pins, 
 An' my wellers to th' shins, 
 My linderins, shuttle, an' yealdhook. 
 My treadles an sticks. 
 My weight-ropes an' bricks, — 
 What a life ! — said the Wayvor o' Welbrook. 
 
 I careno' for titles, nor heauses, nor loud, 
 
 Owd Jone's a name fittin' for me ; 
 An' gie me a thatch, wi" a wooden-dur latch. 
 
 An' six feet o' greaund when I dee - e. 
 
 Wi' my pickers, &c. 
 
 Some folk liken t' stuff their owd wallets wi' mate, 
 Till they're as reaunt an' as brawsen as frogs ; 
 
 But for me I'm content, when I've paid deawnmy rent, 
 Wi' enoogh t' keep me up i'm clogs - ogs. 
 
 Wi' my pickers, &c.
 
 129 
 
 An' some are too idle to use their own feet, 
 An' mun keawer an' stroddle i'th' lone ; 
 
 But when I'm wheelt or carried i'tU be to get buried^ 
 An' then dicky-up wi' owd one - Jone. 
 
 Wi' my pickers, &c. 
 
 Yo' may turn up yo'r noses at me an' th' owd dame. 
 An' thrutch us like dogs again' th' wo ; 
 
 But as long's I con nayger I'll ne'er be a beggar, 
 So I careno' a cuss for yo' o - o. 
 
 Wi' my pickers, &c. 
 
 Then, Margit, turn rcaund that owd hum-a-drum 
 wheel. 
 
 An' my shuttle shall fly like a brid ; 
 
 An' when I no lenger con use hont or finger, 
 
 They'll say while I could do I did - id. 
 
 Wr my pickers, &c.
 
 I30 
 
 LANCASTRIANS IN LONDON. 
 
 YE sons of Gaunt, " time-honoured " sire 
 Of Lancashire's proud family, 
 I send you greetings from our home. 
 The home of our great ancestry ; 
 
 Our rugged hills, and valleys deep ; 
 
 The dearest spot to you and me ; 
 The brightest star in England's crown ; 
 
 This gem " set in a silver sea." 
 
 For deeds of valour we're renowned, 
 On field and fiood our flag hath waved, 
 
 On Cressy's walls, and Agincourt 
 The storm of battle we have braved. 
 
 But Peace hath her victories as well 
 
 As those of desolating war ; 
 And conquests on the field of toil, 
 
 Than those of arms the nobler far. 
 
 ^^'e've shared those victories — nay, led 
 The van throughout the bloodless strife, 
 
 Now see our villages and towns, 
 xVre teeming witli industrial life. 
 
 At wakes, or fair, on village green ; 
 
 At song', or dance ; at work, or sport ; 
 Our " Lankey " lads, and lasses too. 
 
 Are known to be a " gradley sort, "
 
 131 
 
 Let these bear witness to her fame — 
 
 Proud Lancashire ! who would not prize 
 
 A home so fair ? why do thy sons 
 To tliee still turn witli longing eyes ? 
 
 Who could not love a land like this ? 
 
 Is there a man with soul so base ? 
 Who's so enrapt with foreign climes, 
 
 As not to own his native place ? 
 
 May he who home nor country owns : 
 
 Who scorns the soil that gave him birth ; 
 
 Oil, let him wander where he lists, 
 Nor find a resting place on earth. 
 
 No count}' in the roll of shires 
 Can match this county Palatine, 
 
 For beauty, sense, and homely wit, 
 
 Li which are sons and daughters shine. 
 
 Then here's to " auld lang S3'ne " my friends, 
 Though scattered over land and sea ! 
 
 We'll pledge in " Jone o" Bardsley's " st) le,''' 
 The land we love, " our ain countrie ! "' 
 
 Oh, may our brotherhood endure. 
 And flourish until Time's decay ; 
 
 Then seek at last the " Better Land, " 
 The measureless Eternitv. 
 
 *Glasses upside down.
 
 13- 
 
 TWO HOMES. 
 
 THE mistletoe, with its berries while, 
 Resplendent shone in the dazzling light, 
 As the Ladv Abigail sought her bower, 
 Away from the glare of that festive hour. 
 Sir Launcelot stole with a lover's tread 
 To her side ; and, whispering softly, said — 
 Between each often repeated kiss — 
 " Oh, what a beautiful world is this !"' 
 
 No mistletoe hung in the labourer's cot ; 
 
 No revelries brightened the labourer's lot. 
 
 And the kisses he took were those from his wife — 
 
 The sharer of all the joys of his life. 
 
 A shawl he'd brought her, of colours gay, 
 
 " It's too fine for me," she was heard to say, 
 
 " But Jammie, thou'st have an extra kiss — 
 
 Oh, what a beautiful world is tliis !" 
 
 Softly the ravishing music came 
 
 And filled the soul with a rapturous flame ; 
 
 Sometimes its sound was a trill of joy. 
 
 That softened down to a maiden's sigh. 
 
 Sir Launcelot felt what he could not speak, 
 
 As he pressed the Lady Abigail's cheek. 
 
 But the lady, o'ercome with her measure of bliss,. 
 
 Said, " Oh, what a beautiful world is this ?"
 
 133 
 
 Little Billy be sat on a three-legged stool, 
 And played a tune he liad learnt at school, 
 It was not a shepherd's pipe he blew, 
 But the tones were sweet, and the air was new. 
 It sounds like an angel's song of praise, 
 Though 'tis but an old cracked flute he plays, 
 " Tell us, dear Billy, what tune it is." 
 " Oh, what a beautiful woyld is dis !" 
 
 My Lady Abigail joined the dance, 
 And her rubies flashed like Sir Launcelot's glance ; 
 But the music grew faint, and lights burnt low, 
 And the janitor's yawn said " It's time to go." 
 The sky was streaked with the hues of morn, 
 When Sir Launcelot's henchman sounded his horn ; 
 And was that the end of all earthly bliss ? 
 Oh, what a changeable world is this ! 
 
 The baby danced on its mother's knee. 
 
 And " crowed " to the music with childish glee. 
 
 But the father was silent, his heart was full. 
 
 Whilst the revellers' pleasures were waxing dull. 
 
 " This life is what we make it," said he, 
 
 " A sober joy, or a drunken spree. 
 
 " Ours is the happier lot, I wis — 
 
 "Oh, what a beautiful world is this !"
 
 134 
 
 MASONIC EPITHO-THRENODY ; 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 To His Royal Highness ALBERT EDWARD, 
 PRINCE OF WALES, K.G., 
 
 RIGHT WORSHIPFUL GRAND MASTER OF FREE- 
 MASONS IN ENGLAND; 
 
 In prospect of the Marriage of his Son, the Duke of Clarence 
 
 AND Avondale, with Princess Victoria Mary of Teck, 
 
 February 27TH, 1892. 
 
 THIS day thou add'st another corner-stone, 
 To strengthen the foundations of that throne 
 Which stands embedded in a people's love. 
 The Architect who plans and rules above ; 
 And, like a Great Geometrician, draws 
 His lines, and curves, true to Masonic laws, 
 Be't thine to measure from in all the things 
 Thou undertakest ; be't the rule of kings;
 
 M5 
 
 Or changing scepti"e for a mall, and throne 
 
 F'or the cxal fed chaiv of Solomon, 
 
 Be Just, and fear not ! 
 
 Ere yet be raised 
 
 The Master's pedestal, let Him be praised 
 
 Whom all the searchers after li,i!;ht adore ! 
 
 Now let the cannon boom from every shore ! 
 
 From the three points of heav'n, West, North, and 
 South, 
 
 Let honours Masonic pass from mouth to mouth. 
 
 Until the East re-echoes with the sound — 
 
 Behold the column risen from the ground ! 
 
 Bind well the structure from the widened base;. 
 
 Prove it with plumb and square, both line and face ; 
 
 And if "tis strong, and firm, from blemish free. 
 
 And solid as one block of jNIasonr}^ ; — 
 
 Faultless in symmetry ; in ambit rare ; 
 
 The pride of all that's lovely, sweet, and fair, — 
 
 Then to an admirmg world it may be said — 
 
 This added stone is well and truly laid. 
 
 m^lk:>
 
 136 
 
 THE THUNDERBOLT ! 
 
 FALLEN is the pillar, shattered is the base 
 That was to have upheld it in its place. 
 Give we the prostrate stone a cypress wreath, 
 Clothe we the figure with the robes of death. 
 'Twas but an hour ago the sons of lif^ht 
 Basked in the rays of hope, supremely bright. 
 Aught that the splendour of a court could grace 
 Was there reflected in a regal face. 
 The prince, the heir, the king that was to be — 
 The crowning apex to a dynesty — 
 Now lies he at the base, where kings ere now 
 Have lain. The death-damp on his youthful brow 
 Tells of a struggle ere he gave his sword 
 To One whose weapon is His mighty Word. 
 Stricken to earth, but not by mortal foe — 
 The lightning came from heaven that laid him low. 
 The broken column, lying at his feet, 
 Wrap in the British flag, fit winding sheet ; 
 Cover his breast with flowers wet with tears 
 Distilled from grief — the grief a nation bears.
 
 ^i7 
 
 Ere yet we lay blm in his hallowed bed, 
 Chant we a requiem o'er the honoured dead. 
 
 Oh, thou great Architect that built the earth 
 And all upon it since creation's birth. 
 Receive into Thy temple this our son, 
 And place him in the East, the shrine he'd won. 
 Now close the tomb ! Oh, may his soul shine forth 
 A star resplendent, both in light and worth ! 
 No longer claim we what to heaven was due ; 
 The debt he paid with the last breath he drew, 
 And now, from earthly bonds for ever free, 
 He joins the Lodge of Immortality. 
 
 Bro. ben BRIERLEY 
 
 Arthur Sullivan Lodge, 2156, 
 Old Boar's Head, 
 
 Withy Grove, Manchester.
 
 I3S 
 
 fit jSltmoriam ^o^ms. 
 
 ANNIE, 
 
 Only child of Ben. and Esther Brierlev ; 
 
 Born November ytli, 1S56. Died June 13th, 1S75. 
 
 "TXTE thought she was our own for yet awhile ; 
 
 * » That we had earned her, by our love, of Heav'n, 
 To be a life's comfort, not a season's smile. 
 
 Then tears for ever. " "Tis to be forgiven," 
 We deemed her mortal — not an angel sent 
 
 From out a mission host, on mercy bent. 
 
 We were beguiled by her sweet ways of love — 
 The growth of her affections round two stems — 
 
 As if they were of her, and from above. 
 
 We did not note that from her heart the gems 
 
 Of her devotion were bestrewn in show'rs 
 
 Where'er she went, and gathered like spring flowers
 
 139 
 
 And her last words (coherent) — " I have Hved, 
 And have not Hved " — were full of earthly tone 
 
 And utterance. They, too, our hearts deceived ; 
 Nor were we mindful till, wlien left alone, 
 
 We heard the flutter of a dove-like wing, 
 
 And a sweet strain, such as the seraphs sing. 
 
 Then knew we she had come in mortal guise, 
 To teach us love, and charity, and grace ; 
 
 With sun-gold in her hair, heaven in her eyes, 
 And all that's holy in her preaching face.   
 
 The scales had fallen, and our vision then 
 Saw that an angel graced the homes of men.
 
 I40 
 
 SAMUEL BAMFOED. 
 
 Born February 28th, 1788. Died April 13TH, 1872.- 
 
 THIS day a warrior bowed his plume, and died ; 
 This day a noble spirit, purified, 
 Hath pierced the shadows of terrestial night, 
 And sought enshrinement in the " halls of light." 
 
 His was no stagnant life who gives this day 
 Back to his God a spirit weaned of clay. 
 For Liberty he donned his mail and casque ; 
 The Goddess blessing with a smile his task. 
 
 He saw^ that smile irradiate the world 
 Ere yet he closed his eyes. Boldly unfurled 
 He the proud banner when the maid was young 
 For whom he battled, and whose praise he sung. 
 
 Nor fought a braver champion in the field 
 Where men for freedom bled and died. His shield— 
 " My home — MY RIGHT — MANKIND" — the motto bore, 
 Which to the last, with sheen undimmed, he wore. 
 
 Thick were the blows which rang upon his mail ; 
 Deadly the thrusts that pierced it ; but the trail 
 Of vanquished pennon, and the droop of crest, 
 His valour brooked not. His a nobler rest. 
 
 Five times unhorsed, and dashed upon the field ; 
 Yet called he not for quarter, nor would yield 
 To foes outnumb'ring. Quick to saddle sprang 
 He yet again, — again his armour rang.
 
 141 
 
 As falls the storm against the stubborn oak, 
 So fell upon his breast the battle stroke ; 
 As stands the rock that heeds not flashing sky, 
 So stood his soul, man's thunder to defy. 
 
 And thus contending in that 'sanguined fray, 
 A victor now, next moment driv'n to bay, 
 His arm relinquished not its manly thrust 
 Till lay the foe in ignominious dust. 
 
 Then home came he with chaplets on his brow, 
 To doff his mail and casque. The knightly vow, 
 To free his country from a galling yoke. 
 Fulfilled with honour, he his weapon broke. 
 
 And in the evenmg of his life he lay 
 Watching the closing of a glorious day ; 
 And as the summer's sun sinks in the west, 
 So sank our hero to his quiet rest. 
 
 Peace to thy honoured dust ! No lay of mine, 
 Old soldier ! e'er can reach a worth like thine ! 
 Sing thine own requiem in that noble song 
 Thy life hath writ. Such themes to ilice belong. 
 
 April 13///, 1872.
 
 142 
 
 CHARLES SWAIN, 
 
 Born Jan. 4th, 1803, Died Sept. 22nd, 1S74. 
 
 ANOTHER vacant chair ! another guest 
 Hath left my threshold with his last 
 "Good night ! " 
 'Twas but an hour ago, ere yet the west 
 Had lost the amber of its fading light, 
 One other friend departed, and he said — 
 "Good bye ! " then sought his everlasting bed. 
 
 And gone before were others of the throng 
 
 Who round my board at noon were full of thought 
 
 And feeling that found utterance in song, 
 
 Th' eternal watchman's call the ear had caught ; 
 
 And Autumn leaves around their footsteps fell 
 
 As they, in tones that linger, sang " Farewell ! " 
 
 And there are others glancing towards the door, 
 As though they saw a shadow on the stair. 
 
 With finger pointing to heaven's glittering floor. 
 And beck'nitig to a festal gathering there. 
 
 These shall arise ere yet the night be gone, 
 
 And one — but which of us ? — be left alone.
 
 H5 
 
 He who last left the scene where none can stay, 
 Woke with his touch the bosom's tenderest chord, 
 
 And sang with fervid lips that noblest lay — 
 The love of man and glory of the Lord. 
 
 He " breathed of beauty and eternal youth ; " 
 
 The " mind," its " grace, divinity, and truth." 
 
 And as he moved his fingers o'er the lyre, 
 His eyes were ever streaming with a light 
 
 Caught from the glow of some celestial fire, 
 Sliining on worlds beyond the reach of night. 
 
 And grew the melody most sweet and clear, 
 
 When felt the hand tlie final touch was near. 
 
 As sings the nightingale when all is hushed, 
 His song was never heard at noontide hour 
 
 Among the crowd of warblers ; but when blushed 
 The Night at Days soft wooing, he his bower 
 
 Would seek, and from some solitary spray 
 
 Awake the echoes with his roundelay. 
 
 But never more shall voice of his l)e heard 
 At our sublunar festivals, nor thought 
 
 Flasli from his soul in glance as well as word. 
 A spell upon his soul the angels wrought ; 
 
 And whispering 'neath their pinions, " Brother, come,' 
 
 The}^ bore the minstrel to his heav'nly home. 
 
 Say not you miss him from his chair to-night, 
 Ye who have but another hour to sta^-, 
 
 But watch the flick'ring of the taper's light — 
 A symbol of the close of life's brief day —
 
 144 
 
 And be ye ready, brethren, one and all, 
 
 That none may hurry at the Watchman's call. 
 
 Say — " Peace to the departed ! " He, ere now. 
 Hath heard the songs we list for in our dreams^ 
 
 But only faintly hear. Around his brow 
 The lustre of immortal glory beams, 
 
 In which the smiles of kuidred spirits shine, 
 
 The scintillations of a light divine. 
 
 Oh, why this emptiness of human boasts — 
 These songs in praise of perishable wine ? 
 
 Our friend the guest is of the Host of Hosts, 
 And sips the juice of an eternal vine. 
 
 The picture change. The mourners are the dead 
 
 Who wait our coming. Which of us shall lead ?
 
 145 
 
 JOHN BRIGHT, 
 
 Died March 27TH, i(S8g. 
 
 VANQUISHED at last ! and by the only foe 
 He e'er struck colours to, or yielded spur ; 
 Leader of hosts to battle, his last blow 
 
 Rang on the mail of the Great Conqueror. 
 And now his sword lies shattered at his feet — 
 The chief whose soldiers never knew retreat. 
 
 He was no man of peace where might was right ; 
 But foremost in the field when war's stern note 
 
 Sounded the charge. Then where th' ensanguined 
 fight 
 Was thickest, he his sabre drew, and smote. 
 Nor faltered he amidst the glittering storm — 
 
 His war cry — " Peace, Retrenchment, and 
 Reform." 
 
 He was the Ca?sar of the gallant host 
 
 That fought for freedom from the laws which 
 bound 
 The fruits of earth, the Tribune that could boast 
 
 He'd measured blades with nobles, who ne'er found 
 A blot upon his shield, nor craven fear 
 Within his breast when, fighting, spear met spear. 
 
 But when he saw the enemy retreat. 
 
 And Peace and Plenty spring up at his word. 
 
 He doffed his helm, and cast it at his feet, 
 
 And sheathed, unblemished, his victorious sword. 
 
 Now twine the bays around the victor's head, 
 
 And crown him Prince of our illustrious dead.
 
 146 
 
 EDWIN WAUGH. 
 
 Born January 29th, 1817 ; Died April 30th, i8go. 
 
 THOU'ST left our choir at last, — the sweetest singer 
 That ever warl)led o'er thy native heath ! 
 Thy sky-notes, wild, have often made me linger, 
 To catch the fulness of their silv'ry breath. 
 
 Though caged within the town, thy soul was ever 
 Hovering fondly o'er its moorland nest ; 
 
 And nought of city life thy heart could sever 
 
 From that dear land where thou hadst hoped to rest. 
 
 We're silent now, since thou hast left, and gone 
 To join the crowd of songsters gone before ; 
 
 Prince, Bamford, Swain have winged it, one by one, 
 And songs of homely life are heard no more. 
 
 Farewell, old " layrock " ! freed from earthly toil, 
 And anguish bravely borne, as 'twere thy cross: 
 
 Flutt'ring with broken wing o'er fields of moil. 
 To find thy glory in thy country's loss.
 
 147 
 
 Gone are the echoes from the woods and bowers 
 Thou'rt won't to visit when the twihght fell, 
 
 To mingle wito their melodies and flowers 
 Thy songs, so fragrant of the heathery dell. 
 
 We mourn thee now as one snatched from the nest, 
 And cast away in Death's remorseless train ; 
 
 Still we're consoled to think that it were best 
 To die, than linger in unceasing pain. 
 
 Thou hadst deserved a better fate than this. 
 
 Whose notes have made the welkin ring with joy ; 
 
 If ought tliere be to spare of heavenly bliss, 
 
 Thou'st earned a meed, and that without alloy.
 
 148 
 
 ALLEN MELLOR, 
 
 Died 2oth November, i838, Aged 54 Years. 
 
 E 
 
 1 ELLED, like an oak that hath not known decay, 
 But sound in root and branch, as when it grew 
 In 3^outh's green sapling time — e'er yet the day 
 
 Had come when it had ceased to grow, this true 
 Giant of the human forest — stricken — fell ! 
 What loss of mind and heart no tongue can tell. 
 
 His was a life of vig'rous thought and deed — 
 A moral strength with cliarity combined 
 
 To wield a pow'r of help to those in need. 
 And nerve anew the weaker of his kind. 
 
 In works that make men great he knew no rest 
 
 Till he had earned it — now he's with the blest. 
 
 Peace be to him whose aim was greatest good ; . 
 
 And when the young an aspiration feel 
 To live a life of usefulness, and would 
 
 Example seek, the finger, true as steel 
 To magnet, points to him whose death we mourn — 
 Oh, may we after life reach such a bourne ! 

 
 149 
 
 AT MY DAUGHTER'S GRAVE. 
 
 ON HER NINETEENTH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 NOVEMBER'S chills hang in the sullen air, 
 The earth is shrouded in funeral glooi 
 
 )m 
 
 The trees around seem fretful, weird, and bare. 
 
 As here I stand beside thy silent tomb, — 
 My daughter ! — loved alike by sire and friend — 
 Thy Mother's idol, thus to thee I bend ! 
 
 It seems an age since last I saw thy face, 
 Smiling to make e'en death a loveliness ; 
 
 And as the scalding tears each other chase 
 Down cheeks that ever must be flooded thus, 
 
 I feel 'twould be the prime reward of prayer, 
 
 To see the glorv of thine e3'es and hair. 
 
 Now cold's the hearth that once thy presence warmed; 
 
 Dark is the room of which iliou wert the light ; 
 
 Silent the music which my soul hath charmed. 
 
 When home, and wounded, from the world's stern 
 fight. 
 
 Thy stool — thy chair — the couch — all vacant now — 
 
 Cry tlirough the darkness — " Annie, where art thou ?"
 
 I50 
 
 Thy mother nightly hngers at the gate, 
 
 To watch thy coming ; and as pale the lights, 
 
 She says — " How long — how very long — to wait ! 
 Such girls as she should not stay out at nights. 
 
 All her companions are in bed ere this. 
 
 And I'm still waiting for her 'good night' kiss." 
 
 This day thou would'st have marked thy nineteenth 
 year ; 
 
 A day looked forward too long months ago ; 
 That should have brought to us, nor sigh, nor tear, 
 
 But such sweet joy as only parents know. 
 Who could have dreamt, or felt the galling fear. 
 That tliou would'st hold thy birthday revels here ? 
 
 A bridal wreath bedecks thy marble brow ; 
 
 The robes" enwrap thy form that should have swept 
 The path which leads to where we plight the vow 
 
 Of love eternal — broken oft, or kept. 
 If shades commingle 'round thy hallowed bed. 
 Then thou'lt beseem the bridals of the dead. 
 
 Ah, frenzied dreams — ah, visions wild and strange. 
 That haunt for aye this wilderness of air ! 
 
 If in the great, inevitable change, 
 
 Tliou, God, seeth fit to show Thy mercies where 
 
 Love's blossoms are by thousands largely shared. 
 
 This garden oi one flow'r Thou miglit'st have spared. 
 
 *She was buried in full brides-maid's costume, intended to 
 have been worn at the wedding of a cousin. The poor girl begged 
 of her mother, a few days before she died, that she might be 
 allowed to wear the dress on the wedding-day, if not able to 
 attend the ceremony. The request was complied with ; it served 
 for her shroud.
 
 They who would tell me life is but a span 
 Know not affliction— not the loss of thcc. 
 
 'Tis woe, laid heavy on the soul of man, 
 That makes of time a drear eternity. 
 
 Life's sunniest moments fly the swallow's flight, 
 
 But oh, how slowly creeps the hours of night ! 
 
 Great God ! whose Will it was to take away 
 The only lamb that nestled in our fold — 
 
 If through His tears who wept on Calvary 
 The dear one's face we may again behold ; 
 
 Oh, let thy messenger of love descend, 
 
 To give assurance such shall be the end ! 
 
 My pray'r is heard, a voice from out the clouds 
 Proclaims in trumpet clangour to the dead — 
 
 " Arise ye, shake ye off your mortal shrouds, 
 And put on Heaven's eternal robes instead !" 
 
 I feel the flutter of an angel's wing, 
 
 And hear Heaven's choir their sweet Hosannas sing 
 
 The vision's past ; the gloom is thickening round, 
 The mists enwrap me with an icy fold. 
 
 But here my soul hath its best solace found. 
 And turned to summer warmth the wintry cold. 
 
 Thus, hoping, dear, thy face again to see, 
 
 I weave those immortelles of song to thee ! 

 
 152 
 
 "TIPS." 
 
 THERE'S no tips for me,' 
 Said owd Billy o' Dan's ; 
 " Tho' they're passin' my dur 
 
 Both i' wagons, an' vans ; 
 There's bacon, an' cheese, 
 
 Comin' throng to th' next heause ; 
 But there's nowt on my shelves, 
 Would keep life in a meause. 
 
 There's whiskey i' gallons. 
 
 An' barrels o' stout, 
 An' brandy i' bottles, 
 
 But for Billy there's nowt. 
 Heaw it is I'm left eawt. 
 
 Why 1 cannot just see ; 
 I'm as good as my neighbours, 
 
 But there's no tips for me. 
 
 There's turkeys an' geese, 
 
 Crommed i' hampers, chock full ; 
 One con hardly help thinkin' 
 
 Tliat trade isno' dull.
 
 ^53 
 
 An' pheasants, an' rabbits, 
 An' oysters i' shoals ; 
 
 An' for those that want roastin' 
 There's cart loads o' coals. 
 
 I con raise nowt wi' feathers, 
 
 Beawt it be an owd hen 
 That has seen younger days, 
 
 An' has sarved younger men. 
 An' here I mun shiver, 
 
 Wi' a tear i' my e'e, 
 For becose I'm a wayver 
 
 There's no tips for me. 
 
 " An' here I mun nagur 
 
 Till late of a neet, 
 Wi' a rag round my yead, 
 
 An' a brick at my feet," 
 An' a waiscoat as slack 
 
 As if hanged on a peg ; 
 An' a stockin' that hardly 
 
 Sticks onto my leg. 
 
 If th' rich o' their plenty 
 
 'Twould be nowt but fair 
 If they'd bond me a morsel 
 
 O' what they con spare. 
 But I've just tumbled to it, 
 
 I plainly con see, 
 I'm nobody's workman, 
 
 There's no tips for me. 
 
 * Handloom weavers used to place a hot brick in the treadle- 
 hole ill winter to warm their ieet by. 
 K
 
 154 
 
 " But a day's surf to come, 
 
 An' it isno' far off, 
 When these worn eaut ovvd breeches 
 
 They'n tell me to doff. 
 An" the poor shall appear 
 
 r grand raiment arrayed, 
 That mortal ne'er fashioned, 
 
 Nor honds never made. 
 
 When this body o' flesh 
 
 Shall be tipped in a hole, 
 An' this spiritual body 
 
 That some call a soul. 
 From its bondage on earth. 
 
 And its trammels set free. 
 Shall mount up to glory — 
 
 Then tu'o tips for me."
 
 Books, 
 Pamphlets. Etc.. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 W. E. CLEGG, OLDHAM. 
 
 A new Map of Oldham, for Hanging in Ottices, 5/- net. 
 
 Ben Brierley— 
 
 Id Three Volumes. 10/6 net ; or, Large Paper edition, 21/- net. 
 
 " Ab-o'th'-Yate " Sketches and Other Short Stories. By the 
 
 late Ben Brierley. Edited liy the late James Dronsfield (Jerry 
 Lichenmoss) and containing nine very fine Illustrations (executed 
 by Gollot3rpe process), after Fred W. Jackson, which were specially 
 drawn for this work. Also a Portrait of the Author. 
 
 Having purchased from Mrs. Brierley lier interest in the entire stock of 
 unsold sets of ' Ab-o'th'-Yate ' Sketches, the Publisher has reduced the 
 prices from 12/6 and 31/ti net to 10/0 and 21/- net respectively.
 
 Books, Pamphlets, Etc., Published by W. E. CLEGG, Oldham. 
 
 Thomas Brierley — 
 
 Thk Countrified Pieces of Thomas Brierley, of Alkrington, 
 Middleton. 208 pages ; Or. 8vo. Contains " Th' Silk Wayver's Fust 
 Bearing Wlioam to Manchester," and seven other prose pieces ; also 
 sixty-three poetical pieces, besides a number of "Epitaphs," " Toasts," 
 etc., principally in the Lancashire Dialect. Price 1/- net, paper 
 covers ; 1/6 net, cloth. 
 
 Samuel Laycock's Works— 
 
 Warblins' fro' an Owd Songster, being the Complete Works of 
 Samuel Laycock. Demy 8vo. Illustrated. Cloth Gilt. New and 
 cheaper edition, 5/-. 
 
 Wynford Brierley— 
 
 The Children's Christmas : A Drama for Sunday School and other 
 Entertainments. By Wynford Brierley. Music to Songs (six in 
 number) by Robert Jackson, (jd. 
 
 The Lancashire Cookery Book, being a collection of 
 Recipes for Cookery Classes, which are well adapted for Home 
 Use. •2d. 
 
 M, R. Lahee— 
 
 Sybil West, a powerfully written Lancashire Story. By Miss M. R. 
 Lahee. 5/- cloth. 
 
 Edwin Waugh— 
 
 Original Songs and Poems. By the late Edwin Waugh. Second 
 series, illustrated. Large paper edition, 21/-.
 
 Books, Pamphlets, Etc., Published by W, E. CLEGG, Oldham. 
 
 Robert Jackson— 
 
 Sacred Leaflets. Enlarged (hymn tunes). By Robert Jackson. 2/- 
 
 J. F. Lees— 
 
 Book-keeping for Terminating Btjilding Societies. Illustrated 
 by a year's transactions of " Tlie Trustworthy Building Society," 
 including a Statement of Accounts and a Balance Slieet, and a 
 Short Chapter on Auditing. By John Frederick Lees, Accountant, 
 Oldham. 3/6 net. 
 
 W. Booth— 
 
 Booth's Guide to the Isle ot Man, in which are given all the 
 best walks of the Island, with distances accurately stated, and an 
 excellent Map of the Island. The Gradients of Roads are also given. 
 It is the best guide extant for Cyclists. Pocket size, strong and 
 flexible. Price 6d. 
 
 W, S. Binns— 
 
 A Treatise in Elementary and Advanced Descriptive Geometry, 
 with a Chapter on Graphic Arithmetic. By W. S. Binns, F.S.Sc. 
 8vo., cloth, 2/-. 
 
 Robert Booth— 
 
 The Cotton Buyers' and Mill Managers' Assistant. By Robert 
 Booth. Net 9d., post free lOd. 
 
 Clegg's Ready Reckoner for the Cotton Trades. For ascer- 
 taining Cost of Cotton, Cardroom and Spinners' Wages &c. 5/- net.
 
 Books, Pamphlets, Etc., Published by W. E. CLEGG, Oldham, 
 
 Clegrg's Register of Attendance and Fees. Ninth Edition M. 
 Usied esolusively in the Oldham Bo^u^i Schools and also in otlier 
 Schools. 
 
 Clegg's Oldham Annual. pubHshed yearly, containing l■e^ised Lists 
 of Pay r;\ys and other Loc;vl Matter. Also Fi-ee Insui-anoe Coupon 
 for all the ye;u. A most useful year book. -d. ; ix»st fi-ee, 4d. 
 
 Cleg'gr's Local Kailway Guide, id. monthly. 
 
 Clegg's Annual Rent Books. For Satiu-days or Mondays. 6il. per 
 dozen. 
 
 Clegg's Rent Books without fixed dates. JKi. per dozen. 
 
 Spirit Stock Book, for the use of Hotel Pix">prietoi-s, Clubs, &c,, 1/- 
 
 Faetopy Acts. Printed Foniis for hanging in Workshops, Certificates, 
 Registers, and other Books required. 
 
 Hire Agreement Forms. Schedules, etc. "To Let," juid other 
 Window Bills. 
 
 FAILSWORTH, my Native Village. By Ben Brierley. \\ith 
 Portniit of the Author and full page illustration of "The Peterloo 
 Veterans," 2d. 
 
 Lancashire Sketches by Ben Brierley — 
 FRO' WAUGH r HEAA'EX. Poem by Bex Brierley. Id.
 
 Books, Pamphlets, Etc., Published by W. E. CLEGG, Oldham. 
 
 SKITS FRO' WALMSLEY FOWT (No. 1), containing " Th' 
 Boggart o'th' Stump, or The Adventures of a Stutfed Monkey" ; 
 " Ab-o'th'-Yate's Dictionary " ; " Th' Owd Chicken's Main Brew," 
 etc. Id. 
 
 AB-O'TH'-YATE'S LANCASHIRE RECITER. Id. 
 
 AB-O'TH'-YATE AND THE OPENING OF THE MANCHESTER 
 SHIP CANAL. Id. 
 
 HEAW TO DO BEAWT COAL. 
 
 LANCASHIRE WIT AND HUMOUR. Price 2d. 
 
 SWAPPIN' A MON'S CLOOAS FOR A WOMAN'S. A Blackpool 
 incident. Id. 
 
 SAILIN' FOR BACON and A COLLIER'S SPREE. 
 
 The following popular Prose and Poetical Pieces by SAMUEL LAYCOCK 
 have been issued separately Price Id. each. 
 
 Prose Pieces, sixteen pages, illustrated. Id. each. 
 
 HEAW BILLY ARMATAGE MANAGED TO GET A NEET'S 
 LODGIN'S. 
 
 A WHOLESALE KESSUNIN' DOOMENT AT TORRINGTON. 
 
 LANCASHIRE KESMUS SINGIN' FIFTY YEAR SIN'. 
 
 Poetical Pieces, Id. each. 
 
 ODE TO TH' SUN. 
 
 TH' PEERS AN' TH' PEOPLE. 
 
 BOWTON'S YARD 
 WELCOME, BONNY BIIID. 
 
 Also uniform with the above — 
 
 THE ORIGINAL JONE 0' GRINFILT, written by Joseph Lees, 
 in 1805.
 
 Books, Pamphlets, Etc., Published by W. E. CLECG, Oldham. 
 
 PICTURES (Black and White) by Local Artists. 
 
 Printed direct from the Original Drawings. 6d. each, or in 
 Suitable Frames, 3/6 per pair. 
 
 By Tom Heywood— 
 
 " Pug Dog," " Cat," " English Terrier," " .Spaniel," "Horse," "Donkey." 
 
 By J. H. Hague— 
 
 " Limehurst," " Bishop Lake's House at Chadderton Fold." 
 
 By the late R. O. Bottomley— 
 
 " Chadderton Fold." 
 
 The undermentioned Books were not printed by W. E. 
 Clegg, but, having purchased the entire stock remaining on 
 the Market, he is disposing of them at greatly reduced prices, 
 as marked. 
 
 Spring Blossoms and Autumn Leaves. A Book of Poems by 
 the late Ben Brierley. 4/- net, in a new Cloth binding, now offered 
 at 1/6 net. 
 
 Original Songs and Poems. By the late Edwin Waugh. (First 
 Series). 7/6, offered at 3/6 net. 
 
 The Limping Pilgrim. By the late Edwin Waugh. 7/6, offered 
 at 1/6 net. 
 
 The Knobstick. A Story of Love and Labour. By C. Allen Clarke. 
 2/6, offered at 1/6 net.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 THE 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNrVERS^TY Oy CALIFORNIA 
 JLOS AlNviELES 
 
 •;fi,