“FIFTY SONGS FOR A FAR-R-R-R-DEN!"

MODERN
STREET BALLADS

BY
JOHN ASHTON
AUTHOR OF “SOCIAL LIFE IN THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE,” ETC.

INTRODUCTION.

Over Street Ballads may be raised the wail of “Ichabod, Ichabod, their glory is departed.” They held their own for many centuries, bravely and well, but have succumbed to a changed order of things, and a new generation has arisen, who will not stop in the streets to listen to these ballads being sung, but prefer to have their music served up to them “piping hot,” with the accompaniment of warmth, light, beer, and tobacco (for which they duly have to pay) at the Music Halls; but whether the change be for the better, or not, may be a moot question.

These Street Ballads were produced within a very few hours of the publication of any event of the slightest public interest; and, failing that, the singers had always an unlimited store to fall back upon, on domestic, or humorous subjects, love, the sea, etc., etc. Of their variety we may learn something, not only from this book, but from the ballad of “Chaunting Benny” of which the following is a portion:—

..........

“My songs have had a tidy run, I’ve plenty in my fist, Sirs,
And if you wish to pick one out, I’ll just run through my list, Sirs.

Have you seen “My daughter Fan,” “She wore a wreath of roses,”
And here you see “My son Tom,” “The Sun that lights the roses,”
“Green grow the rushes O,” “On the Banks of Allan Water,”
“Such a getting out of bed,” with “Brave Lord Ullin’s daughter.”

“Poor Bessie was a Sailor’s bride,” “Sitting on a rail,” Sirs,
“Is there a heart that never loved?” “The Rose of Allandale,” Sirs,
“The Maid of Judah,” “Out of Place,” with “Plenty to be sad at,”
“I say, my rum un, who are you?” with “What a shocking bad hat,” etc., etc.

Rough though some of these Street Ballads may be, very few of them were coarse, and, on reading them, we must ever bear in mind the class for whom they were produced, who listened to them, and—practical proof of interest—bought them. In this collection I have introduced nothing which can offend anybody except an absolute prude; in fact, “My bear dances only to the genteelest of tunes.”

There are plenty of my readers old enough to remember many of these Ballads, and they will come none the worse because they bring with them the reminiscence of their youth. Forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit. They owe a great deal of their charm to the fact that they were absolutely contemporary with the events they describe, and, though sometimes rather faulty in their history, owing to the pressure under which they were composed and issued, yet those very inaccuracies prove their freshness.

The majority were illustrated—if, indeed, any can be called illustrated—for the woodcuts were generally served out with a charming impartiality, and without the slightest regard to the subject of the ballad. What previous work these blocks had served, goodness only knows; they were probably bought at trade sales, and had illustrated books that were out of date or unsaleable. They vary from the sixteenth century to Bewick, some of whose works are occasionally met with; but, taking them as a whole, we must fain confess that art as applied to these Ballads was at its very lowest. Their literary merit is not great—but what can you expect for half-a-crown? which was the price which Jemmy Catnach,[1] of Monmouth Court, Seven Dials, used to pay for their production. Catnach issued a large number from his press (in fact, his successor, Fortey, advertised that he had four thousand different sorts for sale), and his name is used as a “household word” to designate this class of Ballad. But, in fact, he only enjoyed the largest share of the London trade, whilst the Provinces were practically independent—Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, Newcastle, Preston, Hull, Sheffield, Durham, etc., had their own ballad-mongers, who wrote somewhat after the manner of the author of “The Bard of Seven Dials.”

“And it’s my plan, that some great man
Dies with a broken head, Sirs,
Vith a bewail, I does detail
His death ’afore e’s dead, Sirs.
And while his friends and foes contends,
They all my papers buy, Sirs,
Yes, vithout doubt, I sells ’em out,
’Cos there my talent lies, Sirs.”

The Ballad singers and vendors made money rapidly over any event which took the popular fancy—a good blood-curdling murder being very profitable; and the business required very little capital, even that being speedily turned over. Generally, the singers worked singlehanded, but sometimes two would join, and then the Ballad took an antiphonal form, which must have relieved them very much, and the crowd which gathered round them was the surest proof that their vocal efforts were appreciated.

They are gone—probably irrevocably—but a trace of the vendor still lingers amongst us. One or two still remain about Gray’s Inn Road, Farringdon Road, and other neighbourhoods; but I venture to say, as they drop out, they will find no successors. You may know them, if ever lucky enough to meet with one, by their canvas screens, on which are pinned the ballads—identical with that immortal screen of which Mr. Silas Wegg (in Dickens’s “Our Mutual Friend”) was the proud proprietor; but these modern Ballads are mostly reproductions of Music Hall songs, and have very little in common with those about which I write.

I have taken the first fifty years of this century, when this style of Street Ballad was at its best, but I have liberally interpreted my fifty years, by extending its margin by a year or two either way—thus, I include the Mutiny at the Nore in 1798, and the Great Exhibition of 1851, and I have selected those that bear on most, and elucidate best, the social manners and customs of that period.

JOHN ASHTON.

CONTENTS.

SALE OF A WIFE.

Whenever a foreigner used to write that Englishmen sold their wives in open market, with halters round their necks, they were not believed in England; but it was nevertheless a fact, and even as lately as last year a man sold his wife. In two of my books (“Old Times” and “The Dawn of the Nineteenth Century”) I have given numerous instances. The halter round the neck was used when the wife was sold at market, it being considered that, being thus accoutred, she was on a level with the cattle, and thus could legally be sold.

Attend to my ditty, you frolicsome folk,
I’ll tell you a story—a comical joke;
’Tis a positive fact, what I’m going to unfold,
Concerning a woman, who by auction was sold.

Chorus.

Then long may he flourish, and prosper through life,
The Sailor that purchased the Carpenter’s wife.

A carpenter lived not a mile off from here,
Being a little, or rather too, fond of his beer;
Being hard up for brass—it is true, on my life,
For ten shillings, by auction, he sold off his wife.

The husband and wife they could never agree,
For he was too fond of going out on the spree;
They settled the matter, without more delay,
So, tied in a halter, he took her away.

He sent round the bellman announcing the sale,
All in the hay-market, and that without fail;
The auctioneer came, with his hammer, so smart,
And the Carpenter’s wife stood up in a Cart.

Now she was put up without grumble or frown,
The first bid was a tailor, that bid half a crown;
Says he, I will make her a lady so spruce,
And fatten her well upon Cabbage and goose.[2]

Five and sixpence three farthings, a butcher then said,
Six and ten said a barber, with his curly head;
Then up jump’d a cobbler, said he, in three cracks,
I’ll give you nine shillings, and two balls of wax.

Just look at her beauty, the auctioneer cries,
She’s mighty good-tempered, and sober likewise;
Damme, said a sailor, she’s three out of four,
Ten shillings I bid for her, not a screw more.

Thank you, sir, thank you, said the bold auctioneer,
Going for ten—is there nobody here
Will bid any more? Is not this a bad job?
Going! Going! I say—she is gone for ten bob.

The hammer was struck—that concluded the sale,
The sailor he paid down the brass on the nail;
He shook hands with Betsy, and gave her a smack,
And she jump’d straddle-legs on to his back.

The people all relished the joke, it appears,
And gave the young Sailor three hearty good cheers;
He never cried stop, with his darling so sweet,
Until he was landed in Denison Street.

They sent for a fiddler, and piper to play,
They danced and they sung, untill the break of day,
Then Jack to his hammock with Betsy did go,
While the fiddler and the piper played “Rosin, the beau.”

* * * * * *

Wives at the market did not fetch good prices; the highest I know of, is recorded in The Times, September 19, 1797: “An hostler’s wife, in the country, lately fetched twenty-five guineas.” But this was extravagance, as, with the exception of a man who exchanged his wife for an ox, which he sold for six guineas, the next highest quotation is three and a half guineas; but this rapidly dwindled down to shillings, and even pence. In 1881, a wife was sold at Sheffield for a quart of beer; in 1862, another was purchased at Selby Market Cross for a pint; and the South Wales Daily News, May 2, 1882, tells us that one was parted with for a glass of ale. Sometimes they were unsaleable, as we learn by the following ballad:—

JOHN HOBBS.

A jolly shoemaker, John Hobbs, John Hobbs;
A jolly shoemaker, John Hobbs!
He married Jane Carter,
No damsel look’d smarter;
But he caught a tartar,
John Hobbs, John Hobbs;
Yes, he caught a tartar, John Hobbs.

He tied a rope to her, John Hobbs, John Hobbs;
He tied a rope to her, John Hobbs!
To ’scape from hot water,
To Smithfield he brought her;
But nobody bought her,
Jane Hobbs, Jane Hobbs,
They all were afraid of Jane Hobbs.

Oh, who’ll buy a wife? says Hobbs, John Hobbs;
A sweet pretty wife, says Hobbs.
But, somehow, they tell us
The wife-dealing fellows
Were all of them sellers,
John Hobbs, John Hobbs.
And none of them wanted Jane Hobbs.

The rope it was ready, John Hobbs, John Hobbs.
Come, give me the rope, says Hobbs;
I won’t stand to wrangle,
Myself I will strangle,
And hang dingle dangle,
John Hobbs, John Hobbs;
He hung dingle dangle, John Hobbs.

But down his wife cut him, John Hobbs, John Hobbs;
But down his wife cut him, John Hobbs;
With a few hubble-bubbles,
They settled their troubles,
Like most married couples,
John Hobbs, John Hobbs,
Oh, happy shoemaker, John Hobbs!

A WOMAN NEVER KNOWS WHEN HER DAY’S WORK’S DONE.

Now just attend to me,
Married men of all degree,
While I tell you the vicissitudes of life,
There’s nothing, understand,
Half so pleasing to a man,
As a good temper’d, kind, and loving wife.
She is always at her work,
Tho’ sometimes used like a Turk;
Here and everywhere compelled she has to run;
While a man can banish care,
Drown sorrow and dull care,
A woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

Chorus.

Then just attend to me,
To your wives be kind and free,
And never mind the clatter of her tongue,
If you the truth will speak,
You know the live-long week,
A woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

That man must be a fool,
Who will strive his wife to rule,
Or drive her, like an elephant, about,
You will find ’ere you begin,
You may knock nine devils in,
But never can you knock one devil out.
We nothing ought to hear,
But “my darling” and “my dear,”
And to please his wife a man should miles run,
Her all indulgence give,
Then happy will he live,
For a woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

Every married man should know
They now have made a law,
That if any man should dare ill-use his wife,
Six months he will bewail
In a dark and dismal jail,
With heavy irons on him day and night.
Men, be advised by me,
Use the women tenderly,
And to please her you must always cheerful run,
For you all must know full well,
If the truth you will but tell,
That a woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

Married women take advice,
Get you every thing that’s nice,
A little drop of brandy, rum, or gin,
And if your husband should complain,
Give the compliment again,
And whack him with the wooden rolling-pin.
When some women well behaves,
They’re oft used worse than slaves,
And must not dare to use their pretty tongue,
Let the world say what it will,
I will say, and prove it still,
That a woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

They must wash and iron on,
They must mangle, starch, and blue,
They must get your victuals ready in a crack,
They must get you tea and toast,
They must frizzle, fry, and roast,
And wash the dirty shirt upon your back.
They must clean the quilt and rugs,
They must hunt the fleas and bugs,
They must nurse your little daughter and your son,
And, like a poor goose,
Get nothing but abuse,
A woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

Chorus.

Men, to your wives be kind,
Thus pleasure you will find,
And happy through the world you will run,
You must surely tell a lie,
If this statement you deny,
A woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

THE TREATS OF LONDON.[3]

Good folks I will try at a song,
So I hope you will make no wry faces,
Believe me, I’ll not keep you long,
With my budget of public places:
To what I’m about to rehearse,
If you’ll but please to attend,
You will learn from my play-bill in verse,
Where to go, if you’ve money to spend.

Covent Garden Garden of O.P.[4] renown,
The contest you all may remember;
Old Drury that was burnt down,
And Bartlemy Fair in September.
With the Tower of London so grand,
Where a huge pocket-pistol you see,
And Salmon’s Wax Work in the Strand,
With the Sans Pareil after your tea.

There’s the Opera House at the West,
A Chalk Farm and a famous Jew’s Harp,
Where, pay well, you may feed on the best,
Then walk in the Regency Park.
A Lord’s Cricket Ground that is new,
With a Tottenham Playhouse so gay,
Hyde Park and the Serpentine too,
For Men Milliners on a Sunday.

There’s Wigley’s promenade too, I ween,
And Bond Street parade in addition,
With Kensington Gardens when clean,
And the Somerset House Exhibition.
There’s the Wells, and Grimaldi so rum, Sirs,
With Westminster Abbey to range,
A walk in the Temple for Lawyers,
And “All alive in Exeter ’Change.”

The British Museum’s a treat,
Vauxhall with its fireworks pretty,
Where belles and their sparks you will meet,
And “the Royalty” too, in the City.
A Surrey Theatre there’s too, Sirs,
Where the bow-wow performers so grand,
Played with eclat, and where you may view,
The fine bridge ’twixt Bankside and the Strand.

A forum there is for debate,
A Fives Court for milling in fun, Sirs,
A Parliament House for the great,
With a cock-pit for cruelty’s sport, Sirs,
With balls, concerts, and masquerades,
And spouting rooms, too, half a score,
With prime song-clubs in the “Shades,”
Knock ’em down with a Bravo! Encore!

Gas lights too flare in your eyes,
Indian Jugglers deceive in Pall Mall,
Guildhall for a lottery prize,
Astley’s horses, too, still bear the bell.
The Monument, too, a tall post,
And also, without any raillery,
The Londoners’ principal boast,
St. Paul’s and its Whispering Gallery.

THE INCOME TAX.

Oh! poor old Johnny Bull has his Cup of sorrow full,
And what with underfeeding him, and leeching him, and bleeding him,
Though over-drained before, he must lose a little more,
He’ll now be bled again by the Income Tax.
And Peel[5] the state physician, has studied his condition,
And daily, and hourly his own brain racks,
He’s come to the conclusion, that John Bull’s constitution
Is only to be saved by the Income tax.

Chorus.

Sevenpence in the pound, is the sum that must be found,
Useless is our grumbling, our grizzling, or mumbling,
Still, had we to our aid, our former roaring trade,
We’d laugh at Bobby Peel and his Income Tax.

The manufacturers say that they ought not to pay,
Assert ’tis not a fib, but they really can’t contribute.
The manufacturing bands are discharging all their hands,
’Tis the farmers that should, and ought to pay the Income Tax.
The farmers all declare, that for them to pay be’ant fair,
The cesses, rates, and tithes nearly breaks their backs.
While all the parsons say, their business is to pray,
So, pray, why should they pay the Income Tax?

The Lawyers all declare it really is unfair,
The Law’s great alteration has brought them ruination,
And if they make compliance, they all must rob their Clients,
By swelling Bills of Costs for the Income Tax.
The Doctors, full of ills, must increase their price of pills,
They are already ruined by Infirmaries and Quacks,
So they’ll all adopt Peel’s plan, of bleeding all they can,
Their patients, (when they get ’em) for the Income Tax.

The shopkeeper, once gay, who kept his one horse shay,
To drive out on a Sunday, and sometimes on a Monday,
Must now his shay put down, and stick to trade and town,
Because he must so pay to the Income Tax.
His daughters and his wife, obliged to hear his strife,
Stay at home and snivel, and in snarls go snacks,
Their bonnets—those old blue ones—instead of having new ones,
Are turned—and ’tis all through the Income Tax.

Those folk of middling rank, who have money in the Bank,
And make by pocket’s clearance, a respectable appearance,
And managing complete, to just make both ends meet,
Must cut a bit off one end for the Income Tax.
Oh, then, without a doubt, was their washing all put out,
Now, laundresses are ruined—and these are facts—
For, wherever you may roam, all the washing’s done at home,
So our wives are always cross through the Income Tax.

The Bishops, rich and great, and the Ministers of State,
The gayest, the demurest, the Placeman, Sinecurist,
And grumblers, or not, they must all pay their shot,
In their rota, as their quota, of the Income Tax.
And, as a tip-top sample, our Queen’s a high example,
Her Majesty,[6] I wish of rupees had lacs.
The Collector he sallies, to great Buckingham Palace,
Your Majesty, I’ve come for the Income Tax.

The Lords, and all their train, must do without Champagne,
The Squires—will they bear it? must give up Hock and Claret—
Tradesmen, no longer merry, think not of or port sherry,
They all are out of spirits through the Income Tax.
So, all ranks through the Nation, must put up with privation,
One foregoes his Brandy—another his Max[7]
The porter can’t regale, he’s obliged to leave off Ale,
And a Teetotaller turn through the Income Tax.

Just like the tale of old, of the soldier we were told,
Who, while the drummer[8] flogg’d him, writh’d about and jogg’d him,
With torment all on fire, he cried aloud, “Strike higher,”
Sir Robert Peel’s the drummer, with his Income Tax.
The Tax with its fine tales, is like the cat o’ nine tails,
It lashes our bodies—cuts into our backs.—
Sir Robert Peel he strikes, and cuts us where he likes,
Nobody likes the cuts of the Income Tax.

In every civilized society there is an antagonism between employer and employed, between capital and labour. The men do not often take thought of the losses their employers have sustained, in order to keep their factories going and their hands employed; they do not think that England has to compete with the whole world, and that, on the Continent, wages are cheaper, and the men are more contented with their lot, so that when a depression in trade occurs, it is only fair that they should bear a portion of the burden. There are plenty of demagogues, who, for pay, will fan the flame of discontent, and the result is a strike, injurious to all parties. On the other hand, a man has a right to sell his labour as dearly as he can, or to refuse to sell it at all, if he so pleases, and a strike is very often the means of his getting an advance of wages which might not have been otherwise conceded, or at all events tardily granted.

Naturally there are many street ballads on this vital subject to the ballad-singer’s listeners, but I have only selected one, which appears to me to be fairly typical. As an antidote to the discontent and privation consequent on bad trade, Henry Russell wrote, “There’s a good time coming, boys,” which enjoyed immense popularity, and did much to banish the black spirit of discontent.

STRIKING TIMES.

Cheer up, cheer up, you sons of toil, and listen to my song,
While I try to amuse you, and I will not take you long.
The working men of England, at length begin to see,
They’ve made a bold strike for their rights in 1853.

Chorus.

It’s high time that working men should have it their own way,
And for a fair day’s labour, receive a fair day’s pay.

This is the time for striking, at least, it strikes me so,
Monopoly has had some knocks, but this must be the blow,
The working men, by thousands, complain their fate is hard,
May order mark their conduct, and success be their reward.

Some of our London Printers, this glorious work begun,
And surely they’ve done something, for they’ve upset the Sun.
Employers must be made to see they can’t do what they like,
It is the master’s greediness causes the men to strike.

The labouring men of London, on both sides of the Thames,
They made a strike last Monday, which adds much to their names.
Their masters did not relish it, but they made them, understand,
Before the next day’s sun had set, they gave them their demand.

The unflinching men of Stockport, with Kidderminster in their train,
Three hundred honest weavers have struck, their ends to gain.
Though the masters find they lose a deal, the tide must soon be turning,
They find the men won’t, quietly, be robbed of half their earning.

Our London Weavers mean to show their masters, and the trade,
That they will either cease to work, or else be better paid.
In Spitalfields the Weavers worked with joy, in former ages,
But they’re tired out of asking for a better scale of wages.

The monied men have had their way, large fortunes they have made,
For things could not be otherwise, with labour badly paid;
They roll along in splendour, and with a saucy tone,
As Cobbett says, they eat the meat, the workman gnaws the bone.

In Liverpool the Postmen struck, and sent word to their betters,
Begging them to recollect that they were men of letters,
They asked for three bob more a week, and got it in a crack,
And though each man has got his bag, they have not got the sack.

The Cabmen, and their masters, made up their minds last week,
To stop the Cabs from running, now is not that a treat,
The Hackney Carriage Act[9] has proved a very bitter pill,
It’s no use to call out, Cab, Cab,[10] drive off and show your skill.

The Coopers and the Dockyard Men are all a going to strike.
And soon there’ll be the devil to pay, without a little Mike,
The farming men of Suffolk have lately called a go,
And swear they’ll have their wages rose, before they reap or sow.

We are all familiar with the carefully got up mendicants who infest the streets of London, with their mournful howls—how that they are “Frozen-out gardeners,” or “Have got no work to do,” etc., etc.; and in the early part of the century they were more numerous than now, as the police were not so efficient. One sample of this style of ballad must suffice.

THE MECHANIC’S APPEAL TO THE PUBLIC.

Give attention awhile to my rhymes,
Good people of every degree,
I assure you these critical times
Have reduced me to great poverty.
I’m a tradesman reduced to distress,
Dame Fortune on me long has frown’d,
And that is the cause, I confess,
Which compels me to roam up and down.

Chorus.

Then good people attend to my rhymes,
And pity a tradesman reduced;
For appealing to you in these times,
I submissively hope you’ll excuse.

I once did in happiness dwell,
With my family around me, at home;
And little, (the truth I will tell)
Did I think I’d have cause for to roam.
But misfortune, she owed me a grudge,
And entered in my Cottage door,
And caused me in sorrow to mourn,
And my misery long to deplore.

Mechanics are now at a stand,
And trade, in all quarters, is bad,
They’re complaining all over the land,
And their children are hungry and sad.
Travel Britain wherever you will,
You may behold everything dead,
The tradesmen are all standing still,
And their children are crying for bread.

My family now weep in distress,
With cold and with hunger they cry,
Which grieves me to see, I confess,
No food, nor employment have I.
The Weather is cold and severe,
And I do in sorrow lament;
I have no food for my Children dear,
And my goods are all taken for rent.

For a tradesman reduced, heave a sigh,
Who in sorrow and agony grieve,
And, good Christians, as you pass him by,
With a little, pray, do him relieve.
A little you never will miss,
To one who in sorrow complain,
And our heavenly Father above,
The same will repay you again.

Oh, you that distress never knew,
May your breast such affliction ne’er feel,
The sufferings that I do endure,
I cannot to you half reveal.
For subsistence my clothes I have sold,
I wander to look for a friend,
So now my sad troubles are told,
And my tale I am going to end.

There is a great deal of superstition, and folk-lore, contained in

WOMEN’S SAYINGS.

Draw near, and give attention,
And you shall hear my rhyme,
The old women’s sayings, in the olden times
High and low, rich and poor,
By daylight or dark,
Are sure to make
Some curious remark;
With some foolish idea
Your brains they will bother,
For some believe one thing,
And some believe another.

Chorus.

These are odds and ends
Of superstitious ways,
The signs and the tokens,
Of my grandmother’s days.

The first thing you will see,
At the house of rich or poor,
To keep the witches out,
A horse shoe’s o’er the door.
Bellows on the table,
Cause a row both day and night,
If there’s two knives across,
You are sure to have a fight.
There’s a stranger[11] in the grate,
Or, if the cat should sneeze,
Or lay before the fire,
It will rain or freeze.

A cinder with a hole
In the middle is a purse,
But a long one, from the fire,
Is a coffin, which is worse:
A spider, ticking in the wall,
Is the death watch at night,
A spark in a candle,
Is a letter sure as life.
If your right eye itches,
You’ll cry till out of breath,
A winding sheet in the candle
Is a sure sign of death.

If your left eye itches,
You will laugh outright,
But the left or the right,
Is very good at night,
If your elbow itch,
A strange bed fellow found,
If the bottom of your foot itch,
You’ll tread on fresh ground:
If your knee itch, you’ll kneel.
In a church, that’s a good’un,
And if your belly itch,
You’ll get a lot of pudden.

If your back should itch,
I do declare,
Butter will be cheap,
When the grass grows there:
If the dog howl at night,
Or mournfully cry,
Or if the cock should crow,
Some one will die.
If you stumble upstairs,
Indeed, I’m no railer,
You’ll be married to a snob,
Or else to a tailor.

A speck on your finger nail,
Is a gift that’s funny,
If your hand itch in the middle,
You will get some money.
Spilling of the salt
Is anger outright,
You’ll see a ghost, if the door
Should rattle in the night.
If your sweetheart
Dreams of bacon and eggs,
She’ll have a little boy
That has got three legs.

The cat washing her face,
The wind will blow,
If the cat licks her foot
It is sure for to snow.
Put your gown, or your jacket
On inside out,
You will change your luck,
And be put to the rout.
If your nose itches,
You’ll get vexed till you jump;
If your great toe itches,
You’ll get kicked on the rump.

If a girl snaps one finger,
She’ll have a child it deems,
And if she snaps two,
She’s sure to have twins;
And if she snaps eight,
Nine, ten, or eleven,
It’s a chance if she don’t
Have twenty and seven.
If you lay with your head
Underneath the clothes,
You’ll have an ugly old man,
What has got no nose.

If you see a star shoot,
You’ll get what you wish,
If a hair get’s in your mouth,
You’ll get as drunk as a fish.
If your little toe itch,
You’ll be lost in a wave,
If you shiver, there’s somebody
Going over your grave.
If you go under a ladder,
You’ll have bad luck and fall,
And some say that bad luck
Is better than none at all.
So to please all outright,
I have told you in rhyme,
The great superstitions
Of the olden time.

Ballads exemplifying the first half of the present Century would be incomplete without some mention of coaching. It was essentially a horsey age, for railways were not, at least during the first quarter, the first (Stockton and Darlington) being opened September 27, 1825, so that people were obliged to rely on horses for their means of locomotion to any distance. Great improvement had been made in the construction of the stagecoaches, and they were very well horsed; in fact, with the exception of their being larger, they were very much like those which now run to Brighton, Guildford, etc.

Bob Logic, who is supposed to have written the subjoined ballad, was the companion of Corinthian Tom and Jerry Hawthorn, whose pranks were so graphically described by Pierce Egan in his “Life in London.” The George Shillibeer who is sung in the last verse was a large coach proprietor, even letting out hearses and mourning-coaches.—Nay, almost everything on wheels. To him is due the introduction of the Omnibus, the first of which ran from the Yorkshire Stingo, Marylebone Road, to the Bank of England, on July 4, 1829.

BOB LOGIC’S DESCRIPTION OF THE NEW BRIGHTON DILIGENCE FOR INSIDE PASSENGERS ONLY.

Bob Logic’s my name, to Brighton I’ve been,
I don’t mean to tell you of all I have seen,
But the New Diligence is so much to my mind,
That to sing in its praise I am fully inclined.

Tippy Jack, whom we all knew, a trump in his day,
Once set off to Brighton, to figure away,
But his gig was upset, so let persons of sense,
Book for Brighton their place in the New Diligence.

There’s nothing so sure, as that pleasure they’ll find,
Secure at all seasons from weather and wind,
And each Goodman will see, when the blasts bitter blow,
The passengers all are secured from the Snow.

For they’re all inside places—no drenching with wet,
In safety and comfort the company set;
As in six hours time they at Brighton arrive,
I am sure that no pleasure can equal the drive.

The Coupé the first in description must be,
This, in English, means Chariot, and will just hold three;
Here a lord, with his lady, and daughter may ride,
As in their own carriage, in splendour and pride.

The next is the Coach, this is fitted for six,
And here is the place where Bob Logic would fix.
In company such as he wishes to be,
Obliging and civil, good-natured and free.

And then comes the Omnibus, four on each side,
Hold you secure in all weathers they ride,
And if it were possible once to upset,
I cannot imagine what harm they could get.

How different the time, when on the outside,
You held fast by the rail, if you went for a ride,
And the loss of a lynch pin, or crack of a spoke,
Was the too certain signal to have your neck broke.

As economy now is the rage of the day,
One Guinea a seat is the price of Coupé,
Sixteen shillings the fare in the Coach large and fine,
And the price in the Omni, twelve namesakes of mine.

’Tis my fate to suggest, so I’ll just give a hint,
As I mean that my song should be put into print,
The new diligence—Constitution to name,
And King, Lords, and Commons each part of the same.

Should their majesties then wish to come up to town,
In prime style they’d be at St. James’s set down,
If they take the Coupé, and Lords take the coach,
With the Commons I would in the Omni approach.

PAPER’D-UP HAIR.

Of all the gay fashions that are come in vogue,
Since wearing the mantle, or bonny red brogue,
There’s none so praiseworthy—you’ll find—I declare,
As the elegant fashion of papering the hair.

The modern dames, both abroad and at home,
Have got such a fashion of wearing the comb;
To church or to market, they cannot repair,
But must take an hour to paper their hair.

When in the evening they chance for to walk,
To see their sweethearts, and with them to talk,
An hour or two they must certainly spare,
To fit in their combs, and to paper their hair.

From walking at evening these ladies retire,
They draw up their seats, and chat by the fire,
The tongs then to warm, they ready prepare,
To squeeze up the papers quite tight in their hair.

And when that these ladies give over their talk,
Then up to the looking-glass straight they will walk,
They’ll dance, and they’ll caper, their arms they will square,
To see if the papers look tight in their hair.

It’s the cheapest of curling that ever was found,
You may do it with pipes, white, black, or brown;
For colour of hair, I suppose they don’t care,
For they tear up the Bible to paper their hair.

All you young lads that are frisky and trig,
Pray shun the old females that wear a false wig;
To toy with a young one, still make it your care,
Whose delight is to trim up, and paper her hair.

Should you meet with a female, whose hair is cut
short,
Among other fair ones she is but a sport;
She looks very shabby and out of repair,
When she’s wanting the comb, and the paper’d-up
hair.

But when they are married, it’s just the reverse,
The paper and combs they quickly disperse;
For nursing and cooking is then their whole care,
They may then bid adieu to the paper’d-up hair.

I LIKES A DROP OF GOOD BEER.

Come one and all, both great and small,
With voices loud and clear,
And let us sing, bless Billy the King,
Who bated the tax upon beer.

Chorus.

For I likes a drop of good beer, I does,
I’se pertickler fond of my beer, I is,
And —— his eyes, whoever he tries
To rob a poor man of his beer.

Let Ministers shape the Duty on Cape,
And cause Port wine to be dear,
So that they keep, the bread and meat cheap,
And gie us a drop of good beer.

In drinking of rum, the maggots will come,
And soon bald pates will appear;
I never goes out, but I carries about,
My little pint noggin of beer.

My wife and I, feel always dry,
At market on Saturday night,
Then a noggin of beer, I never need fear,
For my wife always says it is right.

In harvest field, there’s nothing can yield,
The labouring man such good cheer,
To reap and sow, and make barley grow,
And to give them a skinfull of beer.

The farmer’s board will plenty afford,
Let it come from far, or from near,
And at harvest home, the jug will foam,
If he gives his men plenty of beer.

Long may Queen Victoria reign,
And be to her subjects dear,
And we’ll wallop her foes, wherever we goes,
Only give us a skinfull of beer.

THE SNOB AND THE BOTTLE.

Good people, attend to my song,
And listen to something that’s witty,
It is not too short, or too long,
But concerning town, country and city.
Advice to all tradesmen I give,
Snips, bakers, snobs, grocers and tanners,
I’m a lady possessed of three outs,[12]
I’ve neither wit, money, nor manners,
So pray of the bottle beware.

My old man is a ranting old snob,
He looks in the face like a monkey,
All night like a goose he does sob,
And he’s just as much sense as a donkey.
He sold all the old shoes in the shop,
And poured the contents down his throttle,
All day he sits hugging the pot,
And singing success to the bottle.

He has but one shirt to his back,
And that is all rent into stitches;
He has never a crown to his hat,
He has worn out the seat of his breeches.
An old sack for an apron he wears,
And his nose is as big as a pottle,
Last night he fell over the stairs,
Singing joy and success to the bottle.

Our bed clothes are all up the spout,
And jigs to the lapstone may whistle,
He the chairs and the tables took out,
His leather, awl, lapstone and bristles.
He sold all the lot for a bob,
And sent the proceeds down his throttle,
Bad luck to the drunken old snob,
May the devil take him and the bottle.

My gown the old rogue sold for rags,
Though with him I had a good tussle,
My nightcap he sold for a mag,
And three halfpence my bonnet and bustle.
There’s a hump growing out of his back,
Just nine times as large as a wattle,[13]
Last night he woke up in a fright,
And killed the poor cat with the bottle.

There’s the landlord calls three times a day,
And the butcher and baker, by jingo,
And if the old rogue doesn’t pay,
They’ll shove him for twelve months in limbo,
But they may as well talk to a post,
For the money all goes down his throttle,
Bad luck to the ugly old ghost,
May the devil fetch him and the bottle.

He says unto me, I am poor,
And call me his dear loving doxey,
And when he gets out of the door,
The boys holloa out after him, “Waxey.”
Enough for to drown a bull,
Every morning he pours down his throttle,
Don’t you think that I’ve got a good pull,
With the ranting old snob and the bottle.

The bottle has quite ruined me,
Though quiet and easy I take it;
The bottle has robbed me of tea,
And left me both hungry and naked.
The bottle has robbed the old snob,
And burnt all his tripes and his throttle
And, at length, what an excellent job!
Old Nick fetch’d the snob and the bottle.

RORY O MORE TURNED TEETOTAL.

Young Rory O More who to London had been,
The fashions to see, and make love to the Queen,
Oft swore by the soul of the shamrock so dear,
That he’d bate the young prince, if his father stood near.
By the powers, if he once in his clutches should come,
He’d give him what Paddy bestowed on his drum:
For Rory had leathered his rivals before,
Och! a broth of a boy was bold Rory O More.
Bad cess to the Queen and the Jarmins says he,
I’ve a nice little sheelah across the salt sea,
Her looks beam so brightly on Erin’s green shore,
I’ll go to sweet Kathleen, cried Rory O More.

Then he took little Shiel, and old Dan by the hand,
And wish’d them good bye as he sailed from the land,
He twirl’d round his blackthorn when clean out of sight,
And knock’d down the captain for fun and delight.
But a squall coming on, and a terrible breeze,
The sailors cried, Rory, go down on your knees;
Cried Rory, I’m safe if the ship should go down,
For I paid my Insurance before I left town.
Then pull away, haul away, do as you please,
Blow rough, or blow smooth, I will sit at my ease,
And drink to my friends on the shamrock shore,
Success to old Ireland, cried Rory O More.

Being landed once more at the land of his birth,
The land of shilalieghs, of whiskey, and mirth,
He met Denis Grimes with a face pale and wan,
Och Murther! cried Rory, what’s ailing the man?
Is it temperance you’re being, och! leave off that same,
Come over and take a sly drop of the crame.
Arrah! what do I see? sure my eyes are not clear,
The sign is removed, and there’s Coffee sold here.
Father Mathew[14] himself was passing that way,
And unto bold Rory these words he did say,
For the sake of Hibernia be tipsy no more,
I’ll try my best, father, cried Rory O More.

Of the hurlings and fightings, no more’s to be seen,
But the daughters of Erin trip light o’er the green;
The gaols are all empty, the judges look blue,
The lawyers are starving with nothing to do,
And Rory O More, and his beautiful Kate,
Wear temperance medals, so dasent and nate.
As he looks on his Kathleen, he says with a smile,
That she shall be Queen of the Emerald Isle.
And the shores of Hibernia with gladness shall sound,
And the green hills of Erin once more shall resound,
And this is the cry that shall sound from the shore,
“God bless the Teetotal,” cried Rory O More.

HURRAH FOR FATHER MATHEW’S MILL.

Two jolly old topers once sat at an inn,
Discussing the merits of brandy and gin,
Said one to the other, I’ll tell you what, Bill,
I’ve been hearing, to day, of Father Mathew’s Mill.

You must know that this comical Mill has been built,
Of old broken casks, when the liquor’s been spilt,
You go up the steps, and when at the door sill,
You’ve a paper to sign at Father Mathew’s Mill.

You promise, by signing the paper (I think),
That ale, wine and spirits, you never will drink,
You’ll give up, as they call it, such rascally swill,
And then you go into Father Mathew’s Mill.

There’s a wheel in this Mill that they call “self denial,”
They turn it a bit, just to give you a trial;
Old clothes are made new ones, and if you’ve been ill,
You’re very soon cured in Father Mathew’s Mill.

Bill listened, and wondered, at length he cried out—
“Why, Tom, if it’s true what you’re telling about,
What fools we must be, to be here sitting still,
Let us go and look in at Father Mathew’s Mill.”

They gazed with amazement, for up came a man,
With disease and excesses, his visage was wan,
He mounted the steps—signed the pledge with good will,
And went for a turn in Father Mathew’s Mill.

He quickly came out quite the picture of health,
And walked briskly on in the highway of wealth,
And, as onward he pressed, he shouted out still,
Success to the wheel of Father Mathew’s Mill!

The next that went in were a man and his wife,
For many long years they’d been living in strife,
He had beat and abused her, and swore he would kill,
But his heart took a turn in Father Mathew’s Mill.

And when he came out, oh how altered was he!
His conduct was changed; and how happy was she!
They no more contended—no, you shan’t—yes, I will,
But together they’re blessing Father Mathew’s Mill.

Then next came a fellow as grim as a Turk,
To curse and to swear seemed his principal work,
He swore that that morning, his skin he would fill,
And, drunk as he was, he reeled into the Mill.

But what he saw there, sure I never could tell,
But his Conduct was changed, and his language as well,
I saw, when he turned round the brow of the hill,
That he knelt and thanked God for Father Mathew’s Mill.

The poor were made rich, the rich were made strong,
The shot[15] was made short, and the purse was made long,
These miracles puzzled both Thomas and Bill,
At length they went in for Father Mathew’s Mill.

A little time after, I heard a great shout,
I turned round to see what the noise was about,
And a crowd, among which were both Thomas and Bill,
Were shouting hurrah for Father Mathew’s Mill.

HOW FIVE AND TWENTY SHILLINGS WERE EXPENDED IN A WEEK.

It’s of a tradesman and his wife, I heard the other day,
Who did kick up a glorious row; they live across the way;
The husband proved himself a fool, when his money all was spent,
He asked his wife, upon her life, to say which way it went.

Chorus.

So she reckon’d up, and told him, and showed him quite complete,
How five and twenty shillings were expended in a week.

He says my wages are all gone, and it does me perplex,
Indeed, said she, then list to me, my bonny cock of wax.
Continually you make a noise, and fill the house with strife,
I’ll tell you where your money goes; I will upon my life.

There’s three and twopence house rent; now attend to me she said,
There’s four shillings goes for meat, and three and ninepence, bread,
To wash your nasty dirty shirt, there’s half a pound of soap,
There’s eightpence goes for Coals, old boy, and sixpence wood and Coke.

There’s fourpence for milk and cream, and one and fourpence malt,
Three halfpence goes for vinegar, one halfpenny for salt;
A penny goes for mustard, a halfpenny for thread,
And you gave threepence the other night, for a piece of pig’s head.

A red herring every morning is sevenpence a week,
Sometimes you send me out for fish, you say you can’t eat meat,
Last Monday night you got so drunk, amongst your dirty crew,
It cost two pence next morning for a basin of hot stew.
There’s a penny goes for pepper too, as you shall understand,
Twopence soda, starch and blue, and a halfpenny for sand,
Sevenpence for Candles, a halfpenny for matches,
And a penny worth of Corduroy, I bought to mend your breeches.

A shilling potatoes and greens, with tenpence butter, you see,
Sixpence Coffee, ninepence Sugar, and sevenpence for tea,
There’s a penny goes for this thing, and twopence that and t’other,
Last week you broke a water jug, and I had to buy another.

There’s sixpence for tobacco, and a halfpenny for pipes,
Seven farthings goes for snuff, and twopence halfpenny swipes;
A penny you owed for shaving, over at the Barber’s shop,
And you know last Sunday morning, you’d a bottle of ginger pop.

There’s a penny goes for blacking, and eight pence halfpenny cheese,
A three farthing rushlight every night, to catch the bugs and fleas;
And when you go to the public house, and sit to drink and sing,
I pop into the liquor vaults, to have a drop of gin.

The only reason why the subjoined is given, is to show the numerous small industries by which people could manage to eke out a living in the first half of the century.

THE WAY TO LIVE.

Chorus.

A man and a woman got married one day,
And thus unto each other did say,
As we the world must now begin,
We will deal in every following thing.

She. We will deal in apples, plums and pears,
He. We will mend old bellows and bottom old chairs,
She. We will buy old metal, rope and bags,
He. Yes, and I’ll go out a gathering rags.

She. We will sell red herrings and ginger pop,
He. Hot baked sheep’s head and taters hot,
She. We’ll keep a school of high degree,
He. And learn the children A. B. C,
She. We’ll salt fat bacon, butter and lard,
He. And great long songs for a penny a yard,
She. I’ll sell potash, starch and blues,
He. And I’ll go sweeping the chimney flues.
She. I’ll make bustles and lady’s frills,
He. And I’ll sell mussels and pickled eels,
She. We’ll deal in razors, strops and hones,
He. And I’ll go out a picking up bones,
She. We’ll deal in paper, take in the news,
He. And I’ll go a cobbling ladies’ shoes,
Both. {And we’ll learn the ladies all complete,
{To dance the Polka at threepence a week.

She. We’ll deal in lollipops, sugar and figs,
He. We’ll buy a donkey, ducks hens and pigs,
She. We’ll have a mangle, and buy old clothes,
He. And I’ll make salve for the ladies’ toes.
She. We’ll deal in pickled cabbage and eggs,
He. And make tin dishes and wooden legs.
She. We’ll deal in sausages, tripe and lard,
He. And if we can’t live, ’twill be devilish hard.

She. We’ll deal in Oils, sperm, train and neat,
He. And I’ll make stockings for children’s feet,
She. We will sell hot muffins and home baked bread,
He. Pins and needles, cotton and thread.
She. We’ll grind old razors, scissors and knives,
He. And keep lodgings for single men and their wives,
She. We’ll deal in lobsters, shrimps and sprats,
He. And I’ll sell meat for the ladies’ cats.

She. We’ll deal in fish, fresh, boiled, and fried,
He. And let out donkeys a penny a ride,
She. I will the ladies fortune tell,
He. And I’ll cry, Old umbrellas to sell,
She. We will take in the blooming ladies bright,
He. And sleep in the garret at threepence a night,
She. I’ll sing, Come buy my Crockery ware,
He. And I’ll go dressing the ladies hair.

She. We’ll sell ripe Cherries, pea soup and milk,
He. Oranges, lemons and pickled wilks,
She. Wooden rolling-pins at the Royal Exchange,
He. And if we can’t get on we may think it strange,

(The chorus make up the last four lines of this verse.)

THE CRIES OF LONDON.

Oh! what fun is to be seen in town every day,
There is something to pass dull care away,
Some sort of a cry you are sure for to meet,
In winter and summer as the time of year flies,
You will find in London a melody of cries.[16]

Chorus.

It’s fun for to hear, as you walk up and down,
The fashionable cries of great London town.

A strong deal table to be sold to night,
Penny a lot oysters, come run, fetch a light,
Here’s good eating apples, a penny the lot,
Now who’ll buy a cap or a bonnet box;
Clothes pegs, or lines, buy a clothes prop,
Here’s fine Cauliflowers, who’ll buy a Mop?

Live fleas with a gold chain round their neck,
Here’s fine young peas sixpence a peck,
Songs three yards a penny, Oh! what a lie!
For half of them are not there, what they do cry.
Fine pickled salmon, warranted sound,
And good salt cod, a penny a pound.

Here’s the last dying speech, I forgot to tell,
Fine Cabbage plants, young lambs to sell,
Do you want any matches, ma’m, to day,
Buy a pit ticket, or a bill of the play,
Good strong laces, a halfpenny each,
Two bunches a penny, spring watercress.

Clothes, sale clothes the Jews do cry,
Mutton, Apple, Beef, all hot, toss or buy,
Dust O, dust, and sweep soot O,
Fine pickled eels feet, now here’s a go,
Buy a bird cage, fine summer cabbage,
Walk up now, and see the Indian savage.

Here’s lily white mussels, a penny a quart,
Fine ripe plums, now the blooming sort,
Penny a head celery, a good woman’s cap,
Buy a brush, a hair broom, or a door mat,
Here are mild red herrings, a halfpenny each,
Come move on there, says the New Police.

Wood three bundles a penny, all dry deal,
Now who’ll buy a good flint and steel,
Buy a walking stick, a good ash stump,
Hearth stones, pretty maids, a penny a lump,
Fine mackerel, penny a plateful, sprats,
Dog’s meat, ma’am, for to feed your cats.

Twelve a penny walnuts, crack and try em,
Fine barcelonies, now who’ll buy em?
Here are good mealy potatoes from Paddy’s land,
Good burning turf and lily white sand,
I think, good friends, I have kept you too long,
The next cry is, now who’ll buy my song.

The Modern Police is the outcome of the old Watch, which, always inefficient, had become so much so, as to necessitate its abolition, and, under the auspices of Sir Robert Peel[17] the “New Police,” as they were called, were formed, and they commenced their duties on September 29, 1829. Until a very recent time they wore swallow-tailed coats and tall hats, and were the subjects of good-humoured witticisms from all. There is no doubt but that the change of costume to the tunic and helmet has induced a better class of men to join the force, and has raised its standard of efficiency immensely. Whitaker for 1888 gives the number of the Metropolitan Police as 13,855.

THE HONEST POLICEMAN OF MITCHAM.

Some Policemen are right honest men,
And some we know are gluttons,
Some cookey darling courting goes,
To taste her roasted mutton:

Some can twirl the rolling-pin
If girls should them draw nigh, sir,
Some are fond of rabbit skins,
And some of rabbit pie, sir.

A house the Sergeant had to keep,
At least for to look after,
He was a guardian of the peace,
And had a wife and daughter.

The Sergeant in the parlour lived,
And his lady in the kitchen,
And such a game they carried on,
Good lack a day, at Mitcham.

Such a lot of property was there,
Belonging to Captain Higging,
And so it seems the Sergeant and
His lady went a prigging.

They took the sofas and the beds,
The blankets and the cradles,
The silver plate, the chamber mug,
Chairs and mahogany tables.

Two hundred sovereigns worth of goods,
Pianoforte and shawls, sir,
And then for safety placed them in
The hands of Uncle Balls, Sir.

The neighbours say they had as much
As they could well desire,
And then to hide the wicked deed,
They set the place on fire.

The Captain of his rights,
They did so nicely fleece him,
But great suspicion fell upon
The Sergeant of Policemen.

The Sergeant thought to cut his stick,
And bolt across the water,
But Justice the Policeman caught,
His honest wife and daughter.

Alas! poor Bob has gone to quod,
And that I know won’t suit him,
They know him well at Mitcham, and
In Merton, and in Tooting.

For soon he will his trial take,
And hard bull beef be munching,
He’ll lose his lantern, coat and cape,
And curse his wooden truncheon.

To steal another’s goods his hands,
And fingers were a itching
And he will run and look so blue,
About the job at Mitcham.

Poor Sergeant Bob has gone to quod
A place that does not suit him,
They know him well at Merton round,
In Mitcham and in Tooting.

When the present Police force was first organized it was composed of men decidedly inferior in physique, intelligence, and education, to those constables whose protection we now enjoy. They were made the butt of every kind of coarse witticism, and were generally addressed by some slang name. Above all they were chaffed for their supposed partiality for the society of Cooks, and I reproduce one ballad bearing on this subject, a parody of the song of “Katty Darling.”

COOKEY DARLING.

I’m waiting at the airey, Cookey, darling,
Your fire brims brightly, I can see:
Then hasten to your peeler, Cookey, darling,
For you know, my love, I’m waiting for thee.[18]
You know that ’twas last night you gave me
Only half a leg of mutton and a goose,
Then hasten to your peeler, Cookey darling,
Or on Sunday I shan’t be of any use.
Cookey, stunning Cookey!

I’m waiting at the airey, Cookey, darling,
Then bring me up something good to eat,
Some lush for my stomach to be warming,
And the grub I’ll put away on my beat.
I can see wine, too, on the table,
Sent down because it was not bright,
To drink it, Cookey, you know I am able,
My love, you know, to put it out of sight.
Cookey, stunning Cookey!

I can see pies and puddings, Cookey darling,
Veal, ham, and every thing so nice,
I’m sure I shall go mad, Cookey darling,
If off that beef I haven’t a two pound slice.
But I hear the sergeant coming,
Full well I know his power,
Then get the grub ready, Cookey darling,
And I’ll be back in half an hour.
Cookey, stunning Cookey!

I SHOULD LIKE TO BE A POLICEMAN.

Some folks may talk about a trade,
And the joys that from it spring, Sirs,
And after you my words have weighed,
You’ll say it’s no such thing, Sirs.
Though at me you may jeer and laugh,
My joys think to decrease, man,
But I mean to say, (and I do not chaff,)
I should like to be a policeman.

Chorus.

Taking up and knocking down,
Your noise and bother cease, man,
O, won’t I come it jolly brown,
When I’m a new Policeman.

Of the boys, I’d be the terror, mind,
The fruit stalls, too, I’d sell ’em,
And disturbance of every kind,
I with my staff would quell ’em,
A “charge” would be as good as pelf,
My pleasures ’twould increase, man,
For I’d make the “charges” up myself,
When I’m a new Policeman.

To the kitchen maids like wax I’d stick,
And tho’ I’m not a glutton,
(The thoughts on’t makes me my chops lick)
Oh, I likes a bit of mutton.
When in my toggery I’m arrayed,
From me there’s no release, man,
The boldest of men would be afraid,
If I was a new Policeman.

A drunken man’s a chance I’d hail,
It would my ear delight, Sir,
To search him well I would not fail,
For right is naught to might, Sir.
I’d turn his pockets inside out,
And quickly would him flay, man,
And who would dare to harbour doubt,
Against a new Policeman.

The cracksmen too, should tip to me,
Or else I would soon lag ’em,
But if they did, I should not see,
That is I should not “stag” ’em.
And, if amusement I should lack,
Tho’ I’m one that likes the peace, man,
A pate or two, I’d surely crack,
I should like to be a Policeman.

The prospect does me much delight,
I mount on wings of joy, Sir,
It does to wealth and fame invite,
And pleasure without alloy, Sir,
When I’m established in the force,
I’ll have a bob a piece, man,
From lushy swells, or I’ll lock ’em up,
I should like to be a Policeman.

This was a famous fight between these two redoubtable heroes, famous even in the bad old times of the Ring. Caunt was a man of gigantic height who kept a somewhat disreputable public-house in St. Martin’s Lane, into which, in my young days, it was hardly safe to enter. A fire occurred there, and some of his children were burnt. William Thompson, alias Bendigo, was a native of Nottingham, and was a professional pugilist from his twenty-first year of age.

BENDIGO, CHAMPION OF ENGLAND.

(A New Song on the Great Fight between Bendigo and Caunt, for the Belt and £400, which took place at Witchwood, on Tuesday September 9th 1845.)

Ye ranting lads, and sporting blades, come listen to my song,
I’m sure that it will please you well, and will not keep you long.
Concerning the great milling match that lately has been fought,
Between great Caunt and Bendigo, two lads of the right sort.

Chorus.

So we’ll drink success to Bendigo, who showed such gallant play,
For by his skill, he won the mill, and bore the prize away.

On the ninth day of September, eighteen hundred, forty five,
To Witchwood for to see the fight, the sporting coves did drive,
While some did laugh, and some did chaff, and of their man did vaunt,
Some bet their ten on Bendigo, and some on giant
Caunt.

And when the ground was ready, both those champions quickly peeled,
Two braver men on England’s ground did never take the field,
The fancy swore they were top mark,—an honour to the ring,
Two stouter hearts had never met, since Langan and Tom Spring.

Both men shook hands, and the prize belt, it straightway was brought in,
There let it hang says Bendigo, till the best man does win,
That won’t be little Bendigo, then Caunt he did reply,
For I’ll belt your hide till you’re satisfied, then at him he did fly.

Is that the way? says Bendigo, here, take it back again,
He made a job of poor Caunt’s nob, and hammered it amain.
This furious work soon drew the cork of Caunt’s poor claret bottle,
While Caunt returned the compliment, made Bendi’s ribs to rattle.

Twenty four rounds these heroes fought, none could tell which was the best,
But Bendigo in the next round, struck Caunt on the left breast.
Which made him stagger round the ring, and fall upon the ground,
Says Bendigo, I’ll have the belt, and the four hundred pound.

But Caunt did boldly come again, and showed some gallant play,
Yet Bendigo would strike a blow, and quickly get away.
Until in round the eighty fourth, he gave some ugly blows,
Which left his mark on the staring part, and fairly spoilt Caunt’s nose.

Eighty eight rounds were fought, when Caunt he could not rise,
And all declared the Bendy cock had fairly won the prize.
The Tipton Slasher now may come, but soon he’ll get to know,
That he was not quite big enough to wollop Bendigo.

This fight scarcely comes within the scope of this work, but I introduce it, because it was supposed to be the last of Prizefighting. Unfortunately, the brutal sport has been revived, but it can never attain the dimensions and importance it enjoyed during the latter part of the reign of George III. and the whole of that of George IV. Gully was page to that monarch and M.P. for Pontefract, and Jackson was a gentleman, after his kind.

Sayers was of Irish extraction, though born at Brighton. Heenan’s parents were also Irish, although America was the place of his birth. The fight between these two took place on April 17, 1860, near Farnborough. They fought thirty-seven rounds in two hours and twenty minutes. Sayers was all but helpless, and Heenan, although full of fight—indeed, he ran amuck of every body at last—was blind, when the police and spectators broke into the ring, and a more disgraceful scene was never witnessed, even at a prize-fight. Many noblemen and Members of Parliament attended this fight; in fact, many of the latter made a subscription in Sayers’ behalf, as also did the Members of Lloyd’s, the Stock Exchange, and the brokers in Mark Lane—clogged, however, with the condition that he should fight no more. Altogether over three thousand pounds were subscribed and invested for the benefit of his children, he receiving the interest for life. He became partner and afterwards proprietor of Howe’s and Cushing’s Circus—at which he lost all the money he had. He drank fearfully, and shortly afterwards died of consumption, aged thirty-nine. His tomb may be seen in Highgate Cemetery.

THE BOLD IRISH YANKEY BENICIA BOY.

Attend, you sons of Erin, and listen with delight,
To a ditty, ’tis concerning the great and glorious fight,
On the seventeenth of April, when thousands went with joy,
To see the English champion, and the bold Benicia boy.

Chorus.

He is young, bold and powerful, no care does him annoy,
He can boldly stand ’gainst any man, and fib away with joy;
And he’ll beat the English champion, will the bold Benicia boy.

His father, an Irishman, from the King’s County came,
His son is a bold Benicia boy, young Heenan is his name,
The British ring, he did step in, and came up to the scratch,
When Sayers, the English champion, found that he’d got his match.

It was early in the morning, before the cock did crow,
Unto the scene of action these gallant lads did go.
Both men did fight most manfully, to win each one did try,
But they both appeared determined to conquer or to die.

At seven in the morning both men were on the ground,
Heenan floored the gallant champion in nearly every round,
The claret flew in torrents,—each other they did fib,
There’s never been such a battle since the days of old Tom Cribb.

They two hours and six minutes fought—each proved himself a man,
And neither of them would give in while he’d a leg to stand,
But the fight was all in favour of the brave Benicia boy,
When the bobbies bolted in the ring, and did his hopes destroy.

Tom Sayers said he soon would lick the Yankee doodle doo,
But Tom found out at Farnborough, he’d have his work to do.
I’ll bet a pound to half a crown, and stake it all myself,
If they fight again, the Yankee boy, will carry off the belt.

When Heenan was in Derbyshire, preparing for the fight,
They hunted him, like bloodhounds, in the middle of the night.
But he was nothing daunted, but to the ring did fly,
Determined that he’d conquer, gain the victory, or die.

There never were two better men, and none could be more game,
They are both two gallant heroes of honour and of fame.
Then fill a flowing bumper, and jovially drink their health,
May the best man win and conquer, and carry off the belt.

When Heenan came to England, far from a distant land,
They said he was a fool to come, to face an Englishman,
But they were all mistaken when they saw the glorious battle,
Heenan cooked the champion’s bacon, and made his daylights rattle.

Of course, it was only in the nature and fitness of things that Henry Russell’s extremely popular song, “I’m Afloat,” should be parodied, and of all that I remember, I think the following was most sung in the streets. The present Cad, or ’Arry, is bad enough in all conscience, but the Gent of those days was worse. How Albert Smith did scarify him!

I’M A GENT.

I’m a Gent, I’m a Gent, I’m a Gent ready made,
I roam through the Quadrant and Lowther Arcade,
I’m a registered swell from my head to my toe,
I wear a moustache, and a light paletot.

I’ve a cane in my hand, and a glass in my eye,
And I wink at the girls, demme! as they go by,
Then lor! how they giggle to win my regards,
And I hear them all say—He’s a gent in the Guards.

I’m a Gent, I’m a Gent, in the Regent Street style,
Examine my wesket, and look at my tile,
There are gents, I dare say, who are handsomer far,
But none who can puff with such ease, a cigar.

I can sing a flash song, I can play on the horn,
I like Sherry Cobblers, I’m fond of Cremorne,
I love the Cellarius,[19] the Polka[20] I dance,
And I’m rather attached to a party from France.

This gal I adore is a creature divine,
Though devilishly partial to lobsters and wine,
She was struck with my figure—and caught—with a hook,
For I took her to visit my uncle the duke.

Louis Antoine Jullien was born at Sisteron, Basses Alpes, April 23, 1812. His father was a band-master, hence probably his love of music. He knew well how to cater for a popular taste, and to him we owe not only the Promenade Concerts, which have brought good music into the amusements of the people, but a vast improvement in the English orchestra. His band was the best of its time; indeed, he spared no expense to procure the very best instrumental and vocal performers. He died March 14, 1860. As a composer, dance music was his great forte, and he was the first to seize on the Polka, which was introduced into England about 1844. This dance became an absolute furore. Everything was Polka—Polka jackets, bonnets, cigars, etc. In fact, as one popular song ran—

“Don’t you dance the Polka?
Won’t you dance the Polka?
Joys of earth are little worth,
If you don’t dance the Polka.”

JULLIEN’S GRAND POLKA.

Oh! sure the world is all run mad,
The lean, the fat, the gay, the sad,—
All swear such pleasure they never had,
Till they did learn the Polka.

Chorus.

First cock up your right leg so,
Balance on your left great toe,
Stamp your heels and off you go,
To the original Polka. Oh!

There’s Mrs. Tibbs the tailor’s wife,
With Mother Briggs is sore at strife,
As if the first and last of life,
Was but to learn the Polka.

Quadrilles and Waltzes all give way,
For Jullien’s Polkas bear the sway,
The chimney sweeps, on the first of May,
Do in London dance the Polka.

If a pretty girl you chance to meet,
With sparkling eyes and rosy cheek,
She’ll say, young man we’ll have a treat,
If you can dance the Polka.

A lady who lives in this town,
Went and bought a Polka gown,
And for the same she gave five pound
All for to dance the Polka.

But going to the ball one night,
On the way she got a dreadful fright,
She tumbled down, and ruined quite,
The gown to dance the Polka.

A Frenchman he has arrived from France
To teach the English how to dance,
And fill his pocket,—“what a chance”—
By gammoning the Polka.

Professors swarm in every street,
’Tis ground on barrel organs sweet,
And every friend you chance to meet,
Asks if you dance the Polka.

Then over Fanny Ellsler came,
Brilliant with trans-Atlantic fame,
Says she I’m German by my name,
So best I know the Polka.

And the row de dow she danced,
And in short clothes and red heels pranced,
And, as she skipped, her red heels glanced
In the Bohemian Polka.

But now my song is near its close,
A secret, now, I will disclose,
Don’t tell, for it’s beneath the rose,
A humbug is the Polka.

Then heigh for humbug France or Spain,
Who brings back our old steps again,
Which John Bull will applaud amain
Just as he does the Polka.

A “Hoy” was a one-masted vessel, sometimes with a boom to the mainsail, and sometimes not; rigged very much like a cutter. They are said to have taken their name from being hailed (“Ahoy”) to stop to take in passengers. The good people of that date were rather given to stay at home, or not go farther seawards than Gravesend. Ramsgate and Margate were long voyages, and in truth they were so sometimes; in rough weather they were sometimes two days or more making the passage. But there were other dangers, vide Drakard’s Paper, October 3, 1813:—“The British Queen, Margate Hoy, detained full of passengers, for having accidentally had communication with a vessel performing quarantine, has been since released by orders from the Admiralty. The distresses of the passengers partook of the serio-comic: at first provisions were very scanty, and they had no prospect but seven weeks of durance. This to the trippers to the seaside for a week would have been a serious affair.”

MARGATE HOY.

Now’s the season for laughing and jollity,
Crowding together, all nations and quality,
Margate, a hoi, as I halloa cry,
All come on board while the sea breezes blow.[21]

Swift as an arrow from bow flies to target,
Or packet from dear little Dublin to Parkgate,
I’ll waft you all safe from London to Margate,
And whistle a wind as we cheerily go.

Bucks who hunt fashion like quick scented mousers,
Leave town, it exhibits no sport for ye now, sirs,
So pull off your boots, and put on your trousers,
To join the gay throng where the sea breezes blow.

Pretty men milliners, fresh water sailors,
Smart, ’prentices, aldermen, actors, and tailors,
Let me and old ocean a while be your jailors,
I’ll sing, as he rocks, while you cheerily go.
Now’s the season, etc.

CRYSTAL PALACE.

Britannia’s sons an attentive ear
One moment lend to me,
Whether tillers of our fruitful soil,
Or lords of high degree.
Mechanic too and artizan,
Old England’s pride and boast,
Whose wondrous skill has spread around
Far, far from Britain’s coast.

Chorus.

For the great world’s Exhibition,
Let’s shout with loud huzza,
All Nations never can forget
The glorious First of May.

From every quarter of the Globe
They come across the sea,
And to the Crystal Palace
The wonders for to see;
Raised by the handwork of men
Born on British ground
A Challenge to the universe
It’s equal to be found.

Each friendly nation in the world,
Have their assistance lent,
And to this Exhibition
Have their productions sent;
And with honest zeal and ardour,
With pleasure do repair,
With hands outstretched and gait erect,
To the world’s great National Fair.

The sons of England and France,
And America likewise,
With other nations to contend
To bear away the prize.
With pride depicted in their eyes,
View the offspring of their hand,
Oh, surely England’s greatest wealth
Is an honest working man.

It is a glorious sight to see
So many thousands meet,
Not heeding creed or country,
Each other friendly greet.
Like Children of one mighty Sire
May that sacred tie ne’er cease
May the blood-stained sword of war give way
To the olive branch of peace.

But—hark—the trumpets flourish,
Victoria does approach,
That she may be long spared to us
Shall be our reigning toast.
I trust each heart it will respond,
To what I now propose.
Good will and plenty to her friends,
And confusion to her foes.

Great praise is due to Albert,
For the good that he has done,
May others follow in his steps
The work he has begun,
Then let us all with one accord,
His name give with three cheers,
Shout Huzza for the Crystal Palace,
And the World’s Great National Fair.

SHEEP’S EYES FOR EVER.[22]

Said Hodge, one day, to his son Ned,
“Good news for Neddy,—
I think it’s time that thou should’st wed;”
“Woat’s coming now?” thought Neddy.
“Old age, thou see’st, creeps on apace,
Old Time has led me a pretty long chace,
And thou should’st wed to keep up our race.”
“We’ll au’ll do what au con,” says Neddy.

“There’s farmer Giles’s daughter, Sue,”—
“Au knows her reet weel,” says Neddy,
“Well, her, my lad, I’d have you woo,”—
“She’s but so so,” thought Neddy.
“But tell me feythur, when au goa to woo,
Whot au mun say, aun what au mun do,
For if au knowe, au’m a Turk or a Jew,
But au’ll do whot au con,” says Neddy.

Says farmer Hodge “Come, listen, my son,”
Straight pricked up his ears, did Neddy,
“And I’ll tell thee the way thy mother I won,”
“Now for some fun,” thought Neddy.
“I wink’d, and I blink’d, and I look’d mighty shy,
At her, askance I threw a sheep’s eye,
Till she no longer my suit could deny;”
“Au’ll do it, by Gour,” says Neddy.

So, early next day, to a butcher he went,
Right full of glee was Neddy,
And three or four shillings in sheep’s eyes he spent,
On the wings of love flew Neddy.
And when to the damsel he came to woo,
Out of his pocket some sheep’s eyes drew,
Which one by one at the damsel he threw,
“Au have hur, cock-sure,” says Neddy.

The delicate damsel stood with surprise,
Still firing away kept Neddy,
“What the deuce do you mean by these nasty sheep’s eyes?”
“Ask my feythur abewt it,” says Neddy.
The joke was so good, she could not withstand,
And said, “My purse and money are at your command,”
And dropt him a curtsey, and gave him her hand,
“Sheep’s eyes for ever!” cried Neddy.

CAB, CAB, CAB.[23]

I goes out a cab driving,
And oft the long day through,
In spite of all contriving,
I scarcely make a do.
A Hansom Cab I’ve got,
A handsome horse to trot,
Cab, Cab, Cab, your honour, Cab,
I’ll take you like a shot.

Now, If you’ll hear my ditty,
I’ll tell how I was done,
By a fat man in the City,
Of two and twenty stone.
I plied at Holborn Hill,
Says he, to Pentonville,
Cab, Cab, Cab, I want a Cab,
Drive fast and show your skill.

My horse’s eyes I kivered,
While he got in; you know
If he’d see’d his weight he’d differed
And perhaps refused to go.
To Pentonville I went,
When to me says this here gent,
Cab, Cab, Cab, here’s some mistake,
’Tis Pimlico I meant.

To Pimlico I took him,
My horse as you’d suppose,
This job did nearly cook him,
When again the check string goes.
He says to me, Hallo!
Hold hard a bit, go slow,
Cab, Cab, Cab, you’re wrong again,
Turn back and drive to Bow.

I didn’t like to grumble,
But mounted it once more,
All the way to Bow did trundle,
Where he stopped me as before.
Says he, when there he’d rode,
This isn’t my abode,
Cab, Cab, Cab, I think you’re drunk,
This ain’t the Edgware Road!

Of course I felt vexatious,
But I my temper kept,
To Edgware Road, good gracious,
I took him every step.
My horse was quite done brown,
And I began to frown,
Cab, Cab, Cab, what are you at?
I live at Horseleydown.

To Horseleydown I drive him,
When my horse lay down—don’t grin—
But shelter none would give him,
Think’s I, he’s got no tin!
Where shall I now repair?
To the devil—I don’t care—
Not there, I guess, says I, unless
You give me my back fare!

THE RUSH LIGHT.[24]

Sir Solomon Simons when he did wed,
Blush’d black as a crow, his fair lady did blush light,
The clock struck twelve, they were both tuck’d in bed,
In the chimney a Rush light,
A little farthing Rush light,
Fal, lal, lal, lal, la,
A little Farthing Rush light.

Sir Solomon gave his Lady a nudge,
Cries he, Lady Simons there’s vastly too much light,
Then, Sir Solomon, says she, to get up you can’t grudge,
And blow out the Rush light
The little Farthing Rush light,
Fal, lal, lal, lal, la,
The little Farthing Rush light,

Sir Solomon then out of bed pops his toes,
And vastly he swore, and very much did curse light,
And then to the Chimney, Sir Solomon he goes,
And he puff’d at the Rush light,
The little Farthing Rush light,
Fal, lal, lal, lal, la,
The little Farthing Rush light.

Lady Simons gets out in her night-cap so neat,
And over the carpet my lady did brush light,
And there Sir Solomon she found in a heat,
Puffing at the Rush light.
Then she puff’d at the Rush light,
But neither of them both,
Could blow out the Rush light.

Sir Solomon and lady, their breath quite gone,
Rang the bells in a rage, determined to crush light,
Half asleep in his shirt then up came John,
And he puff’d at the Rush light,
The little Farthing Rush light,
But neither of the three
Could blow out the Rush light.

Cook, Coachee, men and maids, very near all in buff,
Came, and swore, in their lives they never met with such light,
And each of the family by turns had a puff,
At the little Farthing Rush light,
The curst Farthing Rush light,
But none of the family
Could blow out the Rush light.

The Watchman at last went by, crying One,
Here, Watchman, come up, than you we might on worse light,
Then up came the Watchman, the Bus’ness was done,
For he turn’d down the Rush light,
The little Farthing Rush light,
Fal, lal, lal, lal, la,
So he put out the Rush light.

IF I HAD A DONKEY WOT WOULDN’T GO.

If I had a donkey wot wouldn’t go,
D’ye think I’d wallop him? no, no, no!
But gentle means I’d try, d’ye see,
Because I hate all cruelty;
If all had been like me, in fact,
There’d have been no occasion for Martin’s[25] Act,
Dumb animals to prevent being crack’d,
On the head.

Chorus.

If I had a donkey wot wouldn’t go,
I never would wollop him, no, no, no!
I’d give him some hay, and cry Gee! who!
And come up, Neddy.

What makes me mention this, the more,
I see’d that cruel chap, Bill Bore,
Whilst he was a crying out his greens,
His donkey wollop with all his means.
He hit him over the head and thighs,
He brought the tears into my eyes,
At last my blood began to rise,
And I said, etc.

Bill turned to me and said, “Then perhaps,
You’re one of these Mr. Martin’s chaps,
Wot’s now a seeking for occasion,
All for to lie an information.”
Though this I stoutly did deny,
Bill up and gave me a blow in the eye,
And I replied, as I let fly
At his head, etc.

As Bill and I did break the peace,
To us came up the New Police,
And hiked us off, as sure as fate,
Afore the sitting Magistrate;
I told his worship all the spree,
And, for to prove my veracity,
I wish’d he would the animal see,
For I said, etc.

Bill’s donkey was ordered into Court,
In which he caus’d a deal of sport,
He cock’d his ears, and op’d his jaws,
As if he wish’d to plead his cause.
I prov’d I’d been uncommonly kind,
The ass got a verdict—Bill got fin’d;
For his worship and me was of one mind,
And he said, etc.

SHOVEL AND BROOM.

Though I’m but a Chimney Sweep I took a ticket
To go on one evening to Dusty Tom’s room,
Who dancing now teaches—he knows how to kick it,
For which he has quitted the shovel and broom,
For bow and the fiddle, pouchette down the middle,
He’s quitted for ever the shovel and broom.
The shovel and broom, the shovel and broom,
He has quitted for ever the shovel and broom.

I got for my partner, Paulina, the daughter,
Of Master Mount saddle, the Angel Inn groom,
Her red lips and plump figure made my mouth water,
And I fell in love, as ve valtzed round the room.
O, sich a creatur! my eye, vot a creatur!
A partner so fit for a knight of the broom,
The shovel and broom, a knight of the broom,
A partner so fit for a knight of the broom.

The whole of next morning I thought of her beauties,
And I, my employment could hardly resume,
Neglected, in fact, my professional duties,
And valtzed in the streets, as I’d valtzed in the room.
Till Jack Cragg the Carter, cried, Vot are you arter?
There twisting about with your shovel and broom,
Your shovel and broom, your shovel and broom,
For I valtzed in the mud with my shovel and broom.

Soon after, her father called me from the Cellar,
To a job at his lodging, a first floor back room,
As Pauline was alone there, I ventured to tell her
My love—but she vondered how I could presume,
In the sphere I was moving, to talk about loving,
And she turned up her nose at my shovel and broom.
My shovel and broom, my shovel and broom,
She turned up her nose at my shovel and broom.

To implore her I fell on my knees, but by Gemini,
She spurned me and quitted the room in a fume,
So bewildered was I, when my boy left the chimney,
I called him Pauline, as he stood with his broom,
Then ’cos the young beggar did grin like a nigger,
I battered his head with my shovel and broom.
My shovel and broom, my shovel and broom,
I battered his head with my shovel and broom.

O, this was my first love, and thus I was cross’d,
Ah, scorned by Paulina, how hard is my doom,
I grow moloncolly, this vorld I am lost in,
No more I’ll go valtzing in Dusty Tom’s room.
But think of her scorning, crying sveep of a morning—
And veep as I vorks vith my shovel and broom.
My shovel and broom, my shovel and broom,
I’ll veep as I vorks with my shovel and broom.

This ballad was, during its run, as popular as any street song I remember. It had been forgotten, when Robson, that prince of genuine comic actors, introduced it into the farce of “The Wandering Minstrel,” and it fairly took the town by storm.

VILIKINS AND HIS DINAH.

Oh! ’tis of a rich merchant,
In London did dwell,
He had but one daughter,
An uncommon nice young gal!
Her name it was Dinah,
Scarce sixteen years old,
She had a large fortune
In silver and gold.
Singing Too-ral-loo, etc.

As Dinah was valking
In the garden vun day,

Spoken—(It was the front garden, not the back garden.)

Her papa came up to her,
And thus he did say,
Go, dress yourself, Dinah,
In gor-ge-ous array
And I’ll get you a husband,
Both val-ly-ant and gay.
Singing Too-ral-loo, etc.

Spoken—This is what the infant progeny said to the author of her being.

Oh, papa! oh, papa!
I’ve not made up my mind,
To marry just yet
I do not feel inclined,
And all my large fortune,
I’ll freely give o’er,
If you’ll let me stay single
A year or two more.
Singing Too-ral-loo, etc.

This is what the indignant parient replied—I represent the father.

Then go, boldest daughter,
The parient replied,
If you don’t consent to be
This here young man’s bride,
I’ll leave your large fortune
To the nearest of kin,
And you shan’t have the benefit
Of one single pin.
Singing Too-ral-loo, etc.

Now comes the epiflabbergastrinum of the lovier.

As Vilikins vas valking
The garden around—

(The aforesaid front garden,)

He spied his dear Dinah
Lying dead on the ground,
A cup of cold pison
It laid by her side,
And a billy dux stating
By pison she died.

Taken inwardly, Singing Too-ral-loo, etc.
This is what the lovier did.

Then he kissed her cold corpus
A thousand times o’er,
He called her his Dinah—
Though she was no more!
He swallowed the pison
Like a true lovier brave,
And Vilikins and his Dinah
Lie a-buried in one grave.

Both on ’em Singing Too-ral-loo, etc.

Moral.

Now all you young vimmen,
Take a warning by her,
And never by any means
Disobey the guv’ner:
And all you young fellers,
Mind who you clap eyes on,
Think on Vilikins and Dinah
And the cup of cold pison.

Else you’ll be singing Too-ral-loo, etc.

THE EXCISEMAN OUTWITTED.

To a village that skirted the sea,
An Exciseman, one midsummer, came,
But prudence, between you and me,
Forbids me to mention his name.
Soon Michael he chanced to espy,
A cask on his shoulder he wore,
With six gallons of brandy, or nigh,
And where is the man can bear more?

Says th’ Exciseman, let’s see your Permit,
Says Mike, ’Tain’t convenient to show it,
T’other cried, Sir, I’m not to be bit,
For you’ve smuggled that stuff, and you know it.
Your hogs to a fine market you’ve brought,
For seeing you’ve paid no excise,
As Custom has settled you ought,
I seize on your tub, as my prize.

Now, do not be hard, said poor Mike,
The Exciseman was deaf to complaint,
Why then, take it, said Mike, if you like,
For I’ve borne it till ready to faint.
For miles in hot sunshine they trudg’d,
Till on them, they scarce had a dry rag,
Th’ Exciseman his labour ne’er grudged,
But carefully carried his cag.

To the Custom House, in the next town,
’Twas yet some three furlongs or more,
Then says Michael, pray set your load down,
For this here, Sir, is my Cottage door.
’Tother answered, I thank you, friend, No,
My burden, just yet, I shan’t quit,
Then, says Michael, before you do go
I’ll get you to read my permit.

Your Permit! Why not show it before?
Because it came into my nob,
By your watching for me on the shore,
That your worship was wanting a job.
Now, I’d need of a porter, d’ye see,
For that load made my bones for to crack,
And so, Sir, I thank you for me,
And wish you a pleasant walk back.

GILES SCROGGINS GHOST.

Giles Scroggin courted Molly Brown,
Fol de riddle lol, de riddle lido,
The fairest wench in all the town,
Fol de riddle, etc.
He bought her a ring with a posy true,
If you loves I, as I loves you,
No knife can cut our loves in two.
Fol de riddle, etc.

But Scissars cut, as well as knives,
Fol de riddle, etc.
And quite unsartain’s all our lives,
Fol de riddle, etc.
The day they were to have been wed,
Fate’s scissars cut poor Giles’s thread,
So they could not be mar-ri-ed.
Fol de riddle, etc.

Poor Molly laid her down to weep,
Fol de riddle, etc.
And cried herself quite fast asleep,
Fol de riddle, etc.
When standing fast by her bed-post,
A figure tall, her sight engross’d,
And it cried, I be Giles Scroggin’s ghost.
Fol de riddle, etc.

The ghost it said all solemnly,
Fol de riddle, etc.
Oh! Molly, you must go with me,
Fol de riddle, etc.
All to the grave your love to cool,
Says she, I am not dead, you fool,
Says the ghost, says he, vy, that’s no rule.
Fol de riddle, etc.

The ghost then seiz’d her all so grim,
Fol de riddle, etc.
All for to go along with him,
Fol de riddle, etc.
Come, come, said he, e’er morning beam,
I von’t, said she, and scream’d a scream,
Then she woke, and found she’d dream’d a dream.
Fol de riddle, etc.

THE STRANGE MAN.

There was a man, tho’ it’s not very common,
And as people say he was born of a woman;
And, if it be true, as I have been told,
He was once a mere infant, but age made him old.
Derry down.

His face was the oddest that ever was seen,
His mouth stood across ’twixt his nose and his chin;
Whenever he spoke it was then with his voice,
And in talking he always made some sort of noise.
Derry down.

He’d an arm on each side to work when he pleased,
But he never worked hard when he lived at his ease,
Two legs he had got to make him complete,
And what is more odd, at each end were his feet.
Derry down.

His legs, as folks say, he could move at his will,
And when he was walking he never stood still,
If you were to see him, you’d laugh till you burst,
For one leg or the other would always be first.
Derry down.

And, as people say, if you gave him some meat,
Why, if he was hungry, he surely would eat,
And when he is dry, if you give him the pot,
The liquor most commonly runs down his throat.
Derry down.

If this whimsical fellow had a river to cross,
If he could not get over, he staid where he was,
He seldom or ever got off the dry ground,
So great was his luck, that he never was drowned.
Derry down.

Another misfortune befel this poor yeoman,
For when he was married his wife was a woman,
And if you’ll believe me tho’ he was revil’d,
You may truly aver he was never with child.
Derry down.

And if it be true, as I have heard tell,
When he was sick, he was not very well,
He gave a large gasp, open’d his mouth so wide,
And, by some means or other, this poor fellow died.
Derry down.

But the reason he died, and the cause of his death,
Was owing, poor soul, to the want of more breath,
And now he is left in the grave for to moulder,
Had he lived a day longer, he’d have been a day older.
Derry down.

A SIGHT FOR A FATHER.

What a pleasure it is to have a good wife,
One that is steady and willing,
To help and to comfort a man through his life,
One who knows how to eke out a shilling.
With my own little wife I can’t grumble at all,
But my family’s a rummy lot, rather,
Thirteen boys and girls I can count, great and small
Now there’s a fine sight for a father!

There’s Anna Maria, a young woman grown,
How often I wish she would marry!
She goes out every night (I can’t keep her at home)
With a young chap who calls himself Harry.
Out of doors, once, I bolted her tight,
And on the door I put a bar there,
But she said “Let me in, or I’ll stop out all night.”
Now there was a sight for a father!

Our Tom was so proud, he vowed he would be
Either a Squire or a Knight, Sir,
So to better his fortune he bolted from me,
And for many years kept out of sight, sir.
I stept in a shop to get shaved t’other day,
And my face was covered with lather,
When I found it was Tom who was scraping away,
Now here was a sight for a father!

On going home once, there was the devil to pay,
My wife she was calling for water,
From the neighbours I learnt some man ran away
With Amelia, my good-looking daughter.
My youngest girl Nance, on the very same day,
Wrote a letter, which made me mad rather,
To say she was in a particular way.
Now here was a sight for a father!

I’ve three great hulking boys, who in service won’t stop,
They’re too lazy to earn their own victuals,
They only seem happy when in the gin-shop,
And I’m told they’re all sharpers at skittles.
I get up every night to let in the dears,
But as soon as they spy their mamma there,
They jump into my bed, and I sleep on the chairs.
Now there’s a fine sight for a father!

There’s my last daughter Bet, the worst of them yet,
Her heart must be hard as the path stones,
For she’s run away with a queer-looking chap,
Who goes about selling of hearth stones.
With a bag on her back I met her once plump,
(I couldn’t help wishing her farther)
Crying out, “Hearth stones, a penny a lump.”
Now here was a sight for a father!

Now all married men, pray take my advice,
And if you would keep your honest right, Sirs,
Don’t let your daughters dress up over nice,
Nor ramble out late of a night, Sirs.
Keep your girls at their needles, your boys at their pens,
I’ve bought my experience dear, rather,
But be sure keep your girls away from the men,
Or, there’ll be a fine sight for a father!

HUMOURS OF BARTLEMY FAIR.

Come bustle, neighbour Sprig, clap on your hat and wig,
In our Sunday clothes so gaily, let us strut up the Old Bailey,
O the devil take the rain, we may never go again,
See the shows have begun, O rare O!
Remember, Mr. Snip, to take care of Mrs. Snip,
There’s a little boy from Flanders, and that ’ere’s Master Glanders,
Stand aside, and we’ll have a stare, O!
How full’s the fair, Lord Mayor,
All is flurry, hurry, skurry,
Girls squalling, showmen bawling,
Cats throwing, trumpets blowing,
Rattles springing, monkeys grinning,
Rope dancing, horses prancing,
Sausage frying, children crying,
Dogs of knowledge, come from College,
Slack wire, eating fire,
Learned pigs of pigmy size,
Funny clowns, ups and downs,
Round about, all out,
What a throng, all along,
Politi’s show, all the go,
Just in time, that is prime,
To enjoy all the fun of the fair, O!

(Spoken) Vaulk up, ladies and gentlemen, here’s the vonderful birds and beastesses, just arrived from Bengal in the Vest Indies. Vhy, look marm, at this here beautiful hanimal; no less than two hundred spots on his belly, but no two alike and every vone different; it’s out of the power of any body to describe him. Well, positively, I never saw such a beautiful creature in my life. Did you, Sir? A very fine looking animal, ’pon my soul, mem. Master Showman, how long do you suppose he measures? Vhy! fifteen feet from the snout to the tail, and only twelve feet from the tail to the snout. He lives to the advanced age of one hundred years, grows a inch and a ’arf every hannual year, and never comes to his full growth. Stir him up with the long pole, keeper—only hear how he growls.

Here—here—the only booth in the fair for the greatest curiosity in all the known world,—the wonderful and surprising Hottentot Venus is here, who measures three yards and three quarters round her.

When the fair is at the full, in gallops a mad bull,
Puts the rabble to the rout; lets all the lions out;
Down falls Mrs. Snip, with a monkey on her hip,
We shall all be swallowed up, I declare, O!
Roaring boys, gilded toys,
Lolloypps shilling hops,
Tumble in, just begin,
Cups and balls, wooden walls,
Gin and bitters, apple fritters.
Pudding nice, penny a slice;
Shins of beef, stop thief!
A bang up swing, just the thing,
A dead dog, amongst the mob,
Lost hats, squalling brats,
Lost shoes, kangaroos,
O, Polly, where’s Molly?
Bow-wow, what a row
Is kicked up in Bartlemy fair, O!

(Spoken) Here, here, show ’em up here, show ’em up here. Now’s your time, Ladies and Gentlemen—only twopence each, to see that surprising Conjuror, the emperor of all conjurors, who will forfeit the enormous sum of one hundred pounds to any one who shall perform the said wonders. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am no common sleight of hand man. The common sleight of hand man, they turn the things up their sleeves, and make you believe their fingers deceive your eyes. Now, Sir, you shall draw one card, two cards, three cards, four cards, half a dozen cards: you look on the card this side, you look on the card that side, and I say blow, by the abominable-ba-be-bo-fe-jacko-crack-oh-feltho-swiftly begone-quick-presto-passo-largo-mento-hi-coccolorum, the card is flown. Where is it gone to? that is the question. Be so kind, Sir, as to stop that there young woman from getting out of the crowd; I suppose she has got it under her garter. Come, come, young woman, bring it forward, bring it forward, and let me hold it up, that all the company may have a squint at it.

Now the beasts with angry tooth all attack the booth,
Away affrighted run, birds and eagles of the sun,
Down tumbled trot legg’d Molly, who tips him the hue hollow,
Poor Card is in the mud, O, rare, O.

(Spoken) Here, here, vaulk up, ladies and gentlemen, here’s the wonderful Kangaroo, just arrived from Bottomless Bay. Here is the wonderful large baboon, that danced a padolo, and played at leap-frog with the celebrated Master Barintar. Here is the wonderful leopard-spotted tom cat, of the male species, which can as well see in the dark as without light. Here is the wonderful little marmoza monkey, just arrived from the Isle of Liliput: hold him up to the company, master keeper. O dear me, what a little beauty, to be sure, do let me stroke the dear little creature—la! la! how prodigious tame he is. Yes, marm, he’s always very tame to the ladies.

Ye up, guvnor, what’s the name of that large bird there, stuck up in the corner? Vat! that there vone? Oh! that’s the wonderful Sun eagle, the hotter the sun is, the higher he flies. There’s the wonderful Cow, that can’t live on dry land, and dies in the water. Billy, Billy, my boy, go and stuff a blanket in that ere hole, or the little ones vill peep for nothing. Here, here, now’s your time, ladies and gentlemen, jest a going to begin, jest a going to begin. Stand off the steps there, you boys, and make way for that gentleman with the smock frock and carbuncled nose to come down. How did you like it, Sir? Oh, it’s all dam stuff. There, there, only hear what a good character the gentleman gives it. Vaulk up, ladies and gemmen, now’s your time to see that wonderful wooden Roscius, Mr. Punch, for the small charge of vone penny. Show your tricks Mr. Punch.

GEORGY BARNWELL.

In Cheapside there liv’d a merchant
A man he vas of wery great fame,
And he had a handsome prentice,
Georgy Barnwell vas his name.

This youth he vas both good and pious,
Dutiful beyond all doubt,
And he always staid vithin doors
’Cause his master vouldn’t let him out.

And much his master’s darter lov’d him,
She slept in next room to him, ’tis said,
And she bored a hole right through the wainscoat,
To look at Georgy going to bed.

A vicked voman of the town, sirs,
Hon him cast a vishful eye;
And she came to the shop, one morning,
A flannel petticoat to buy.

When she paid him down the money,
She gave his hand a wery hard squeeze,
Which so frightened Georgy Barnwell,
That together, he knocked his knees.

Then she left her card, vereon vas written
Mary Millwood does entreat,
That Mister Barnwell vould call and see her,
At Cummins’s in Dyot Street.

Now as soon as he’d shut the shop up,
He vent to this naughty dicky bird,
And ven he vent home the next morning,
Blow me if he could speak a vord.

Now soon this woman did persuade him,
Vith her fascinating pipes,
To go down into the country,
And let loose his uncle’s tripes.

There he found his uncle in the grove,
Studying hard at his good books,
And Georgy Barnwell vent and struck him,
All among the crows and rooks.

Ven Milwood found he’d got no money,
Not so much as to buy a jewel,
She vent that wery day and peached him,
Now vas not that ’ere werry cruel?

The Judge put his three cornered cap on,
And said—vich Barnwell much surprized,
You must hang until you dead are,
Then you must be a-nat-o-mized.

Now Georgy was hung upon a gibbet,
Molly Milwood died in prison,
At her fate no one lamented,
But every body pitied his’n.

The merchant’s darter died soon arter,
Tears she shed, but spoke no vords,
So all young men, I pray take varning,
Don’t go vith naughty dicky birds.

JONATHAN BROWN.

’Twas down in a snug little country town,
A barber once lived, named Jonathan Brown,
A man very tidily settled in life,
For he wanted for nothing excepting a wife.

A staring large bill in his window, displayed
The various branches he had in his trade,
Such as “shaving and dressing,” and then underneath,
Was “Cupping and bleeding,” and drawing of teeth.[26]

But he wasn’t like one of your dentists in town,
Who for drawing a grinder would charge you a crown,
For, if you were only to give him the job,
Oh! he’d draw you all over his shop for a bob.

But he found the advantage of working so cheap,
For customers flock’d to his shop in a heap;
He cut hair for twopence and rubb’d ’em with greas
And he tortured their chins at a penny a piece.

Thus single he lived, yet thriving his trade,
Yet still to get married, he constantly prayed,
Till a damsel, one day, came to give his mind ease,
And says she, Sir, I want my front dressed, if you please.

From that moment his heart was in Cupid’s net caught,
She encouraged his visits, but just as he thought
To make her his own, as she’d given her word,
A rival he found in a tailor,—Good Lord!

One night, unexpected, he popped in to see
How she was, when the tailor was sitting at tea,
Now, Sally, says he, turn him out if you can,
Don’t you know that he’s but the ninth part of a man?

The Tailor’s blood now, beginning to rise,
He swelled himself up to near double his size,
And he told him he wished that he never might squint,
But he’d pummel him well for his barbarous hint.

Now, Sally, she said she was sorely perplexed,
To know, which of the two she could fancy the best,
And to see them go quarrel for her she was loth,
For she thought she could very well manage them both.

They told her, that certainly wouldn’t be right,
But to see which would have her, they’d willingly fight,
Then to settle the job, they went in the next room,
And Sal, with a cobbler, jumped over a broom.[27]

WERY PEKOOLIAR, OR THE LISPING LOVERS.

Have you e’er been in love,—If you havn’t, I have,
To the little God Koopid I’ve been a great thlave,
He thot in my bothom, a quiver of arrowth,
Like thmall naughty boyth, thoot Cock Robinth and Thparrowth,
My heart wath pure ath the white alabathter,
Till Koopid, my bothom, he did over mathter,
Then tell me, ye Godth! how I love one Mith Thulia,
There wath thomething about her tho vewy pekooliar.

We firtht met at a ball, where our handth did entwine,
Where I did thweedge her fingerth, and the did thweedge mine;
When for my necth partner, I ventured to preth her,
When I found that the lithped, when the anthered me “Yeth, thir.”
Now in lithping, I think, there ith thomething uncommon,
And I loveth in partickler, the lithph of a woman,
And I’m thure you’d have liked the lithph of Mith Thulia,
There wath thomething about it tho vewy pekooliar.

Like a beautiful peach, wath the cheek of Mith Thulia,
And then, in her eye, there wath thomething pekooliar,
Thpeaking volumeth, it darted, each glanthe to one’th marrow,
Ath keen and ath thwift, ath the wicked boy’th arrow.
A thlight catht in her eye,—to her lookth added vigour,
A catht in the eye, often tendth to dithfigure:
But not though the catht in the eye of Mith Thulia,
There wath thomething about it tho vewy pekooliar.

Good friendth, we oft met, midth thmileth and midth tearth,
I courted her nearly for three or four yearth,
I took her to playth, and to ba11th—O! ye Powerth.
How thweetly and thwiftly did then path my hourth;
But oneth—oh, e’en now—I my feelingth can’t thmother,
The danthed, all the evening, along with another,
I didn’t thay nothing that night to Mith Thulia,
Though I couldn’t help thinking ’twath vewy pekooliar.

I went necth day to thcold her, when the, to my heartth core,
Cut me up by requethting I’d come there no more;
That I thould be affronted, if longer I tarried,
For, necth week, to another, the wath to be married.
“Godth! Thulia,” thaid I, “why you cannot thay tho?”
“Oh yeth, but I do Thir,—tho you’d better go.”
“Well, I thall go,” thaid I, “but you’ll own it, Mith Thulia,
Your behaviour to me hath been vewy pekooliar.”

(Spoken) Vewy pekooliar, vewy pekooliar indeed; and from that day to thith, I have never theen Thulia. Her behaviour to me wath thertainly vewy pekooliar!

THE BABES IN THE WOOD.

It’s a woeful bad tale I’m about to relate,
It happened years back, but I don’t know the date;
It’s a heart rending tale of two babbies so good,
Vot vos starved to death in a blackberry wood.
Ven they vos quite infants, they lost their mamma,
They vos both left alone in the vorld vith their pa,
To attend to his babbies vos alvays his plan,
(Chorus.)
But their nunky he vos such a vicked old man,
Their nunky he vos such a hard hearted man.

In their daddy’s last moments and on his death bed,
He sent for their nunky, and to him he said,
“I feel I am going, come, tip us your fin,
Look after my babbies, take care of their tin:
But should they both croak, vich I hope they vont do,
The whole of their ochre I give unto you.”
Says he “My dear brother, I’ll do all I can—”
But their nunky he vos a deceitful old man.
Their nunky he vos, etc.

He’d scarce laid his brother under the ground,
Vhen he sold all the things in the house vot vos found;
He took the two babbies home to his abode,
And he bought ’em some hard bake to eat on the road,
He bought ’em some apples—he bought ’em parched peas,
A new penny loaf, and a ha’porth of cheese;
He blowed out their bags vith all sort of scran,
But their nunky he vos a deceitful old man.
Their nunky he vos, etc.

Vhen he looked at the kids, he longed for their gold;
In damp sheets he laid ’em, ’cos he thought they’d catch cold;
They both caught the measles, and the whooping cough,
And he prayed every night that it would take em off,
But they got over that, and all other disease
Vich kids mostly have—which it didn’t him please;
So to cook the poor babbies, he thought on a plan,
For their nunky he vos such a vicked old man.
Their nunky he vos, etc.

He hired two barbers vot vos both out of vork,
To take the two babbies to Norwood to burk,
Now ven they got there, they altered their minds—
They both cut their sticks—left their babbies behind.
They wandered about, did these infants so good
They ate all the blackberries that growed in the wood,
Vith hips, haws, and sloes, their bellies did cram,
Through their nunky who vos such a vicked old man,
Their nunky he vos, etc.

They liv’d till next night ven they guv up the ghost,
They vos both on ’em freezed as stiff as a post;
A cock robin vos perched on a tree close by,—
He vept as he vitnessed those babbies die;
Then he kivered ’em over, as nice as could be,
Vith some cabbage leaves fresh, vot he picked off a tree,
And he hopped, and he twittered, and the song that he sang,
Vos “Their nunky he must be a vicked old man.
Their nunky he vos, etc.”

Not a vink of sleep, after, nunky he got,
The whole of his body was seized vith the rot,
The whole of his toes dropped off his feet,
And teeth tumbled out of his mouth in the street.
The ghosts of the babbies, next night it is said,
They com’d and they tore all the hair off his head;
And vhen he valked out, the boys arter him ran,
Crying, cruel old nunky, you vicked old man.
Cried after their nunky, etc.

He dwindled away to a mere bag of bones,
Till the neighbours von night vos alarmed at his groans,
His house on that night vos burned down to the ground,
Not a remnant of nunky vos there to be found.
The ruins so strongly of brimstone did smell,
And the neighbours all round this story do tell;
That the devil that night avay vith him ran,
’Cos their nunky he vos such a vicked old man.
Cos their nunky he vos, etc.

KATE’S YOUNG MAN.

Some servant girls at Croydon fair,
A dancing with young fellows were,
But there was none among the clan,
So spruce and smart, as Kate’s young man.
They were seen home by Kate’s young man—
And asked to tea was Kate’s young man—
And cookey prepared a sop in the pan,
Next day, to give to Kate’s young man.

As Kate’s young man got talk’d about,
And as the old Misses was going out,
The three young missesses form’d a plan,
To have a peep at Kate’s young man.
They heard the ring of Kate’s young man,
They sent down wine to Kate’s young man,
Then several times in the kitchen they ran,
To have a peep at Kate’s young man.

With Kate’s young man, so full of glee,
That night below, the street door key
The housemaid got, and then began
Through it to quiz at Kate’s young man.
Upon my honour, a nice young man,
You’re what we call Kate’s young man,
Then, romping round for the key he ran,
And, take it away did Kate’s young man.

When Kate’s young man went off with the key,
Miss Kate let out her jealousy,
And at the housemaid she began,
For romping about with her young man.
Pray, is he your, or my young man?
Why don’t you get your own young man?
And then they were within a span
Of scratching each other, for Kate’s young man.

About Kate’s young man, was all this fuss,
When Kate cried out, Where is my purse?
And vere’s my vatch, said Cooky, and Ann
Exclaim’d, confound that Kate’s young man.
I’ve lost my brooch by Kate’s young man,
Oh, he’s taken the things in fun, said Fan,
They thought it so, and then they began
To laugh at the wit of Kate’s young man.

That very night, as sure as fate,
Some thief got in, and stole the plate,
And the street door key reminded Ann,
It might be done by Kate’s young man.
Oh, Kate, I fear it is your young man,
Oh, my goodness, gracious, Ann!
They call’d the policeman, who began
To ask a deal about Kate’s young man.

At the office of police, next day,
The servants went to say their say,
When lo! and behold, from the prisoner’s van,
The first who came out was Kate’s young man,
An old offender was Kate’s young man,
And over the water went Kate’s young man.

(Spoken) And Kate, crying, accused the housemaid of causing his ruin, ’Cos if she hadn’t romp-foozled with the key, as oughtn’t he wouldn’t have taken it, as couldn’t. When Ann, rather nettled, retorted, with the following golden maxim, and wished that every missus would have it put up in every kitchen—that she did—

Let servant girls get what they can,
But not get any like Kate’s young man.

HE WAS SUCH A NICE YOUNG MAN.

If pity dwells within your breast,
Some sympathy pray spare,
Of love, that breaks young lady’s rest,
Indeed, I’ve had my share.
His form is ever in my sight,
Forget, I never can,
I’m haunted by him day and night,
He was such a nice young man.

’Twas at a ball held at the west,
On me he first did glance,
So gently he my fingers prest,
And ask’d me out to dance,
I blush’d and simpered, No, no, no.
Then, smiling, dropt my fan,
For how could I refuse to dance,
He was such a nice young man.

The dance now o’er, my hand he took,
And led me to a seat,
And, sighing, gave me such a look,
I ne’er saw one so sweet.
Refreshments beg’d of me to take,
I did the dainties scan,
Alas, I’d lost my appetite,
He was such a nice young man.

When growing late, about to leave,
It rain’d in torrents fast,
Said he, Dear Miss, I really grieve,
I feel that it will last.
Then, quick he hurried from the room,
And for a coach he ran,
His kindness quite overpowered me,
He was such a nice young man.

As through the hall we went along,
He begg’d for my address,
I gave it him, not thinking wrong,
He was in such distress.
His card emboss’d he handed me,
With “Captain,” Miss, I am,
My stars, thought I, Oh here’s a chance,
He was such a nice young man.

Next morning, drest, and breakfast done,
Heart beating with desire,
The hall door bell was loudly rung,
Enough to break the wire.
I thought I should have died with fright,
Up came our servant Anne,
A gentleman, Miss, waits below,
He is such a nice young man.

Almost I’d sunk, ’twixt hope and fear,
I wish’d I was afar,
Guess my surprize him now to hear
Conversing with Mamma.
Such language elegant he used,
He did her heart trepan,
She said she no objection had,
He was such a nice young man.

Now, stop and dine with us, you must,
I will not take denial.
Excuse me ma’am, this visit first,
Is far too great a trial.
Well, call again whene’er you please,
For visit here you can,
I’ll call again to-morrow, ma’am,
Said my very nice young man.

From th’ house he was scarcely out of sight,
When, from the lower rooms,
A servant maid came in a fright,
And cried, He’s stole the spoons!
Ah! fetch him back, Mamma she cried,
Off ran our footman Dan,
Who brought him back, we found the spoons,
Yes, upon this nice young man.

A caution, ladies, give I must,
The moral I well know,
’Tis never the appearance trust,
Of any dashing beau.
For this is what I should have done,
When to notice he began,
But, who’d have thought he was a thief?
He was such a nice young man.

MRS. MONDAY.

One Sunday I went out, and as I walk’d up Holborn Hill,
(I like to be particular,) the streets were very muddy,
When just about the half way up, quite shock’d I stood stock still;
A lady slipt down flop before me, fat and plump, and ruddy.
She was in the kennel sprawling,
To me for assistance calling,
Quick was I pulling, hauling;
She did wish to shun day.
The mud had spoil’d her Sunday dressing,
“Dear,” she said, “’tis quite distressing.
Lawk! I am a pretty mess in;
Look,” said Mrs. Monday.

As soon as she recover’d, she return’d her thanks so free,
And in my ears no voice was e’er so sweet, tho’ she did tumble;
She said, that when she started, she was going out to tea,
But stopt by this unfortunate and unlucky tumble.
Mobs of people now surrounded,
She and me were both confounded;
Low lived jokes and jeers abounded,
Tho’ it was a Sunday.
Heeding not their taunts and titters,
I ask’d her if my taste would fit her’s.
Would she have some brandy-bitters,
“I will,” said Mrs. Monday.

We both went in to Thompson’s then, and had a glass a piece,
The people still were grinning all, to see her clothes so dirty;
Her face with perspiration look’d, as if ’twere dipp’d in grease;
Her age was, I suppose, about some two or three and thirty.
Her face look’d just like one that’s muddled,
Clothes on her were completely huddled,
All at once she got quite fuddled;
Shocking for a Sunday!
Thank’d me for my being so handy,
Declar’d that I was quite the dandy,
Drank three glasses more of brandy;
Shocking! Mrs. Monday.

What was I to do? egad! I could not get away,
She stuck to me as tight as wax, and liquor drank the faster;
And every glass she swallow’d down, she call’d on me to pay,
And then compell’d to see her home, safe out of her disaster.
Thro’ the streets by jeers saluted,
Mob at every step recruited,
While they halloo’d, laugh’d, and hooted,
Shocking! for a Sunday;
Ev’ry step made mis’ry double,
Took her home through every hubble,
And got, for all my care and trouble,
Blow’d up by Mr. Monday.

ALL TO ASTONISH THE BROWNS.

There liv’d, and maybe living still,
In one of the streets of the town,
A respectable man who was call’d
By the neighbours, “Gentleman Brown.”
Very grand parties he gave,
At which in champagne, you might drown,
Now he cut such a dash, all the street,
Was jealous of Gentleman Brown.
Jokery, jeering, quiz,
To the story I’m telling, oh list,
How happy we mortals might be,
If jealousy did not exist.

The Caggs’ who resided next door,
Were ever in sneers and in frowns,
And bursting with spleen when they saw
Such fine goings on at the Browns.
One night Mrs. C. said to Caggs,
“Some husbands are such stingy clowns,
Or they would give dinners and balls,
And show off as well as the Browns.”
Jokery, jeering, quiz.
In the course of your life, find you may,
That a man has no power, when his wife
Is determined to have her own way.

“Consider my income!” said Caggs,
“Don’t talk in that way, Mr. C.
I warrant I’d make it suffice,
If you would but leave it to me.
Last Monday, I saw, well enough,
When the tradesmen were going their rounds,
Although they had money from us,
I’m sure they had none from the Browns.”
Jokery, jeering, quiz.
It’s one of the greatest of ills,
When tradesmen will send in their bills,
And nothing else but their bills.

Caggs submitted to his better half,
Or rather two thirds, I should say,
And she soon sent her orders about,
Determined to make a display.
Her daughters were full of delight,
On Sunday they sported new gowns,
And exclaimed, as they went to the church,
“How we shall astonish the Browns!”
Jokery, jeering, quiz.
What pleasures arise in the breast,
When we, as we walk through the streets,
Are conscious of being well dressed!

Preparations were made for a feast,
Tinted cards, highly glazed and embossed,
Invited the neighbours, who came,
And many in wonder were lost.
Champagne, Ices, Claret, Milk punch,
And cakes ornamented with crowns,
Soups, jellies, and scented pastilles,
And all to astonish the Browns.
Jokery, jeering, quiz,
Most people are fond of a feast,
And they love them that give ’em the most,
More than those folks who give ’em the least.

One party soon drew on another,
And, then, to continue the game,
As the Browns were a going to the races,
The Caggs must, of course do the same.
“Lauk! how surpriséd they will be,
When they see us appear on the Downs,
We will go in a carriage and four,
And we shall so astonish the Browns.”
Jokery, jeering, quiz,
The neighbours said “Caggs was clever,
But as sure as eggs be but eggs,
Such things won’t continue for ever.”

Whatever was done by the B’s,
The C’s tried to do more than equal,
But as they had not the same means,
They failed, as you’ll see by the sequel.
They were forc’d to run off from the street,
For fortune looked on them with frowns,
And, what was more galling than all,
It did not astonish the Browns.
Jokery, jeering, quiz,
Many folks in this world’s ups and downs,
Very often astonish themselves,
When they try to astonish the Browns.

My tale I’ll conclude with a proverb,
In which there’s a great deal of sense,
Your pounds may be left to themselves,
If you will take care of the pence.
In this you’ll discover my moral,
A moral worth mitres and crowns,
If you would save silver and gold,
You must always beware of the Browns.
Jokery, jeering, quiz,
Be cautious in great London town,
Or, in trying to do, you’ll be done,
And not only done—but done brown.

THE RATCATCHER’S DAUGHTER.[28]

In Westminster not long ago,
There lived a Ratcatcher’s Daughter.
She was not born at Westminster,
But on the t’other side of the water.
Her father killed rats and she sold sprats,
All round, and over the water,
And the gentlefolks, they all bought sprats,
Of the pretty Ratcatcher’s Daughter.

She wore no hat upon her head,
Nor cap, nor dandy bonnet,
Her hair of her head it hung down her neck,
Like a bunch of carrots upon it.
When she cried sprats in Westminster,
She had such a sweet loud voice, Sir,
You could hear her all down Parliament Street,
And as far as Charing Cross, Sir,

The rich and poor both far and near,
In matrimony sought her,
But at friends and foes she cocked her nose,
Did this pretty little Ratcatcher’s daughter.
For there was a man cried “Lily white Sand,”
Who in Cupid’s net had caught her,
And over head and ears in love,
Was the pretty little Ratcatcher’s daughter.

Now, “Lily white Sand” so ran in her head,
When coming down the Strand, oh,
She forgot that she’d got sprats on her head,
And cried “buy my lily white Sand oh!”
The folks, amazed, all thought her crazed,
All along the Strand, Oh,
To hear a girl with sprats on her head,
Cry, “buy my lily white Sand, oh!”

The Ratcatcher’s Daughter so ran in his head,
He didn’t know what he was arter,
Instead of crying “Lily white Sand,”
He cried “Do you want any Ratcatcher’s daughter.”
His donkey cocked his ears and brayed,
Folks couldn’t tell what he was arter,
To hear a lily white sand man cry,
“Do you want any Ratcatcher’s daughter?”

Now they both agreed to married be,
Upon next Easter Sunday,
But the Ratcatcher’s daughter had a dream,
That she shouldn’t be alive next Monday,
To buy some sprats, once more she went,
And tumbled into the water,
Went down to the bottom, all covered with mud,
Did the pretty little Ratcatcher’s daughter.

When Lily white Sand he heard the news,
His eyes ran down with water,
Says he in love I’ll constant prove,
And, blow me if I live long arter,
So he cut his throat with a piece of glass,
And stabbed his donkey arter,
So there was an end of Lily white Sand,
His ass, and the Ratcatcher’s daughter!

HOT CODLINGS.

A little old woman, a living she got,
By selling hot codlings, hot, hot, hot!
Now this little old woman, as I’ve been told,
Though her codlings were hot, she was monstrously cold,
So to keep herself warm, she thought no sin,
For to go and take a small drop of gin,
Fol-de-rol, etc.

Now this little old woman went off in a trot,
To get a quartern of hot, hot, hot!
She swallowed a glass, and it was so nice,
That she tipped off another, all in a trice,
She fill’d the glass till the bottle it shrunk,
And this little old woman I’m told got drunk.

Now this little old woman, while muzzy she got,
Some boys stole her codlings, hot, hot, hot!
Put powder in the pan, and ’neath it round stones,
Cried this little woman, these apples have bones.
The powder and the pan up they did send,
This little old woman on her latter end.

Now this little old woman went off in a trot,
All in a fury, hot, hot, hot!
Sure such boys as these never were known,
They never will let a poor woman alone,
There’s a moral from this, so round let it buz
If you want to sell codlings, you must never get muz.

This song, was, as far I can find, introduced by Grimaldi in Thos. J. Dibdin’s famous Pantomime of “Mother Goose,” which in 1806-7 had the unprecedented run of a hundred and fifty nights, and was a favourite for very many years. When Pantomimes were Pantomimes, and not mere spectacles, the clowns were real clowns (the Shakesperian and French hybrids not having been born), and the names of Grimaldi, Matthews, and others will go down to posterity. No Pantomime was complete without the clown singing this song, which was always encored, and, as a substitute, invariably was given “Tippetiwitchet,” of which the theme was an intoxicated man. Perhaps, if revived, Modern Society would not appreciate them, but forty or fifty years ago tastes were not so superfine, and these clowns and their songs afforded hilarious amusement.

THE WONDERFUL CROCODILE.

Now list, ye landsmen, all to me,
To tell you the truth I am bound,
What happen’d to me, by going to Sea,
And of the wonders which I found.
Shipwrecked I once was off Perouse,
And cast upon the shore,
So I resolved to take a cruise,
The Country to explore.

But far I had not scudded out,
When close alongside to the ocean,
I saw something move, which at first I thought,
Was all the earth in motion.
But steering up alongside,
I found ’twas a Crocodile,
And from his nose to the tip of his tail
He measured five hundred mile.

This Crocodile, I could plainly see,
Was not of a common race,
For I was obliged to climb a very high tree
Before I could see his face.

And when he lifted up his jaw,
Though perhaps you'll think 'twas a lie,
It reach'd 'bove the clouds for miles three score,
And his nose nearly touched the sky.

Whilst up aloft, and the stream was high,
It blew a gale from the south,
I lost my hold, and away did fly,
Right into the Crocodile's mouth.
He quickly closed his jaws on me,
And thought to grab a victim,
But I ran down his throat d'ye see,
And that's the way I tricked him.

I travell'd on for a month or two,
Till I got into his maw,
Where I found of rum kegs not a few,
And a thousand bullocks in store.
Of life I banish'd all my cares,
For in grub I was not stinted,
So in this Crocodile I lived ten years,
Very well contented.

This Crocodile being very old,
One day, alas! he died,
But he was three years a getting cold,
He was so long and wide.
His skin was ten miles thick, I'm sure,
Or very near about;
For I was full six years or more,
Cutting a hole for to get out.

But now once more I’ve got on earth,
And resolv’d no more to roam,
So in a ship that pass’d, I got a berth,
And now I’m safe at home.
And lest my story you should doubt,
Should you ever travel the Nile,
Just where he fell, you’ll find the shell,
Of this wonderful Crocodile.

THE THIEF’S ARM.

I sing of a man to some well known,
Who went and listed in the King’s Own,
For he was tall, and mighty grown,
Full six feet high of flesh and bone.
Ri lol, lol, lay, etc.

Now this man to battle did go,
The balls flew thick, and whistled so,
There was one came straight and gave him a blow,
And knocked off his arm above his elbow.

When the surgeon came to look at the wound
A noted thief lay on the ground,
Quite dead, but still he’d a perfect arm,
So he sawed it off while it was warm.

Now this arm he spliced to our hero’s stump,
And bound it fast, wasn’t he a trump?
And in a short time it got well,
As many of that brave corps can tell.

This man he turned out a thief,
And was discharged for stealing beef,
For with this cursed thief’s arm he got,
He could let nothing be too heavy or hot.

Then up to London he did repair,
To see if advice he could get there,
And all the way that he did jog,
The arm was at work, and found him in prog.

And when he got there he walked along,
And strove to bustle through the throng,
But the arm kept diving in every one’s pocket,
He tried all he could, but he couldn’t stop it.

It stole him watches, gold and rings,
And many other precious things,
And one night he found he’d wealth in store,
For Bandanna wipes, he had a score.

He robbed the Bank and Treasury,
Likewise a Poet at the play,
And, one night, ’tis really said,
He stole a glass eye from an old woman’s head.

Now this arm had such a propensity
For stealing, that it could not stay,
It robb’d a regiment of its baggage,
Likewise a tailor of all his cabbage.

Long time he carried on the trade,
Until he had a fortune made,
But for a crime he was afterwards taken,
And sent by the Judge to be hung up like bacon.

And when he came to the gallows tree,
With the Parson’s watch he did make free,
And as Jack Ketch was tying the knot,
He pick’d his pocket of all he’d got.

Now this man, he was buried, as you may suppose,
And after that the arm arose,
And join’d a body-snatching knave,
Who stole his master out of his grave.

CORK LEG.

A tale I tell now without any flam,
In Holland there dwelt Mynheer von Clam,
Who, every morning, said, I am
The richest merchant in Amsterdam.
Ri too ral, etc.

One day he had stuffed him as full as an egg,
When a poor relation came to beg,
But he kick’d him out without broaching a keg,
And in kicking him out he broke his leg.

A surgeon, the first in his vocation,
Came, and made a long oration,
He wanted a limb for anatomization,
So he finished the job by amputation.

Said Mynheer, said he, when he’d done his work,
By your sharp knife, I lost one fork,
But on two crutches I’ll never stalk,
For I’ll have a beautiful leg of cork.

An artist in Rotterdam ’twould seem,
Had made cork legs, his study and theme:
Each joint was as strong as an iron beam,
The springs a compound of clockwork and steam.

The leg was made and fitted tight,
Inspection the artist did invite,
The fine shape gave Mynheer delight,
And he fixed it on and screwed it tight.

He walked through squares, and past each shop,
Of speed he went to the utmost top,
Each step he took with a bound and a hop,
And he found his leg he could not stop.

Horror and fright were in his face,
The neighbours thought he was running a race;
He clung to a gas-post to stay his pace,
But the leg wouldn’t stop, but kept on the chace.

Then he call’d to some men with all his might,
“Oh! stop this leg or I’m murdered quite.”
But though they heard him aid invite,
He, in less than a minute was out of sight.

He ran o’er hill and dale, and plain,
To ease his weary bones he’d fain;
He threw himself down, but all in vain,
The leg got up, and was off again.

He walk’d of days and nights a score,
Of Europe he had made the Tour,
He died!—but though he was no more,
The leg walked on the same as before.

In Holland, sometimes it comes in sight,
A skeleton on a cork leg tight:
No cash did the artist’s skill requite,
He never was paid, and it served him right.

My tale I’ve told both plain and free,
Of the rummest merchant that ever could be,
Who never was buried, tho’ dead we see,
And I’ve been singing his L E G.[29]

THE ONE HORSE CHAY.

Mrs. Bubb was gay and free, fair, fat, and forty three,
And blooming as a Peony in buxom May,
The toast she long had been of Farringdon Within,
And she fill’d the better half of a one horse chay.

Mrs. Bubb said to her lord, “you can, Bubb, well afford,
Whate’er a Common Councilman in prudence may;
We’ve no brats to plague our lives, and the soap concern it thrives,
Let us take a trip to Brighton in the one horse chay.”

Mr. Bubb said to his wife, “now, I think upon’t, my life,
’Tis three weeks, at least, to next boiling day;
The dog days are set in, and London’s growing thin,
So I’ll order out old Nobbs, and the one horse chay.”

Now Nobbs, it must be told, was rather fat and old,
Its colour was white, and it had been gray,
He was round as a scot, and, when roundly whipt, would trot,
Full five miles an hour in a one horse chay.

When at Brighton they were hous’d, and had stuff’d and carous’d,
O’er a bowl of arrack Punch, Mr. Bubb did say,
“I’ve ascertained, my dear, the mode of dipping here,
From the ostler who is cleaning up my one horse chay.

You’re shut in a box, ill convenient as the stocks,
And eighteen pence each time are obliged to pay;
Court corruption here, says I, makes everything so high.
And I wish I had come without my one horse chay.”

“As I hope,” says she, “to thrive, ’tis flaying folks alive,
The king and these extortioners are leagued, I say;
’Tis encouraging of such, to go and pay so much,
So we’ll set them at defiance with our one horse chay.

Old Nobbs I’m sure and sartin, you may trust with gig or cart in,
He takes every matter in a very easy way;
He’ll stand like a post, while we dabble on the coast,
And return back, and dress in our one horse chay.

So out they drove, all dress’d, so gaily, in their best,
And finding in their rambles, a nice little bay;
They uncased at their leisure, paddled out at their pleasure,
And left everything behind in their one horse chay.

But while so snugly sure, that all things were secure,
They flounced about like porpoises, or whales at play;
Some young unlucky imps, who prowl’d about for shrimps,
Stole up to reconoitre the one horse chay.

Old Nobbs in quiet mood, was sleeping as he stood,
(He might possibly be dreaming of his corn, or hay):
Not a foot did he wag, as they whipt out every rag,
And gutted all the contents of the one horse chay.

When our pair were sous’d enough, and returning in their buff,
Oh, there was the vengeance, and Old Nick to pay;
Madam shrieked in consternation, Mr. Bubb he swore damnation.
To find the empty state of the one horse chay.

“Come, bundle in with me, we must squeeze for once,” says he,
“And manage this here business, as best we may,
We’ve no other way to choose, not a moment must we lose,
Or the tide will float us off in our one horse chay.”

So noses, sides, and knees, altogether they did squeeze,
And pack’d in little compass, they trotted it away;
As dismal as two dummies, head and hands stuck out like mummies,
From beneath the little apron of the one horse chay.

Mr. Bubb ge-upp’d in vain, and strove to jerk the rein,
Nobbs found he had his option to work or play;
So he wouldn’t mend his pace, though they fain would have run race,
To escape the merry gazers at the one horse chay.

Now, good people laugh your fill, and fancy if you will,
(For I’m fairly out of breath, and have had my say;)
The trouble and the rout, to wrap and get them out,
When they drove to their lodgings in their one horse chay.

THE LITERARY DUSTMAN.

Some folks may talk of sense, egad!
Vot holds a lofty station;
But, tho’ a dustman, I have had
A liberal hedication.
And tho’ I never vent to school,
Like many of my betters,
A turnpike man, vot varnt no fool,
He larnt me all my letters.

Chorus.

They calls me Adam Bell, ’tis clear,
As Adam vos the fust man,
And by a co-in-side-ance queer,
Vy! I’m the fust of Dustmen!

At sartin schools they makes boys write,
Their Alphabets on sand, Sirs,
So I thought dust vould do as vell,
And larnt it out of hand, Sirs,
Took in the Penny Magazine,[30]
And Johnson’s Dictionary,
And all the Pe-ri-odi-cals,
To make me literary.

My dawning genus fust did peep,
Near Battle Bridge[31] ’tis plain, Sirs,
You recollect the cinder heap,
Vot stood in Gray’s Inn Lane, Sirs?[32]
’Twas there I studied pic-turesque,
Vile I my bread vos yearnin’,
And there inhalin’ the fresh breeze,[33]
I sifted out my larnin.

Then Mrs. Bell, ’twixt you and I,
Vould melt a heart of stone, Sirs,
To hear her, pussy’s wittals cry,
In such a barrow tone, Sirs.
My darters all take arter her,
In grace and figure easy,
They larns to sing, and as they’re fat,
I has ’em taught by Grizi.

Ve dines at four, and arter that,
I smokes a mild Awanna,
Or gives a lesson to the lad,
Upon the grand pianna:
Or vith the gals valk a quod-rille,
Or takes a cup of corf-fee,
Or, if I feels fatig’d or ill,
I lounges on the sophy.

Or arter dinner reads a page,
Of Valter Scott, or Byron,
Or Mr. Shikspar on the stage,
Subjects none can tire on;
At night ve toddles to the play,
But not to gallery attic,
Drury Lane’s the time o’ day,
And quite aristocratic.

I means to buy my eldest son
A commission in the Lancers,
And make my darters, every one,
Accomplished Hopra dancers.
Great sculptors all conwarse with me,
And call my taste diwine, Sirs,
King George’s statty at King’s Cross,[34]
Vos built from my design, Sirs.

And, ven I’m made a Member on,
For that I means to try, Sirs,
Mr. Gully fought his way,[35]
And verefore shouldn’t I, Sirs.
Yes, ven I sits in Parliment,
In old Sir Steven’s College,
I means to take, ’tis my intent,
The taxes off of knowledge.

Chorus.

They call me Adam Bell, ’tis true,
’Cause Adam was the fust man,
I’m sure its very plain to you,
I’m a litterary dustman.

THE BILL STICKER.

I’m Sammy Slap, the Bill Sticker, and you must all agree, Sirs,
I stick to bus’ness like a trump, and bus’ness sticks to me, Sirs,
The low folks call me Plasterer, and they desarves a banging,
Becos, genteely speaking, vhy, my trade is Paper-Hanging.

Chorus.

With my paste! paste! paste!
All the world is puffing, so I paste! paste! paste!

Round Nelson’s statty, Charing Cross, vhen any thing’s the go, Sirs,
You’ll always find me at my post, a sticking up the Posters,
I’ve hung Macready twelve feet high,—and though it may seem funny,
Day after day against the valls, I’ve plastered Mrs. Honey!

Now often, in the vay of trade, and I don’t care a farden,
Arter I have been veil paid to hang for Common Garden,
Old Drury Lane has called me in, with jealousy to cover ’em,
And sent me round vith their own bills, to go and plaster over ’em.

In search of houses, old and new, I’m always on the caper,
And werry kindly gives ’em all, a coat or two of paper;
I think I’ve kivered all the valls round London, though I preach it,
If they’d let me kiver old St. Paul’s, so help me Bob, I’d reach it.

I’m not like some in our trade,—they desarve their jackets laced, Sirs,
They stick up half their master’s bills, and sells the rest for vaste, Sirs,
Now, honesty’s best policy, vith a good name to retire vith,
So vot I doesn’t use myself, my old gal lights the fire vith!

I’m proud to say there’s Helen Tree, the stage’s great adorner,
I’ve had the honour of posting her in every hole and corner,
And Helen Faucit—bless her eyes! ve use her pretty freely,
And paste’s Madam Vestris bang atop of Mr. Keeley!

Sometimes I’m jobbing for the Church, vith Charitable Sermons,
And sometimes for theatres, vith the English and the Germans;
To me, in course, no odds it is, as long as I’m a vinner,
Vhether I works for a Saint, or hangs up for a Sinner.

The paste I use, I makes myself, and I’ll stick to this, however,
That vhen my bills, I’ve put ’em up, they’ll face both vind and veather,
I comes the fancy work, though they’re up, mind, in a twinkle,
I never tucks the corners in, nor leaves a blessed wrinkle,

Then, surely, you vill all allow, I am a man of taste, Sirs,
I arn’t no Pastry-cook, although I deals in puffs and paste, Sirs,
Vhenever you may have a job, to show how I desarve you,
About the town through thick and thin, I’ll brush along to sarve you!

THINGS I DON’T LIKE TO SEE.

What a queer set of creatures we are, I declare,
What one person likes, why another can’t bear,
It was always a plan when I went to school,
To like everything good, like the Lord Mayor’s fool.
Some like to look thin, some like to look fat,
Some like to see this, some like to see that,
But, if you’ll be silent, and listen to me,
I’ll just tell you the things that I don’t like to see.

Chorus.

You may call me a quiz, you may call me a pry,
But I cannot bear things that look queer to the eye
If you like to see them, it’s nothing to me,
I tell you there are things I don’t like to see.

Now I don’t like to see little boys with cigars,
They’re better at home with their pas and their mas
I don’t like to see folks in misery sunk,
And I don’t like to see a teetotaller drunk.
I don’t like to see ugly women use paint,
Nor a grey headed sinner pretend he’s a saint,
Nor a swell, in a dicky[36] tied over a rag,
Nor a fop with mustachios who’s not worth a mag.

I don’t like to see ladies picking their gums,
Nor a boy at sixteen always sucking his thumbs,
I don’t like to see women drink to excess,
Nor a girl in black stockings and white muslin dress,
I don’t like to see a coat fit like a sack,
Nor a man pinch his belly for the sake of his back,
I don’t like to see a man whopping his moke,
It shows that his brotherly feeling’s a joke.

I don’t like to see frosty weather in May,
Nor a man wear his church-going tile every day,
I don’t like to see people sulk at their meals,
Nor a girl with great taters stuck out at her heels;
I don’t like to see people shooting the moon,[37]
Nor a chap buttoned up on a hot afternoon,
I don’t like to see peelers drunk on their beat,
Nor young ladies bustles fall off in the street.

I don’t like to see people pay twice for once,
Nor a man about thirty, a thick-headed dunce;
I don’t like to see folks eat more than their whack,
Nor a swell with his hair just a yard down his back,
I don’t like to see yellow wipes round the throat,
Nor a man wipe his nose on the sleeve of his coat,
I don’t like to see a pretty girl pout,
Nor young ladies sending their rags up the spout.

I don’t like to see women drest Fal de ral,
Nor a boy about twelve, sticking up to a gal;
I don’t like to see parsons go to the play,
Nor a swell in white ducks, on a pouring wet day,
Now I don’t like to see sorrowful faces,
And I hope another night, you’ll here take your places;
For I don’t like to see empty streets, I declare,
And I think that my pocket agrees with me there.

THE BARREL OF PORK.

Two Israelite brothers in New York once dwelt,
And, in all kind of Merchandize freely they dealt,
They were thought to be wealthy, between me and you,
And each brother was really as rich as a Jew.

No creditor e’er went away from their door,
Till death call’d on Moses to settle his score;
No mortal can ever evade such a call,
So Moses, he slept, Sirs, his last sleep of all.

Then Isaac, his brother, exclaimed, lucky elf,
All his goods and his monies belong to myself,
Ah! but stop, dere’s his will, I must just read it through,
To see what poor Moses would have me to do.

The Will it ran thus, when I shall cease to live,
All my cash, and my goods, to my brother I give,
Upon this condition, that hard he shall toil
To bury my body in real English Soil.

Isaac tried every Captain, but could not prevail,
For none would agree with the body to sail,
But, not to be baulked, he set quickly to work,
And embarked it at last as a barrel of pork.

Mo was cut up in pieces with chopper and knife,
He had never been cut up so much in his life,
Isaac wrote to his agent to tell him his plan,
And begged of him to bury the poor pickled man.

Some months after this, as he walked on the wharf,
He met with the Captain, a yellow fac’d dwarf,
Vell, goot Captain, he cried, looking steadfastly round
You delivered my barrel, I hope, safe and sound?

Said the Captain, Friend Isaac, I’m sorry to say,
That during our trip, we were near cast away,
When in sight of old England, we lay a sheer hulk,
As provisions were scarce, we were forced to break bulk.

Preak pulk! roar’d out Isaac, you’re worse than a Turk,
Put, surely, you ne’er proke my parrel of pork?
Indeed, but we did, cried the Captain, don’t huff,
For I’ll pay a good price, though ’twas devilish tough.

Ach! mein Gott! cried poor Isaac, as I am a sinner,
You have eaten my poor proder Moses for dinner;
Your brother! why zounds! then myself and my crew,
Have feasted three days on a piece of tough Jew.

But come, now, my friend Isaac, to finish this work,
I’ll pay you for your brother, as if he’d been pork;
No, no, replied Isaac, though we cheat one another,
Our law won’t permit us to sell our own prother.

In his purse back, the Captain was putting his gold,
Which Isaac, espying, cried, Goot Captain, hold,
Though I can’t touch the cash, for that proder of mine
You can pay me, you know, for the parrel and prine.

In the “thirties” of this century, this was one of the most popular of street songs, and is well worth reproducing among the humorous ballads, as it is utterly unknown to the present generation.

ALL ROUND MY HAT.

Chorus.

All round my hat I vears a green villow,
All round my hat for a twelvemonth and a day,
If any one should ax it, the reason vy I vears it,
Tell them that my true love is far, far away.

’Twas going of my rounds in the streets I did meet her,
Oh, I thought she vas an hangel just come down from the sky,
(Spoken) She’d a nice wegitable countenance, Turnip nose, Redish cheeks, and Carroty hair.
And I never heard a woice more louder and more sweeter,
Vhen she cried, buy my Primroses, my Primroses come buy.
(Spoken) Here’s your fine Colliflowers!
Oh, my love she vas fair, and my love she vas kind, too,
And cruel vas the judge vot my love had to try,
(Spoken) Here’s your precious Turnips!
For thieving vas a thing she never vas inclined to,
But he sent my love across the seas, far, far away.
(Spoken) Here’s your hard hearted Cabbages!

For seven long years my love and I are parted,
For seven long years, my love is bound to stay,
(Spoken) ’Tis a precious long time ’fore I does any trade to-day.
Bad luck to the chap vot’d ever be false hearted,
Oh, I’d love my love for ever, though she’s far away.
(Spoken) Here’s your nice heads of Sallary!

There is some young men as is so precious deceitful,
A coaxing of the young girls they wish to lead astray,
(Spoken) Here’s your Valnuts, crack ’em and try ’em, a shillin’ a hundred!
As soon as they deceive ’em, so cruelly-ly they leave ’em,
And they never sighs nor sorrows, ven they’re far avay.
(Spoken) Do you want any Hinguns to day, marm?

Oh, I bought my love a ring, on the werry day she started,
Vich I gave her as a token all to remember me,
(Spoken) Bless her heyes.
And vhen she does come back, oh, ve’ll never more be parted,
But ve’ll marry, and be happy, oh, for ever and a day.
(Spoken) Here’s your fine spring Radishes!

HERE’S THE MAN A-COMING!

In Lunnon town each day, strange sayings will be springing,
But, if you list to me, a new one I’ll be singing,
As you go through the town, the people will be funning,
One cries out, “Put it down, here’s the man a-coming!”

’Twas only t’other day, as sure as I’m a sinner,
A leg of pork I bought, to have a slap up dinner;
When, half way down the street, a young scamp came by, running,
Says he “Guv’ner, drop that meat, here’s the man a-coming!”

Young married folks, I fear, to extremes often dash on,
They’re always in a fright, through studying the fashion;
Each day with fear and dread, the tradesmen they are shunning,
“Jem, get under the bed, here’s the tally man a-coming!”

There’s lots of ups and downs, and lots of rummy dodgings,
But I do it quite brown, in taking furnish’d lodgings:
I own I’m very poor, to pay there is no fun in,
So I always bolt the door, when I hear the landlord coming!

It’s pleasant, in this place, to see your smiling faces,
And, gents, too, I presume, you’re in your proper places;
Now, there’s one stands there so sly, I know he’s very cunning,
I say, “Mind what you’re at, here’s the man a-coming!”

THE NOBBY HEAD OF HAIR.

You’ve called on me to sing a song, I’ll try what I can do,
I don’t say whether good or bad, for that I’ll leave to you,
The subject’s now before you, and I firmly do declare.
There’s no one in this street can sport such a nobby head of hair.

Perhaps you think I’m bragging, but the proof it is most clear,
If you only twig the company that stands around me here,
But something I’ll tell you,—now, pray don’t at me stare,—
There’s nothing half so handsome—as a nobby head of hair.

When an infant I a wonder was, but, upwards as I grew,
At school, I so surprized the boys, they in mobs around me flew;
But when a young man I had grown, my mother said, if I took care,
I soon should catch an heiress, with my nobby head of hair.

I go to all places of amusement, and everything that’s new,
Balls, Plays, White Conduit Gardens, and the Eagle Tavern too,
I feel prouder than Prince Albert, when the ladies see me there,
To hear the buz of admiration at my nobby head of hair.

Although my hair is elegant, it oft gets into scrapes,
At the Zoological, the other day, ’twas well pull’d by the apes;
And, in making my escape from them, I was grappl’d by a bear,
It fancied that I was it’s cub, by my nobby head of hair.

Not liking this brute treatment, from the gardens I did roam,
I caught a lady ogling me,—I ask’d to see her home,
Her husband, we met on the road, he asunder did us tear,
Then he dragg’d me through a horse pond, by my nobby head of hair.

He left me near dead with affright, and wet through to the skin,
A mob soon came around me—they did nought but jeer and grin,
A policeman took me in custody, and solemnly did swear,
I, a member of the swell mob was, by my nobby head of hair.

To the Magistrate, my innocence I pleaded, but in vain,
He said, to prison you must go, your guilt it is quite plain;
So to the treadmill I was sent,—but on the silent system there,
But what griev’d me most, they cut off all my nobby head of hair.

I thought it would have drove me mad, but it grew again so fast,
It put me in such spirits, that I soon forgot the past,
The Mill, it dragg’d down all my fat, I look’d quite lean and spare,
My friends, they knew me only, by my nobby head of hair.

But now that I am free again, I’m happy as a king,
That’s one reason why to night, you see, I have come here to sing;
But this is a fact you can’t deny, it is a thing most rare—
To see a handsome chap like me, with such a nobby head of hair.

MISS BAILEY’S GHOST.

A Captain bold, in Halifax, who dwelt in country quarters,
Seduced a maid, who hang’d herself, one morning, in her garters,
His wicked conscience smited him, he lost his stomach daily,
He took to drinking ratafee, and thought upon Miss Bailey.
Oh, Miss Bailey! unfortunate Miss Bailey.

One night betimes he went to rest, for he had caught a fever,
Says he, “I am a handsome man, but I’m a gay deceiver;”
His candle just at twelve o’clock began to burn quite palely,
A ghost stepp’d up to his bed side, and said, “behold Miss Bailey.”
Oh, Miss Bailey! unfortunate Miss Bailey.

“Avaunt, Miss Bailey” then he cried, “your face looks white and mealy,”
“Dear Captain Smith,” the ghost replied, “you’ve used me ungenteely;
The Crowner’s Quest goes hard with me, because I’ve acted frailly,
And parson Biggs won’t bury me, though I am dead Miss Bailey.”
Oh, Miss Bailey! unfortunate Miss Bailey.

“Dear Corpse,” said he, “since you and I accounts must once for all close,
I’ve really got a one pound note in my regimental small clothes;
“’Twill bribe the sexton for your grave,”—The ghost then vanish’d gaily,
Crying, “Bless you, wicked Captain Smith, remember poor Miss Bailey.”
Oh, Miss Bailey! unfortunate Miss Bailey.

HUMPHREY DUGGINS.

Old Humphrey Duggins, he wanted a wife,
Resolving to lead a sober life;
A batchelor, he would have been a great rake,
So courting he went, for conscience sake.

The old Widow Warmpurse, she wanted a spouse,
No children had she, but she had a large house,
Six children had Duggins, though not very small,
So, thinks he, the large house will just hold them all.

So to court the widow, old Duggins began,
Says she, I’ve been told you’re a sad naughty man,
He replied, it ain’t true, and the widow knew not
That he’d one piccaninny, much less a whole lot.

When he’d married the widow, my dear, says he,
No doubt we shall have a large family,
I hope we shall, she then to him did say,
So the six little Duggins came home the next day.

The three Master Duggins, they made her a bow,
The three little Misses, they curtsied, How!
Says she, what means this? Why, said he, my old lass,
It’s only my little ones come home from grass.

You wicked deceiver, quoth she, I am dish’d;
Says he, for a great many children you wish’d,
And, as no one is certain their wishes to have,
I thought you might fancy a few ready made.

It is the privilege of the aged to carp at modern doings, and to contrast them with things as they were in their youth. Farming, as it used to be carried out, could never pay now. In war time the farmers did well; in January, 1801, wheat was 137s. per quarter, and rose higher. But according to the Earl of Warwick, in a speech in Parliament (November 14, 1800), they did not benefit much by it—it was light come, light go, with them. “He wondered not at the extravagant style of living of some of the farmers, who could afford to play guinea whist, and were not contented with drinking wine, but even mixed brandy with it.” The small farms, with their little fields, cut even smaller by the huge hedges and ditches, soil undrained, no machinery, the earth merely scratched by the plough, could never grow wheat to sell at 32s. or 34s. per quarter, or to rear beef and mutton, to compete against imported meat.

THE HONEST PLOUGHMAN, OR 90 YEARS AGO.

Come all you jolly husbandmen, and listen to my song,
I’ll relate the life of a ploughman, and not detain you long,
My father was a farmer, who banished grief and woe,
My mother was a dairy maid—that’s 90 years ago.

My father had a little farm, a harrow and a plough,
My mother had some pigs and fowls, a pony and a cow,
They didn’t hire a servant, but they both their work did do,
As I have heard my parents say, just 90 years ago.

The rent that time was not so high by far, as I will pen,
For now one family’s nearly twice as big as then were ten,
When I was born, my father used to harrow, plough and sow,
I think I’ve heard my mother say, ’twas 90 years ago.

To drive the plough my father did a boy engage,
Until that I had just arrived to seven years of age,
So then he did no servant want, my mother milk’d the cow,
And with the lark, I rose each morn, to go and drive the plough.

The farmer’s wives in every way themselves the cows did milk,
They did not wear the dandy veils, and gowns made out of silk,
They did not ride blood horses, like the farmer’s wives do now,
The daughters went a milking and the sons went to the plough.

When I was fifteen years of age, I used to thrash and sow,
Harrowed, ploughed, and in harvest time I used to reap and mow,
When I was 20 years of age, I could manage well the farm,
Could hedge and ditch, or plough, and sow, or thrash within the barn.

At length when I was 25, I took myself a wife,
Compelled to leave my father’s house as I had changed my life,
The younger children, in my place, my father’s work would do,
Then daily, as an husbandman, to labour I did go.

My wife and me, though very poor, could keep a pig and cow,
She could sit and spin and knit, and I the land could plough.
There nothing was upon a farm, at all, but I could do,
I find things very different now,—that’s many years ago.

We lived along contented, and banished pain and grief,
We had not occasion then to ask for parish relief,
But now my hairs are grown quite grey, I cannot well engage,
To work as I had used to do, I’m 90 years of age.

But now that I am feeble grown, and poverty do feel,
If, for relief I go, they shove me into a Whig Bastile,[38]
Where I may hang my hoary head, and pine in grief and woe,
My father did not see the like, just 90 years ago.

When a man has laboured all his life to do his country good,
He’s respected just as much when old, as a donkey in a wood,
His days are gone and past, and he may weep in grief and woe,
The times are very different now to 90 years ago.

Now I am 90 years of age, if for relief I do apply,
I must go into a Whig Bastile to end my days and die,
I can no longer labour, as I no longer have,
Then, at the last, just like a dog, they lay me in my grave.

THE NEW FASHIONED FARMER.

Good people all, attend awhile,
Whilst I relate a story,
How the farmers in old England,
Did once support their glory.
When masters liv’d as masters ought,
And happy in their station,
Until at length, their stinking pride,
Has ruined all the Nation.

Chorus.

Let’s pray that hungry bellies may
Be fill’d when they are empty,
And where a servant gets ten pounds,
I wish he may get twenty.

A good old fashioned long grey coat,
The farmers us’d to wear, Sir,
And on old Dobbin they would ride,
To market or to fair, Sir,
But now fine geldings they must mount,
To join all in the chace, Sir,
Dressed up like any lord or ’squire,
Before their landlord’s face, Sir.

In former times, both plain and neat,
They’d go to Church on Sunday,
And then to harrow, plow, or sow,
They’d go upon a Monday.
But now, instead of the plough tail,
O’er hedges they are jumping,
And instead of sowing of their corn,
Their delight is in fox hunting.

The good old dames, God bless their names,
Were seldom in a passion,
But strove to keep a right good house,
And never thought on fashion.
With fine brown beer their hearts to cheer,
But now they must drink swipes, Sir,
It’s enough to make a strong man weak,
And give him the dry gripes, Sir.

The farmer’s daughters used to work
All at the spinning wheel, Sir,
But, now, such furniture as that,
Is thought quite ungenteel, Sir.
Their fingers they’re afraid to spoil,
With any such kind of sport, Sir,
Sooner than handle mop or broom,
They’d handle a piano-forte, Sir.

Their dress was always plain and warm,
When in their holiday clothes, Sir,
Besides, they had such handsome cheeks,
As red as any rose, Sir.
But now, they’re frilled and furbelowed,
Just like a dancing monkey,
Their bonnets and their great black veils,
Would almost fright a donkey.

When wheat it was a guinea a strike,[39]
The farmers bore the sway, Sir,
Now with their landlords they will ride,
Upon each hunting day, Sir.
Besides, their daughters they must join
The ladies at the Ball, Sir,
The landlords say, we’ll double their rents,
And then their pride must fall, Sir,

I hope no one will think amiss,
At what has here been penned, Sir,
But let us hope that these hard times
May speedily amend, Sir.
It’s all through such confounded pride,
Has brought them to reflection,
It makes poor servants’ wages low,
And keeps them in subjection.

PRESENT TIMES, OR EIGHT SHILLINGS A WEEK.[40]

Come all you bold Britons, where’er you may be,
I pray give attention, and listen to me,
There once was good times, but they’re gone by complete,
For a poor man lives now on Eight Shillings a week.

Such times in old England there never was seen,
As the present ones now; but much better have been,
A poor man’s condemned, and looked on as a thief,
And compelled to work hard on Eight Shillings a week.

Our venerable fathers remember the year,
When a man earned three shillings a day, and his beer.
He then could live well, keep his family neat,
But now he must work for Eight Shillings a week.

The Nobs of “Old England,” of shameful renown,
Are striving to crush a poor man to the ground,
They’ll beat down their wages and starve them complete,
And make them work hard for Eight Shillings a week.

A poor man to labour (believe me ’tis so),
To maintain his family is willing to go
Either hedging, or ditching, to plough, or to reap,
But how does he live on Eight Shillings a week.

In the reign of old George, as you all understand,
Here then was contentment throughout the whole land,
Each poor man could live, and get plenty to eat,
But now he must pine on Eight Shillings a week.

So now to conclude and finish my song,
May the times be much better, before it is long,
May every labourer be able to keep
His children and wife on Twelve Shillings a week.

There are very few Statute, or hiring, fairs now in existence, and perhaps it is as well, as a great deal of drunkenness and immorality used to occur at these meetings. The servants stood in groups according to their callings, each bearing some token of their employment; for instance, the carters carried a piece of whipcord. Employers of labour came and personally interviewed them, wages were agreed upon, and the hiring was for a year certain.

JIG, JIG, TO THE HIRINGS.

You Farmers, Servants, far and near,
Who do reside in —— land
Unto my song attend a while,
These verses will cause you to smile.
Now —— land hirings are come again,
The lasses gay and smart young men,
Drest in their best, all jig away
To see the fun on the hiring day.

When at the hirings they do arrive,
Like bees a swarming in a hive,
The servants they come flocking in,
Until the hirings do begin.
There’s pretty Sally, and pug nosed Poll,
There’s slender Kate and dumpy Doll,
With farmer’s daughters short and long,
To —— land hirings jig, jig along.

They now roll in, both thick and thin,
Jack, Bob, Harry, Tom, and Jim,
Waggoner Dick with his white smock,
He swears he’ll smash his Sally’s clock.
Ploughboy Jim, with whip so long,
Among the lasses soon does throng,
He finds his dear, and makes her sup,
And afterwards the dance keeps up.

Masters and Mistresses enquire.
Of Servants, if they want to hire,
And when good servants they have found,
They try and run the wages down.
They offer such small wages, oh dear!
Will scarce serve you throughout the year,
They want servants, the greedy elves,
To work for nought, and find themselves.

Says John, I ask twenty pound a year,
I’ll take no less I do declare,
There is plenty of work, they say,
For years to come, on the Railway.
So let each servant lad, and man,
Stand up for wages when you can,
For wages they must rise I’m told,
Or else they’ll go to the Railroad.

Then John and Moll walk to and fro,
They take a peep into the show,
John buys her nuts, and cakes, and wine,
With a few yards of ribbon fine.
Then off they go to the Dancing room,
The fiddler he strikes up a tune,
And then, good Lord, what noise and rout,
With John and Molly’s jigging about.

With fiddling, dancing, rum and beer,
Both John and Moll feel rather queer,
John squeezes her hand and looks so sly,
Whilst Molly winks her funny eye.
Then towards home they cross the hill,
They soon forget the Poor Law Bill,
And love plays up a rattling,
While John and Molly jig it again.

So Maids, don’t jig, jig, lest you rue,
Lads, to the lasses be kind and true,
And when jig, jig you wish to play,
To the Hirings jig, jig away.
There, if you give the Parson his fee,
You’ll find quite ready he will be,
To hire you both so neat and trig,
Then send you home to jig, jig.

COUNTRY STATUTES.

Come all you lads of high renown, and listen to my story,
For now the time is coming on, that is to all your glory,
For Jumping Nan is coming here, the Statutes to admire,
To see the lads and lasses standing all, a-waiting for their hire.

Chorus.

Lo, to Hiring we have come, all for to look for places,
If the master and we can agree, and he will give good wages.

The master that a servant wants, will stand now in a wonder,
You all must ask ten pounds a year, and none of you go under,
It’s you then, must do all the work, and what they do require,
So now, stand up for wages, lads, before that you do hire.

There’s Rolling Jane the hemp will spin, and Sal will mind the dairy,
And John will kiss his mistress when his master is a-weary,
There’s Tom will reap and mow, they’ll thrash, and never tire,
They’ll load the cart, and do their part, so they’re the lads to hire.

There’s Carter John, with whip so long, rises early in the morning,
He’s always ready at his work, before the day is dawning,
Hey up, gee wo, the plough must go, till he is almost weary,
But a jug of ale, both stout and stale, it will soon make him merry.

There’s Poll so red, will made the bread, likewise good cheese and butter,
And Bet so thick, will tread the rick, she’s never in a flutter:
She’ll feed the sows and milk the cows, and do what she is able,
Although she’s mean, she’s neat and clean, when waiting at the table.

There’s black eyed Fan, with the frying pan, will cook your eggs and bacon,
With beef and mutton, roast and boiled, if I am not mistaken,
She’ll made the puddings fat and good, all ready for your dinner,
But, if you grumble when she’s done, she’ll cure you with the skimmer.

The farmer’s wife so full of pride, must have a lady’s maid, Sir,
All for to dress and curl her hair, and powder it beside, Sir,
But the girl of heart, to dress so smart, they call her charming Nancy,
She can wink and blink in such a style, she’s all the young men’s fancy.

And when the mop it is all o’er, you that are young and hearty,
Must take your girl all in your hand, and join a drinking party.
But, when you are returning home, enjoying sweet embraces,
With love and honour spend the night, at statutes, fairs, or races.

So all you pretty lasses gay, I do not wish to shame you,
Nor yet do I intend at all, by any means to blame you;
But I doubt next year you’ll want no places,
If you care for yourselves going home from the races.

THE BOLD POACHER.

When I was bound ’prentice in fair Lincolnshire,
I served my master for nearly seven year,
Till I got up to poaching, as quickly you shall hear,
It was my delight in a shiny night, in the season of the year.

As I and my bold comrades were setting of a snare,
The game keeper was watching us, for him we did not care,
For I could wrestle, or fight, my boys, or jump over any where,
It was my delight in a shiny night, in the season of the year.

As I and my bold comrades were setting four or five,
And going to take them up again, we found a hare alive,
I have her in the bag, my boys, and through the woods we steer,
It was my delight in a shiny night, in the season of the year.

I hung her over my shoulder, and rambled into the town,
I callèd at a neighbour’s house, and sold her for a crown,
I sold her for a crown my boys, but I’ll not tell you where,
It was my delight, in a shiny night, in the season of the year.

Here’s to every poacher that lives in Lincolnshire,
And here’s to every gamekeeper, that wants to buy a hare,
But not every keeper that wants to keep his deer,
It was my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.

This ballad shows that there are two sides to a poacher’s life.

DEATH OF POOR BILL BROWN.

Ye Gentlemen both great and small,
Game keepers, poachers, sportsmen, all,
Pray listen to my simple clown,[41]
I’ll sing you the death of poor Bill Brown,
I’ll sing you the death of poor Bill Brown.

One stormy night as you shall hear,
(It was in the season of the year,)
We went to the woods to catch a fat buck,
But ah! that night we had bad luck,
Bill Brown was shot and his dog was stuck.

When we got to the wood our sport begun,
I saw the Game keeper present his gun,
I call’d on Bill to climb the gate,
To fetch the fat buck, but it was too late,
For there he met his untimely fate.

Then, dying he lay upon the ground,
And in that state poor Bill I found,
And when he saw me, he did cry,
“Revenge my death,” I will, said I,
For many a hare we’ve caught hard by.

I knew the man that shot Bill Brown,
I knew him well and could tell his clown,
And to describe it in my song,
Black jacket he had, and red waistcoat on,
I knew him well, and they called him Tom.

I dressed myself up, next night in time,
I got to the wood and the clock struck nine,
The reason was, and I’ll tell you why,
To find the game keeper I’ll go try,
Who shot my friend, and he shall die.

I ranged the wood all over and then
I looked at my watch, and it was just ten,
I heard a footstep upon the green,
And I laid down for fear of being seen,
For I plainly saw that it was Tom Green.

Then I took my piece fast in my hand,
Resolved to fire if Tom did stand;
Tom heard the noise, and turn’d him round,
I fired, and brought him down to the ground,
My hand gave him his deep death wound.

Now, revenge, you see, my hopes have crown’d,
I’ve shot the man that shot Bill Brown,
Poor Bill no more these eyes will see,
Farewell, dear friend, farewell to thee,
For I’ve crowned his hopes and his memory.

THE JOLLY ANGLER.

O, the jolly angler’s life is the best of any,
It is a fancy void of strife, and will be lov’d of many,
It is no crime at any time, but a harmless pleasure,
It is a bliss of lawfulness; it is a joy, ’tis not a toy;
It is a skill that breeds no ill; it is sweet and complete;
Adornation to our mind; it’s witty, pretty, decent, pleasant;
Pastime we shall sweetly find, if the weather prove but kind,
We will have our pleasure.

In the morning up we start, as soon as daylight’s peeping,
We take a cup to cheer the heart, and leave the sluggard sleeping,
Forth we walk, with merry talk to some pleasant river,
Near the Thames’ silver streams; there we stand, rod in hand,
Fixing right, for a bite; but if the bait the fish allure,
They come bobbing, nipping, biting, skipping,
Dangling on our hooks secure; with such a pastime sweet and pure.
We could fish for ever.

Various objects to be seen, O, what pleasure there is,
Can there be a purer joy—if so—tell me, where is?
Birds they sing, and flowers spring; full of delectation,
A whistling breeze runs through the trees, there we meet meadows sweet;
Flowers sweet, the mind unbent; here is scent, of sweet content.
Living, giving, easing, pleasing; by those sweet refreshing bowers,
Vitals from those herbs and flowers, rais’d up by those falling showers,
For man’s recreation.

As thro’ the shady forest, where echo there is sounding,
Hounds and huntsmen roving there, in their sports abounding;
Hideous noise, in all their joys, not to be admired;
Whilst we fish, to gain a dish; with a hook, in the brook,
Watch our float, spare our throat, while they’re sult’ring to and fro;
Twivy, Twivy, Twivy, hark the horn does sweetly blow,
Hounds and huntsmen all in a row,
With their pastime tired.

We have gentles in our horns, we have worms and paste, too;
Landing net and floats we have, with hooks of all sizes;
We have line and choice of twine, fitting for the angle;
If they don’t show, away we’ll go, seeking out chub or trout,
Eel or pike, or the like, dace or bleak, these we seek,
Barbel, jack, and many more, gudgeons, perches, tenches, roaches;
Here’s the jolly angler’s store; we have choice of fish galore,
We will have our angle.

If the sun’s excessive heat, should our bodies sulter,
To some house or hedge retreat, for some friendly shelter:
But, if we spy a shower nigh, or the day uncertain,
Then we flee beneath a tree; then we eat our victuals sweet,
Take a coke, smoke and soak; then again, to the same,
But, if we can no longer stay, we come laughing, joking, quaffing, smoking,
So delightful all the way; thus we do conclude the day,
With a cup at parting.

THE HUMOURS OF THE RACES.

Good people all draw near, and listen to my ditty,
A song to you I’ll sing, that is both short and pretty,
There’s countrymen and maids, with their sweet and ruddy faces,
Link’d in each other’s arms,—they’re coming to the races.

Here’s Coaches and Tandems, there’s Gigs and Carts likewise, Sir,
And ladies grandly dress’d, with dandy cap beside, Sir,
They have a cabbage net to cover o’er their faces
With a footman at their heels, they’re coming to the races.
Now look at the Grand Stand, where the gentlemen are sitting,
Whilst the horses run the course, hundreds of them are betting,
Some win a handsome sum, and others pull wry faces,

As they are going home, wish they’d never seen the races.
The time it being arrived, the bell it is rung loudly,
The horses are well bred, they walk the course so proudly,
The gentlemen in red, so gallant in their places,
The course for to keep clear always at the races.

The horses then do start, O! what a row and pother,
They push and shove away, one tumbling o’er another,
Here’s girls upon the course, with their fine rings and lockets,
But while the horses run, I’d have you mind your pockets.

There’s spruce Eliza Long, and Polly, Kate, and Sukey,
Besides, there’s Molly Ruff, remarkable for beauty;
There’s pretty lasses gay, who are fond of men’s embraces,
But if you don’t take care, they’ll make you curse the races.

And when the heat is o’er, into the booth they’ll toddle,
They drink of gin and ale, till it affects their noddle:
While your money lasts, they’ll use you very civil,
But when your blunt is gone, they’ll kick you like the devil.

The next unto the shows, the people are advancing,
The show folks on the stage like puppets are a dancing,
The showman bawls aloud, “Come in and take your places,
I’ll show you Punch and Nan, now you’ve come to the Races.”

Here’s wheelbarrows with nuts, here’s pies and tarts likewise, Sir,
All for to please your taste, if you’re inclin’d to buy, Sir;
Here’s the best of beef and ham, and muffins too, and crumpets,
Lark whistles, rattles, drums, and also wooden trumpets.

When the races they are o’er, and money growing short, Sir,
There’s many a luckless wight may with reason curse the sport, Sir,
The finest race you’ll see, when the horse races are over,
Will be unto the house where three balls the door hangs over.

THE BONNY GREY.

Come, you cock Merchants, far and near,
Did you hear of a cock battle happened near,
Those Liverpool lads, I’ve heard them say,
The Charcoal Black, and the Bonny Grey.

We went to Jim Ward’s and call’d for a pot,
Where this cock battle was fought;
Twenty guineas a side these cocks did play,
The Charcoal Black, and the Bonny Grey.

Then Lord Derby came swaggering down,
Bet ten guineas to a crown,
If this Charcoal Black it gets fair play,
He will rip the wings of your Bonny Grey.

O, these two cocks, they came to the sod,
Cries the Liverpool lads, how now? what odds?
The odds the Prescot lads did say,
The Charcoal Black and the Bonny Grey.

The cock battle it was fought,
Whilst the Charcoal he lay dead at last,
The Liverpool lads gave a loud huzza,
And carried away the Bonny Grey.

THE KING AND WEST COUNTRYMAN.

There was an old chap in the west country,
A flaw in his lease the lawyers had found,
It were all about felling of five oak trees,
And building some houses upon his own ground.

Chorus.

Ri tooral, looral, looral, looral, Ri tum looral i, do.

Now this owd chap to Lunnon did go,
To tell the King a part of his woe,
Likewise to unbosom to him his grief,
In hopes King George would give him relief.

When this owd chap to Lunnun had come,
He found the King to Windsor had gone,
But, if he’d a known he’d not been at home,
He dom’d his buttons, if ever he’d come.

Now this owd chap to Windsor did stump,
But the gates were barred, and all secure,
So he knocked and thumped with his oaken clump,
There’s room for I within, to be sure.

Pray, Mr. Noble, show I the King,
What’s, that the King, as I see there?
If that chap’s a king, I vow and declare,
I’ve seen finer Kings at Bartlemy Fair.

Pray, Mr. King, how do you do?
I’ze gotten for you, a bit of a job,
Which, if you’ll have the kindness to do,
I’ve got a summut for you in my fob.

The King, he took the lease in hand,
To sign it he was likewise willing,
And the farmer, to make him some little amend,
He lugged out his bag, and gi’ed him a shilling.

The King, to carry on the joke,
Ordered ten pounds to be paid down,
Likewise ten shillings, and half a crown,
For years and years after for ever more.

The farmer, he stared and looked very funny,
But to take up the cash, he was likewise willing
But, if he’d a known, he’d half so much brass,
He dommed his wig if he’d gi’en him the shilling.

HODGE IN LONDON.

John Hodge bid his dad and his mammy good bye,
And he set off for London his fortune to try,
For he, by a great many folks had been told,
That in London the streets were all paved with gold.

But, when he came there, to his great surprise,
Like a duck against thunder, he rolled up his eyes;
He search’d all around, but the devil a one,
Could poor Johnny find, but was paved with stone.

Now, in London, says John, I have heard people say,
That your pockets they’ll pick in the midst of the day!
I’ll take pretty good care that they shall not pick mine,
If they do, not a penny in them will they find.

One guinea I’ve got, and of that will take care,
I’ll put it in my mouth, for they can’t find it there,
So deceived was poor Johnny, this caution he took,
For a boy overheard every word that he spoke.

Now the boy being determined the guinea to gain,
Tumbled down on the stones, and then called out amain,
Stop that thief, said the boy, that clod hopping ninny,
He has knocked me down, and ran off with my guinea.

When the people they heard the poor boy so take on,
They scampered away, and soon overtook John,
What mean you? you rascal, they all then did cry,
You’ve robb’d the boy, though the theft you deny.

Then John he stood trembling and quaking for fear,
Crying, I ne’er touched the boy, nor his guinea, I swear,
But the boy coming up, still a lie he bawled out,
For you know that my guinea, you’ve got in your mouth.

Then they opened John’s mouth, where the guinea was found,
Which was presently shewn to the people all round,
’Twas given to the boy, who off with it did run,
And he laugh’d for to think how the Bumpkin he’d done.

Then John, he stood roaring, just like a great calf,
Whilst those standing by, did heartily laugh,
The people all thought that the boy he did rob,
Says John, from this time I’ll ne’er do such a job.

Although the Mutiny of the Fleet at the Nore does not properly belong to this century, yet it so nearly approached it (1797), and was of such national importance for the time being, that I venture to insert a ballad respecting it. The Navy was in a bad state. Many men had been impressed; they were badly paid and badly fed; and their punishment, for the slightest infraction of discipline, was fearful, 50 to 500 lashes, according to the temper of the captain, being no infrequent punishment for very venial offences. Early in the year the men sent in very respectful memorials to Lord Howe, telling him of their grievances. No notice was taken of it, and the men, probably ignorantly, committed a gross breach of discipline in combining together and opening communications with each other throughout the Fleet. They plotted to seize the ships and expel the officers; but it became known, and the Admiral gave orders to sail to sea. The men refused to do so, until their grievances had been looked into and redressed. This was promised and granted, but still the men were suspicious that faith would not be kept with them, and they set some of their officers ashore. Lord Howe, however, went to the Fleet at St. Helen’s, and showed them an Act of Parliament, granting their demands, and this pacified that portion of the Fleet.

But at the Nore there was open mutiny; they blockaded the entrance to the Thames, and fired on several ships entering or departing. This could not be endured, and the Admiralty removed the buoys. Provisions ran short, and some men-of-war were sent alongside, with orders to sink those ships that did not surrender. They gave in one by one, and the chief ringleader, Richard Parker (a man of some education), and several others were hanged; but they were long regarded as martyrs. Parker was buried in the churchyard of St. Mary Matfelon, Whitechapel.

DEATH OF PARKER.

Ye Gods above, protect the widow,
And with pity look down on me,
Help me, help me out of trouble,
And out of all calamity.
For by the death of my brave Parker,
Fortune hath prov’d to me unkind;
Tho’ doom’d by law, he was to suffer,
I can’t erase him from my mind.

Parker he was my lawful husband,
My bosom friend I lov’d so dear;
At the awful moment he was going to suffer
I was not allowed to come near.
In vain I strove, in vain I asked,
Three times, o’er and o’er again,
But they replied, you must be denied,
You must return on shore again.

First time I attempted my love to see,
I was obliged to go away,
Oppress’d with grief, and broken hearted,
To think that they should me stay.
I thought I saw the yellow flag flying,
A signal for my husband to die,
A gun was fired, as they required,
As the time it did draw nigh.

The boatswain did his best endeavour,
To get me on shore without delay,
When I stood trembling and confounded,
Ready to take his body away.
Though his trembling hand did wave,
As a signal of farewell,
The grief I suffered at this moment,
No heart can paint, or tongue can tell.

My fleeting spirit I thought would follow,
The soul of him I love so dear,
No friend, nor neighbour would come nigh me,
For to ease me of my grief and care.
Every moment I thought an hour,
Till the law its course had run,
I wish’d to finish the doleful task,
His imprudence had begun.

In the dead of night, ’tis silent,
And all the world are fast asleep,
My trembling heart that knows no comfort,
O’er his grave does often weep,
Each lingering minute that passes,
Brings me nearer to the shore,
When we shall shine in endless glory,
Never to be parted more.

THE BATTLE OF BOULOGNE.

On the second day of August, eighteen hundred and one,
We sail’d with Lord Nelson to the port of Boulogne,
For to cut out their shipping, which was all in vain,
For to our misfortune, they were all moored and chained.

Our boats being well mann’d, at eleven at night,
For to cut away their shipping, except they would fight,
But the grape from their batteries so smartly did play,
Nine hundred brave seamen killed and wounded there lay.

We hoisted our colours, and so boldly them did spread
With a British flag flying at our royal mast-head,
For the honour of England, we will always maintain,
While bold British seamen plough the watery main.

Exposed to the fire of the enemy she lay,
While ninety bright pieces of cannon did play,
Where many a brave seaman then lay in his gore,
And the shot from their batteries so smartly did pour.

Our noble commander, with heart full of grief,
Used every endeavour to afford us relief,
No ship could assist us, as well you may know,
In this wounded condition, we were toss’d to and fro.

And you who relieve us the Lord will you bless,
For relieving poor sailors in time of distress,
May the Lord put an end to all cruel wars,
And send peace and contentment to all British tars.

VICTORY.

I am a youthful lady, my troubles they are great,
My tongue is scarcely able my grievance to relate,
Since I have lost my true love that was ever dear to me,
He is gone to plough the Ocean, on board the Victory.

Many a pleasant evening my love and I have met,
He clasp’d me round my slender waist, and gave me kisses sweet,
I gave to him my hand and heart, he vow’d he’d marry me,
But I did not know that my love would go on board the Victory.

My parents could not endure my love, because he was poor,
Therefore he did not presume to come within the door;
But, had he been some noble lord, or man of high degree,
They ne’er had sent the lad I love, on board the Victory.

Thirteen of the pressgang did my love surround,
And one of the cursed gang, he laid bleeding on the ground,
My love was overpowered, but he fought most manfully,
Till he was obliged to yield, and go in the Victory.

Each night, when in my slumbers, I can’t find any rest,
Love for my lad so dearly reigns within my burning breast,
Sometimes I dream I do enjoy my love’s sweet company,
And closely locked in my arms, on board the Victory.

His teeth were white as ivory, his hair in ringlets hung,
His cheeks like blooming roses, all in the month of June,
He is lively, tall and handsome, in every degree,
My heart lies in his bosom, on board the Victory.

Here’s success unto the Victory, and crew of noble fame,
And glory to the noble lord, bold Nelson, was his name,
In the battle of Trafalgar, the Victory cleared the way,
And my love was slain with Nelson upon that very day.

THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO.[42]

You’ve heard of the Turks and the Greeks,
For all Europe’s been told their bad habits,
How they cut down each other like leeks,
And the Turks slaughter children like rabbits:
But John Bull could bear it no more,
Said he, you death dealers, I’ll stop you,
And if you don’t both soon give o’er,
I swear by St. George, that I’ll whop you.

But the Turks supposed John was in jest,
Or concluded he was but a Green-o,
So they mustered their fleet all the best,
And lay in the Port Navarino.
Death and famine they carried before’t,
And shot the poor Grecians by flocks, Sir,
Said our Tars, “We’ll go join in the sport,
And bring down a few Turkey Cocks, Sir.”

Then our Admiral boldly went in,
Said he, “Mr. Turk, just a word here,”
But they answered him with a foul grin,
And a dirty trick something like murder.
Then Codrington proudly arose,
Said he, “Do they take us for dull logs?
Well, since they’re determined on blows,
Go at ’em, my brave British bull dogs.”

Now the Turk thought our ships were his prey,
And hoped soon to take them in tow-a,
The Asia then led on the way,
And next came the brave ship Genoa!
The Tars then bang’d into the Turks,
As they do to all foes that would wrong us,
The Musselmen cried, “Here’s your works!
Oh Mahomet! The Devil’s upon us.”

The French took a share in the fun,
The Russians proved willing and able,
In three hours the business was done,
And the turkeys dished up for the table.
They were cooked to their heart’s full desire,
’Twas not a mere frizzle or toasting,
But it seems they’d too much of the fire,
And were d——ly burnt in the roasting.

Then success to our lads of true blue,
Be they found upon sea or on shore,
And hurrah for the staunch gallant crew
That manned the brave ship the Genoa!
While we fight in humanity’s cause,
Success all our efforts must crown, Sir,
And the tyrant that treads on her laws,
May the first honest man knock him down, Sir.

DUKE WILLIAM’S FROLIC.[43]

Duke William and a Nobleman, heroes of England’s nation,
One morning, nigh to two o’clock, did take their recreation;
Into the country they did go, in sailor’s dress from top to toe,
Said Duke William, now let us go and know, how they use the brave sailors.

Dressed all in their sailor’s trim, they straightway hastened to an inn,
And when they were there, they made all the people stare at their manly appearance;
The landlady viewed them; by good words they assail her,
Said she, come in, be not afraid, I love the jolly sailor.

Then up the stairs they did go, and in a room did enter,
The duke did say, Landlady, please, bring wine both white and red,
Before the wine was drunk out, a press-gang bold and stout,
In the lower rooms for sailors bold did look and search about.

The landlady said, go upstairs, if sailors you are seeking,
But one’s so fat that I believe, you’ll hardly care to ship him;
Ne’er mind, the Press-gang they did say, and went without delay,
We’re jolly sailors, brothers, from what ship are you, we pray?

We do belong to George, said Will; said they, Where’s your protection?
We’ve none at all, they did reply, don’t cast on us reflection;
The lieutenant then did say, brothers, come without delay,
They shall not make you a prey, our warrant is for sailors.

They led them to their leader then, the captain did them meet,
The duke, he said, Kind gentleman, take great care of your sheep.
With that the Captain he did swear, I am your shepherd, I declare,
We’ll make you know you saucy are, get down among the sailors.

The Nobleman he did go down, but the duke, he refused,
At which the officers did frown, and sadly him abused:
Where must I lie? his highness said, may I not have a feather bed,
You’re fat enough, they all replied, pig in amongst the sailors.

Then straight below the duke did go, unto his comrade, Sir,
How he did swear, to see the fate of many a brisk young blade, Sir;
Below he tore his trousers, and calling for some tailors,
The Captain said, you saucy blade, there’s no one here but sailors.

For your bold airs, the Captain said, you’ll surely get a flog, Sir,
Quick to the gangway him convey, and whip him like a dog, Sir,
Come, strip, he cried; the duke replied, I do not like your law, Sir,
I ne’er will strip for to be whipped, so strip me if you dare, Sir.

Then instantly the boatswain’s mate began for to undress him,
But, presently, he did espy the star upon his breast, sir;
Then on their knees they straight did fall, and for mercy soon did call,
He replied, You’re base villains, thus using us poor sailors.

No wonder that my royal father cannot man his shipping,
’Tis by using them so barbarously, and always them a-whipping,
But for the future, sailors all, shall have good usage, great and small,
To hear the news, together all cried, May God bless Duke William.

He ordered them fresh officers that stood in need of wealth,
And with the crew he left some gold, that they might drink his health,
And when that they did go away, the sailors loud huzzaéd
Crying, blessed be that happy day whereon was born Duke William.

THE KING[44] AND THE SAILOR.

In Portsmouth town, at the sign of the Ship,
A jolly Jack Tar sat drinking his flip,
A messmate was there, who spun him a yarn,
That we’d a new King, he’d soon give him to larn.

Says sailor Ben to sailor Jem,
He’s a King, and a sailor trim,
And ’bout him there’s no palaver or fuss,
Acause, don’t you see, he is one of us.

Says sailor Ben to his messmate Jem,
He knows that I’ve sailed under him,
And when our ship’s paid off at Chatham,
I’ll go and have a good stare at ’em.

Now Ben Block he arriv’d at the Park,
And soon the King and Queen did mark,
Says Ben, says he, I’ll bet you a tanner,
He hails me in a Kinglike manner.

Ye ho! says Ben, and he soon brought to,
And his boatswain’s whistle out he drew,
When the King turn’d round with pride and joy,
Halloo! says he, what ship ahoy?

Now Ben, he answered with a grin,
The Royal Charlotte I’ve sailed in,
She was nam’d arter your royal mother,
Whose great and glorious son you are.

The King the hand of Ben he shook,
And said at that time I was a Mid,
Then Ben lugged out his ’bacca box,
And said to the King, come take a quid.

If you won’t, the Queen may like a bit,
Mayhap, like one of the Indian squaws;
So he scrap’d up to her, and offered his box,
No thank ye, says she, I never chaws.

The King he gave promotion to Ben
So he thought that he’d steer back again,
But the Queen, he thought he first would tell her
That her husband the king, was a d——d good fellow!

JACK BINNACLE AND QUEEN VICTORIA.[45]

Jack Binnacle just come from sea,
As jolly a tar as ever could be,
Hearing with many a joyous smile,
That Queen Victoria ruled our isle,
Weighed anchor for her palace soon,
With honest ardour just in time,
Declaring loudly, with a grin,
That he’d have a shake at the Royal Fin.

Chorus.

Gaily push the grog about,
With mirth we’ll make each cabin shout
Let pleasure everywhere be seen,
Long life to Britain’s youthful Queen!

Away Jack Binnacle then sped,
With natty hat upon his head,
With slacks and jacket blue, so trim,
No tar look’d half so well as him.
With shiners too, his purse was stor’d,
Besides, he had some grog aboard;
He reach’d her palace gates with joy,
Where loud he shouted—“Ship, Ahoy!”

The guards, amazed, without delay,
All sought to drive the tar away;
Avast! ye lubbers! then he cries,
And spits his quid into their eyes,
To see her Queenship, I’ve come afar,
I know she’ll not despise a tar;
Because, don’t ye see, don’t make a fuss,
Her uncle Bill was one of us.

In vain they tried to hinder Jack,
He bolted into the palace, smack!
Pass’d all the Yeomen on the stairs,
And on to the state chamber steers.
With wonder each one did him view,
Jack hitch’d his slacks—cried how d’ye do?
All right I hope,—no harm I mean,
I’ve come to see our Royal Queen.

The Courtiers did not like this rout,
And would have put the Jack Tar out,
But our good Queen with friendly glance,
Desir’d our hero to advance,
“What! are YOU Victoria?” Jack then cries,
“Lord love your pretty twinkling eyes,
Exactly like my Poll, that’s flat,
Only as how you’re not so fat.

Avast!—my jaw I must belay,
I hopes you’ll pardon what I say,
I sailed with your good Uncle Bill,
Whose memory I do honour still,
So, as I’ve heard, you’re Captain now,
I thought I’d come and make my bow,
And, as I have got lots of prog,
Would your Queenship take a glass of grog?”

Our lovely Queen seemed to enjoy
The joke, which did her guests annoy;
For Queen Victoria, who can blame,
Loves all her subjects just the same.
Jack full an hour there did stay,
Then cried, as he rose to go away,
Poking a quid between his jaws,
“I s’pose your Majesty never chaws?”

Then off went Jack, to the sign of the Ship,
And ordered a galore of flip,
Declaring loudly he did mean
To swim in grog to the health of the Queen.
Many a tar then joined hand,
Cans were filled, hands grasp’d each hand,
So then they shouted with such glee,
To Queen Victoria—three times three.

SWEET WILLIAM.

As I was a walking along the sea shore,
Where the breezes blow cool and the billows do roar,
A ship I espied on the proud swelling main,
That brought me my true love to England again.

The boat came on shore and my true love did land,
With his tarpawling jacket, and bundle in hand;
Saying presents I’ve brought you from East and from West,
Because you’re the maiden that I love the best.

I have shawls and rich laces, and fine golden rings,
And rubies and pearls, and fifty fine things;
For since you’ve proved loyal and constant to me,
I have come back to England to marry with thee.

Oh, then round her fair neck his arms he did throw,
And glad tears of joy from her eyelids did flow,
Saying William, dear William, thou’rt welcome to me,
For many long months have I watchéd for thee.

O, come my dear Sailor, and let us begone,
My father and mother are waiting at home,
To see my dear sailor how glad they will be,
For they prayed for your safety while you were at sea.

Then come, my dear girl, to the Church let’s away,
And we shall be wedded without more delay,
I’ve riches in store, love, when thou art my wife,
To make us contented and happy for life.

THE POOR SMUGGLER’S BOY.

One cloudy morning, as I abroad did steer,
By the wide rolling ocean that runs swift and clear,
I heard a poor creature, that in sorrow did weep,
Saying, O, my poor father is lost in the deep.

My father and mother once happy did dwell,
In a neat little cottage they rearéd me well;
Poor father did venture all on the salt sea,
For a keg of good brandy, for the land of the free.

For Holland we steer’d while the thunder did roar,
And the lightning flash’d vivid when far, far, from shore,
Our ship, mast, and rigging, were blown to the wave,
And found, with poor father, a watery grave.

I jump’d over board in the troubléd main,
To save my poor father—but all was in vain,
I clasp’d his cold clay, for quite lifeless was he,
Then forc’d for to leave him, sink down in the sea.

I clung to a plank, and so gained the shore,
With sad news for mother, and father no more,
For mother, with grief broken hearted did die,
And I was left to wander—so pity poor I.

A lady of fortune, she heard him complain,
And shelteréd him from the wind and the rain,
She said, I’ve employment,—no parents have I,
I will think of an orphan, till the day that I die.

He well did his duty, and gained a good name,
Till the lady she died, and he master became,
She left him 2000 bright pounds, and some land,
So, if you’re ever so poor, you may live to be grand.

THE SMUGGLER’S BRIDE.

Attention give and a tale I’ll tell,
Of a damsel fair that in Kent did dwell,
On the Kentish coast, when the tempest rolled,
She fell deep in love with a smuggler bold.

Upon her pillow she could not sleep,
When her valiant smuggler was on the deep,
While the winds did whistle she did complain,
For her smuggler ploughing the raging main.

When Will arrived on his native coast,
He would fly to her that he valued most,
He would fly to Nancy, his lover true,
And forget all hardships he’d lately been through.

One bright May morning the sun did shine,
And lads and lasses all gay and fine,
Along the coast they did trip along,
To see the wedding, and sing a cheerful song.

Young Nancy then bid her friends adieu,
And to sea she went with her lover true,
In storms and tempests all hardship braves,
With her valiant smuggler upon the waves.

One stormy night when the winds did rise,
And dark and dismal appeared the skies,
The tempest rolled and the waves did roar,
And the valiant smuggler was driven from shore.

Cheer up, cries William, my valiant wife,
Says Nancy—I never valued life,
I’ll brave the storms and the tempests through,
And fight for William with sword and pistol too.

At length a cutter did on them drive,
The cutter on them did soon arrive,
Don’t be daunted, though we’re but two,
We’ll not surrender—like Britons true.

Cheer up, says Nancy, with courage true,
I will fight, dear William, and stand by you,
They like Britons fought, Nancy stood by the gun,
They beat their enemies and quick made them run.

Another cutter now hove in sight,
And joined to chase them with all their might;
They were overpowered, and soon disarmed,
It was then young Nancy and William were alarmed.

A shot that moment made Nancy start,
Another struck William to the heart,
This shock distressed sweet Nancy’s charms,
When she fell and died in William’s arms,

Now Will and Nancy to life bid adieu,
They lived and died like two lovers true,
Young men and maidens, now faithful prove,
Like Will and Nancy, who lived and died in love.

THE FEMALE SMUGGLER.

Come, attend a while, and you shall hear,
By the Rolling Sea lived a maiden fair,
Her father followed the smuggling trade,
Like a warlike hero that was never afraid.

In Sailor’s clothing, young Jane did go,
Dress’d like a sailor from top to toe,
Her aged father was the only care
Of the female smuggler who did never despair.

With her pistols loaded, she went on board,
By her side hung a glittering sword,
In her belt, two daggers, well arm’d for war,
Was the female smuggler, who never fear’d scar.

Not far they sailéd from the land,
When a strange sail put them all to a stand;
Those are the robbers, this maid did cry,
The female smuggler will conquer or die.

Close along side these two vessels came,
Cheer up, said Jane, we’ll board the same,
We’ll run all chances to rise or fall,
Cried the female smuggler, who never fear’d a ball.

They beat the robbers, and took their store,
And soon return’d to old England’s shore,
With a keg of brandy she walk’d along,
Did the female smuggler, and sweetly sang a song.

Not far she travell’d, before she espied,
A Commodore of the blockade,
He said, Surrender, or you must fall,
But the female smuggler said, I never fear a ball.

What do you mean? said the Commodore.
I mean to fight, for my father’s poor,
Then she pull’d the trigger, and shot him through,
Did the female smuggler, and to her father flew.

But she was followed by the blockade,
In irons strong they put this fair maid,
But when they brought her to be tried,
The young female smuggler stood dress’d like a bride.

The Commodore against her appeared,
His health restored, and from danger cleared,
But, when he found, to his great surprize,
’Twas a female smuggler had fought him in disguise.

He to the Judge and Jury said,
My heart won’t let me prosecute that maid,
Pardon I beg for her on my knees,
She’s a valiant maiden, so pardon, if you please.

If you pardon this maid, said the gentleman,
To make her my bride is now my plan,
Then I’d be happy for ever more,
With my sweet smuggler, said the Commodore.

Then the Commodore to her father went,
Though he was poor, to ask his consent,
He gained consent, so the Commodore,
And the female smuggler are joined for evermore.

JACK RETURNED FROM SEA.

Here am I, poor Jack,
Just come home from Sea,
With shiners in my sack,
Pray what do you think of me?
Eight long years I have been
Cruising the wide world over,
Many a droll sight have I seen,
But I wish the War was over.

I’ve sailed in many a flood,
Where cans of grog did pour,
Fought up to my knees in blood,
Where bullets flew in showers,
Where the French cried out parblue,
The Dutch cried out Peccavi.
The Danes and Spaniards too,
Went tumbling to old Davy.

Sailors have mann’d the gales,
Let it rain, blow or fog,
The purser often fails
To serve us out with grog.
I’ve crossed th’ Equinoctial line,
Where the sun would scorch your nose off,
I’ve sailed in such a clime,
Where the frost would bite your toes off.

It was off the coast of Spain,
Coming from a six months’ cruise,
Little did I think to hear
Of such glorious news.
I heard our people tell,
Talking of an invasion,
But that I knew full well,
Was all a botheration.

I next was at the Nore,
We cast anchor in the night,
Looking towards the shore,
A boat appeared in sight.

As on the yard we lay,
Our topsails for to furl,
I heard our pilot say
There’s peace with all the world.[46]

I wish it was a peace,
And all our men on shore,
With the shiners in my sack,
And go to sea no more.
And should war come again,
Damme if I don’t enter,
And, like a jolly tar,
Both life and limb,
I’ll venture.

THE JOLLY ROVING TAR.

It was in the town of Liverpool, all in the month of May,
I overheard a damsel, alone as she did stray,
She did appear like Venus, or some sweet lovely star.
As she walked the beach, lamenting for her jolly roving Tar.

O, William, gallant William, how can you sail away?
I have arrived at twenty one, and I’m a lady gay,
I will man one of my father’s ships, and face the horrid war,
And cross the briny ocean for my jolly roving Tar.

Young William looked so manly, drest all in his sailor’s clothes,
His cheeks they were like roses, his eyes as black as sloes,
His hair hung down in ringlets, but he is gone afar,
And my heart lies in the bosom of my jolly roving Tar.

Come all you jolly sailors, and push the boat ashore,
That I may see my father’s ships and see they are secure,
Provisions we have plenty, and lots of grog in store,
So drink good health you sailors, to my jolly roving Tar.

She quickly jumped into the boat and merrily left the land,
And as the sailors rowed away, she wav’d her lily hand,
Farewell ye girls of Liverpool, I fear no wound nor scar,
And away went pretty Susan to her jolly roving Tar.

YOUNG HENRY OF THE RAGING MAIN.

On a summer’s morn the day was dawning,
Down by the pleasant river side,
I saw a brisk and lovely maiden,
And a youth called “England’s Pride”!
He was a tight and smart young sailor,
Tears from his eyes did fall like rain,
Saying, adieu, my lovely Emma,
I’m going to plough the raging main.

Cried Emma—Henry will you leave me
Behind, my sorrow to complain?
For your sweet features, lovely Henry,
I may ne’er behold again!
See, Emma dear, our ship’s weighed anchor,
Tis folly, Love, for to complain,
Though you I leave, I’ll ne’er deceive you,
I’m bound to plough the raging main.

Said Emma, Stay a little longer,
Stay at home with your true love,
But, if you enter, I will venture,
I swear by all the powers above!
I’ll venture with my lovely Henry,
Perhaps great honour I may attain,
She cried, I’ll enter and boldly venture
With Henry on the raging main.

Cried Henry,—Love, don’t be distracted,
Perhaps you may be cast away,
’Tis for that reason, cried young Emma,
That behind I will not stay.
I’ll dress myself in man’s apparel,
So, dearest Henry, don’t complain,
In jacket blue, and tarry trousers,
I will plough the raging main.

Then on board the brig Eliza,
Henry and his Emma went;
She did her duty like a sailor,
And with her lover was content.
Her pretty hands, once soft as velvet,
With pitch and tar appeared in pain,
Though her hands were soft, she went aloft,
And boldly ploughed the raging main.

The Eliza brig was bound for India,
And ’ere she had three weeks set sail,
From land, or light, one stormy night,
It blew a bitter, and heavy gale.
Undaunted, up aloft went Emma,
’Midst thunder, lightning, wind and rain,
With courage true, in a blue jacket,
Did Emma plough the raging main.

Twelve hours long the tempest lasted,
At length quite calm it did appear,
And they proceeded on their voyage,
Emma, and her true love dear.
When just two years they’d been sailing,
To England they returned again,
And no one did suspect young Emma,
Ploughing on the watery main.

In England, and, for the matter of that, on the Continent as well, since this century was born, some trifle has tickled the people, and has been reiterated, until every catch-word has become a nuisance. In the early part of the century, for instance, “Has your mother sold her mangle?” “Does your mother know you’re out?” and, “Before you could say Jack Robinson” (which has passed into a recognized saying), were in everyone’s mouth. It is not often that these catch-words can be traced to their origin, but the latter seems to have arisen in the Ballad of

JACK ROBINSON.

The perils and the dangers of the voyage past,
And the ship at Portsmouth arrived at last.
The sails all furled and the anchor cast,
The happiest of the crew was Jack Robinson.
For his Poll he had trinkets and gold galore,
Besides Prize Money quite a store,
And along with the crew, he went ashore,
As Coxwain to the boat, Jack Robinson.

He met with a man, and said, “I say,
Perhaps you may know one Polly Gray?
She lives somewhere hereabout:” the man said, “nay,
I do not indeed,” to Jack Robinson.
So says Jack to him, “I have left my ship,
And all my messmates, they gave me the slip.
Mayhap you’ll partake of a good can of flip?
For you’re a good sort of fellow,” says Jack Robinson.

In a public-house, then, they both sat down,
And talked of Admirals of high renown,
And drank as much grog as came to half a crown,
This here strange man and Jack Robinson.
Then Jack call’d out the reckoning to pay,
The landlady came in, in fine array,
“My eyes, and limbs, why here’s Polly Gray!
Who’d thought of meeting here?” says Jack Robinson.

The landlady staggered against the wall,
And said, at first, she didn’t know him at all,
“Shiver me,” says Jack, “why here’s a pretty squall,
D——n me, don’t you know me? I’m Jack Robinson!
Don’t you remember this handkerchief you giv’d me?
’Twas three years ago, before I went to sea,
Every day I’ve looked at it, and then I thought of thee,
Upon my soul, I have,” says Jack Robinson.

Says the lady, says she “I have changed my state.”
“Why! you don’t mean,” says Jack, “that you’ve got a mate?
You know you promised——” Says she, “I could not wait,
For no tidings could I gain of you, Jack Robinson,
And somebody, one day, came up to me and said,
That somebody else, had somewhere read
In some newspaper, as how you were dead.”
“I’ve not been dead at all,” says Jack Robinson.

Then he turn’d his quid, and finish’d his glass,
Hitch’d up his trousers, “Alas! alas!
That ever I should live to be made such an ass!
To be bilked by a woman,” says Jack Robinson.
“But to fret and to stew about it’s all in vain,
I’ll get a ship and go to Holland, France and Spain,
No matter where, to Portsmouth I’ll ne’er come again.”
And he was off before you could say Jack Robinson.

Here is a variation, such as I never met with before, of the time-honoured Ballad of

BOLD WILLIAM TAYLOR.[47]

I’ll sing you a song about two lovers,
Who from Lichfield town did come,
The young man’s name was William Taylor,
The maiden’s name was Sarah Naylor.

Now for a Sailor William enlisted,
Now for a Sailor William’s gone,
He’s gone and left his charming Sally,
All alone, which made her mourn.

She dressed herself in man’s apparel,
Man’s apparel she put on,
And set out to seek her own true lover,
For to find him she is gone.

One day she was exercising,
Exercising among the rest,
A silver locket flew from her jacket,
And exposed her milk-white breast.

O, then the Captain stept up to her,
And asked her, what brought her there
All for to seek for my own true lover,
For he has proved to me severe.

If you are come to find your lover,
You must tell to me his name,
His name it is bold William Taylor,
And from Lichfield town he came.

If your lover’s name is William Taylor,
He has proved to you severe,
He is married to a rich lady,
He was married the other year.

If you’ll rise early in the morning,
In the morning by break of day,
There you’ll see bold William Taylor,
Walking with his lady gay.

Then she called for a brace of pistols,
A brace of pistols I command,
And then she shot bold William Taylor
With his bride at his right hand.

O, then the captain was well pleaséd,
Well pleaséd with what she’d done,
And soon she became a bold commander,
On board a ship of all her own men.

Then the Captain loved her dearly,
Loved her dearly as his life,
And it was but three days after,
Sarah became the Captain’s wife.

RATCLIFFE HIGHWAY IN 1842.

You jolly sailors list to me,
I’ve been a fortnight home from sea,
Which time I’ve rambled night and day,
To have a lark on the Highway.

Chorus.

Listen, you jovial sailors gay,
To the rigs of Ratcliffe Highway.

Some lasses their heads will toss,
With bustles as big as a brewer’s horse,
Some wear a cabbage net called veil,
And a boa just like a buffalo’s tail.

I married a lass with her face so red,
She eat three salt herrings and a bullock’s head,
She danced a jig, then began to sing,
Drank a gallon of beer, and a pint of gin.

I have sailed, indeed, all over the world,
And never before my flag unfurled,
In India, China, and Bungo bay,
As the spot we call Ratcliffe Highway.

One night a lady did me drag,
To have a spree at the Lamb and Flag.
There she got drunk, and got in a row,
And sold her shoes at the Barley Mow.

There is eels and shrimps as black as fleas,
And a covey a selling blue grey peas,
There’s ugly Bet, and Dandy Jane,
At the King William in Gravel Lane.

Yes! you’ll see some girls as smart and neat,
As the Dowager Queen of Otaheite,
There’s every colour, indeed ’tis true,
Green, black and purple, yellow and blue.

I went one night to have a reel
At the Angel tap in Blue Coat Fields,
I danced, and capered, and sung a song,
And married a lady they call Miss Long.

I fell in with a lady so modest and meek,
She eat thirteen faggots, and nine pigs feet,
Three pounds of beef, and to finish the meal,
Eat eight pounds of tripe, and a large cow heel.

I met with another borne down with fear,
She guzzled down thirteen pots of beer,
She threw up her heels and play’d the deuce,
And broke her nose at the Paddy’s Goose.

You jovial sailors, one and all,
When you in the port of London call,
Mind Ratcliffe Highway and the Damsels loose,
The William, the Bear, and the Paddy Goose.

Chorus.

You sailors bold my song obtain,
And learn it on the raging main.

THE GREENLAND WHALE FISHERY.

We can no longer stay on shore,
Since we’re so deep in debt,
So a voyage to Greenland we will go,
Some money for to get—brave boys.

Now, when we lay at Liverpool,
Our good-like ship to man,
’Twas there our names were all wrote down,
And we’re bound for Greenland—brave boys.

In eighteen hundred and twenty-four,
On March the twenty third,
We hoisted our colours up to our mast head,
And for Greenland bore away—brave boys.

But when we came to Greenland,
Our good-like ship to moor,
Oh, then we wished ourselves back again
With our friends upon the shore—brave boys.

The boatswain went to the mast-head,
With his spy-glass in his hand,
Here’s a whale, a whale, a whale, he cried,
And she blows on every spring—brave boys.

The Captain on the quarter deck,
(A very good man was he,)
Overhaul, overhaul, your boat tackle fall
And launch your boats to sea—brave boys.

The boats being launch’d, and the hands got in,
The whale fishes appeared in view,
Resolved was the whole boat’s crew,
To steer where the whale fish blew—brave boys.

The whale being struck, and the whale paid on,
She gave a flash with her tail,
She capsized the boat, and lost five men,
Nor did we catch the whale—brave boys.

Bad news unto our captain brought,
That we had lost the ’prentice boys,
He, hearing of this dreadful news,
His colours down did haul—brave boys.

The losing of this whale, brave boys,
Did grieve his heart full sore,
But losing of his five brave men,
Did grieve him ten times more—brave boys.[48]

Come, weigh your anchors, my brave boys,
For the winter star I see,
It’s time we should leave this cold country,
And for England bear away—brave boys.

For Greenland is a barren place,
Neither light, nor day to be seen,
Nought but ice and snow where the whale-fish blow,
And the daylight seldom seen—brave boys.

THE NEW YORK TRADER.

To a New York Trader, I did belong,
She was well built, both stout and strong,
Well rigg’d, well mann’d, well fit for sea,
Bound to New York in America.

On the first of March then did we sail,
With a sweet, and a pleasant gale,
Like hearts undaunted, we put to sea,
Bound to New York in America.

Our cruel Captain as we did find,
Left half of our provisions behind,
Our cruel captain, as we did understand,
Meant to starve us all, before we made the land.

At length our hunger grew very great,
We had but little on board to eat,
And we were in necessity,
All by our Captain’s cruelty.

Our Captain in his cabin lay,
A voice came to him, and thus he did say,
Prepare yourself and ship’s company,
For to-morrow night with me you shall lay.

Our Captain woke in a terrible fright,
It being about the first watch of the night,
Aloud for the boatswain, he straightly did call,
And to him related the secret all.

Boatswain, said he, it grieves me to the heart,
To think that I’ve acted a villain’s part,
To take what was not my lawful due
To starve my passengers and the ship’s crew.

There’s one thing more I have to tell,
When I in Waterford town did dwell,
I killed my master, a merchant there,
All for the sake of his lady fair.

I killed my wife and children three,
All through that cursed jealousy,
And on my servant I laid the blame,
And hang’d he was, all for the same.

Captain, said he, if that be so,
Pray, let none of your ship’s crew know,
But keep the secret within your breast,
And pray to God to give you rest.

Early next morning a storm did rise,
Which our seamen did much surprize.
The sea was over us, both fore and aft,
That scarce a man on deck was left.

Then the boatswain he did declare
That our Captain was a murderer,
It so enraged all the ship’s crew,
They overboard the Captain threw.

When this was done, a calm was there,
Our good-like ship homeward did steer,
The wind abated and calmed the sea,
And they sailed safe to America.

When we came to anchor there,
Our good-like ship for to repair,
The people wondered much to see
What a poor distress’d big wreck were we.

VIVA VICTORIA.

Rouse ye lovers of peace and order,
Of true freedom, with honour united,
Rally round the old banner of union,
And its glory shall never be blighted.
We have bold hearts in British dominions,
Who dare all a freeman should dare,
But the Throne and the Queen be our watchword,
And let traitors and foemen beware.
Viva Victoria! Viva Victoria!
Strength to the throne! health to the Queen!
Viva Victoria!

We’ll have peace, but it must be with honour,
We have no need of new names in story,
But if war sounds the tocsin, then Britain,
Still has heroes enough for her glory.
Shame the Brawlers, who trade in sedition,
Misleaders, who traffic in lies,
And beware, lest those self-seeking martyrs,
Would-be-lions, prove wolves in disguise.
Viva Victoria! etc.

By the head, or the hand, if it toileth,
May the honest man live by his labour,
But the drone who can work and won’t work,
Shall not rest on the strength of his neighbour.
To the Throne, as the safeguard of freedom,
By our birthright allegiance we swear,
For the Queen is the Monarch of Freedom,
To the King of all be our prayer.
Viva Victoria! etc.

QUEEN VICTORIA.[49]

Welcome now, Victoria!
Welcome to the throne!
May all the trades begin to stir,
Now you are Queen of England;
For your most gracious Majesty,
May see what wretched poverty,
Is to be found on England’s ground,
Now you are Queen of England.