I sit by the chimbley corner,
My blood is runnin' slow,
My hands is white as a printed paage,
Wot once wor red wi' the fighter's waage;
They're withered an' wrinkled now wi' old aage;
An' the fire's burnin' low.
Once I could lether anyone
An' strike a knock-down blow:
My legs were limmack as a young bough,
They could race or dance or foller the plough;
But they're crookled and wemblin' all waays now,
An' the fire's burnin' low.
I 'member me of owden daays:
At Metheringham Show:
I fought young Jolland for a scarf,
I nearly brok his back in half;
He galloped hooam to Blankney Barff
As hard as he could go.
I fought an' danced an' carried on,
Razzlin 'igh an low;
I drank as long as I could see,
It made noa difference to me,
I wor a match for any three:
'Tis sixty year ago.
They called me 'Fightin' Tomlinson,'
(My name is Thomas Tow)
I wor the champion o' the sheer;
If any furriner come near,
I never shirked nor felt noa fear,
I allers 'ed a go.
On ivery night o' Saturday,
Noa matter raain nor snow,
We gethered in the market plaaces,
An' stripped stark naked to our waas'es,
Gev' one another bloody faaces—
A Sunday mornin' show!
I fought at all the County Fairs,
From Partney down to Stow;
They called me nobbut a 'Billinghay Rough,'
I niver knawed when I'd 'ed enough,
For I wor made o' the proper stuff,
I'd like to 'ev you know.
Aye—them wor roughish times—my word!
'Tis sixty year ago;
Our heads wor hard, our hearts as well,
I wonder as we niver fell,
Into the burnin' pit of hell,
Wheer dreadful fires glow.
I used to hit like this—but now
I cannot strike a blow:
My battle's nearly lost—or won,
My poor owd limbs is omost done,
The tears is droppin' one by one,
An' the fire's burnin' low.