SOUTHWARK ELECTION.

Oh dear, oh lor, what shall we do?I am sure I cannot tell, can you?Of Lord Chelmsford’s Bill, I’ll tell you true—The Bill on Sunday trading.The mawworms seem to try, I’m sure,Each way they can to crush the poor,And bring them to the workhouse door,By stopping Sunday trading.I’m sure it is a lying sin,It’s no harm to say, bad luck to him,—He might as well try to stop our wind,As to stop all Sunday trading.Oh! Chelmsford, you use the poor man ill,Starve us all, I’m sure you will,If they should pass your infamous Bill,And stop all Sunday trading.Tho’ the swells they may blow out their kites,On jellies and tarts, and all things nice,For the poor to live it is not right,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.With watercresses they must not go round,Nor with winkles or shrimps to earn a brown,Or else you will get fined a crown,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.No cat must mew, no dog must bark,They’ll stop the warbling of the lark,And drive them all bang out of the parks,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.The poor may buy potatoes and greens,That is if they have got the means,But no coals to cook them, though strange it seems,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.The nobs may call at the pastry shopsAnd with all sorts of dainties cram their chops,But the poor must not buy a lollipop,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.You must not take, at least, they say,A dose of salts on Saturday,Lest they should work on the Sabbath day,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.If on Sunday you feel inclined to eat,You can buy both bread and meat,But no tea or sugar,—what a treat!Says the Bill on Sunday tradingBut to wash it down, Lord Chelmsford say,To the gin shop you can cut awayAnd get blind drunk upon that day,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.And by and bye, if you have got the tin, sir,To raise a baked joint for your dinner,They’ll say, drop that dish, you hungry sinner,Don’t you know it’s Sunday trading?If your wife should be in the family-way,She must not be confined upon Sunday,But put it off till another day,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.No milkman through his rounds must go,With milk, my pretty maids, below!Without paying a crown,—the Lords say so,In the Bill on Sunday trading.Even the kittens must not play,Nor frisk about upon that day,Or their grub will be stopped for three whole days,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.No shoeblack, he must not dare to say,Polish your boots upon Sunday,Or else a dollar he will have to pay,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.And if you want to enjoy your pipe,Where would you get a box of lights,For the sellers they will be put to flight,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.No Yarmouth bloaters must be sold,Nor peppermint drops for coughs or colds,And muffin man’s bell it’s clapper must hold,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.You must not buy, but you must starve,You must not sing, you must not laugh,So you had better sow your mouth up fast,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.You must not sell, you must not buy,To earn a crust you must not try,Nor in the streets lay down and die,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.For the poor a fig they do not care,More workhouses they must prepare,He ought to be kicked to I know where,For his Bill on Sunday trading.

Oh dear, oh lor, what shall we do?

I am sure I cannot tell, can you?

Of Lord Chelmsford’s Bill, I’ll tell you true—

The Bill on Sunday trading.

The mawworms seem to try, I’m sure,

Each way they can to crush the poor,

And bring them to the workhouse door,

By stopping Sunday trading.

I’m sure it is a lying sin,

It’s no harm to say, bad luck to him,—

He might as well try to stop our wind,

As to stop all Sunday trading.

Oh! Chelmsford, you use the poor man ill,Starve us all, I’m sure you will,If they should pass your infamous Bill,And stop all Sunday trading.

Oh! Chelmsford, you use the poor man ill,

Starve us all, I’m sure you will,

If they should pass your infamous Bill,

And stop all Sunday trading.

Tho’ the swells they may blow out their kites,On jellies and tarts, and all things nice,For the poor to live it is not right,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.With watercresses they must not go round,Nor with winkles or shrimps to earn a brown,Or else you will get fined a crown,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.No cat must mew, no dog must bark,They’ll stop the warbling of the lark,And drive them all bang out of the parks,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

Tho’ the swells they may blow out their kites,

On jellies and tarts, and all things nice,

For the poor to live it is not right,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

With watercresses they must not go round,

Nor with winkles or shrimps to earn a brown,

Or else you will get fined a crown,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

No cat must mew, no dog must bark,

They’ll stop the warbling of the lark,

And drive them all bang out of the parks,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

The poor may buy potatoes and greens,That is if they have got the means,But no coals to cook them, though strange it seems,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.The nobs may call at the pastry shopsAnd with all sorts of dainties cram their chops,But the poor must not buy a lollipop,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.You must not take, at least, they say,A dose of salts on Saturday,Lest they should work on the Sabbath day,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

The poor may buy potatoes and greens,

That is if they have got the means,

But no coals to cook them, though strange it seems,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

The nobs may call at the pastry shops

And with all sorts of dainties cram their chops,

But the poor must not buy a lollipop,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

You must not take, at least, they say,

A dose of salts on Saturday,

Lest they should work on the Sabbath day,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

If on Sunday you feel inclined to eat,You can buy both bread and meat,But no tea or sugar,—what a treat!Says the Bill on Sunday tradingBut to wash it down, Lord Chelmsford say,To the gin shop you can cut awayAnd get blind drunk upon that day,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.And by and bye, if you have got the tin, sir,To raise a baked joint for your dinner,They’ll say, drop that dish, you hungry sinner,Don’t you know it’s Sunday trading?

If on Sunday you feel inclined to eat,

You can buy both bread and meat,

But no tea or sugar,—what a treat!

Says the Bill on Sunday trading

But to wash it down, Lord Chelmsford say,

To the gin shop you can cut away

And get blind drunk upon that day,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

And by and bye, if you have got the tin, sir,

To raise a baked joint for your dinner,

They’ll say, drop that dish, you hungry sinner,

Don’t you know it’s Sunday trading?

If your wife should be in the family-way,She must not be confined upon Sunday,But put it off till another day,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.No milkman through his rounds must go,With milk, my pretty maids, below!Without paying a crown,—the Lords say so,In the Bill on Sunday trading.Even the kittens must not play,Nor frisk about upon that day,Or their grub will be stopped for three whole days,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

If your wife should be in the family-way,

She must not be confined upon Sunday,

But put it off till another day,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

No milkman through his rounds must go,

With milk, my pretty maids, below!

Without paying a crown,—the Lords say so,

In the Bill on Sunday trading.

Even the kittens must not play,

Nor frisk about upon that day,

Or their grub will be stopped for three whole days,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

No shoeblack, he must not dare to say,Polish your boots upon Sunday,Or else a dollar he will have to pay,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.And if you want to enjoy your pipe,Where would you get a box of lights,For the sellers they will be put to flight,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.No Yarmouth bloaters must be sold,Nor peppermint drops for coughs or colds,And muffin man’s bell it’s clapper must hold,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

No shoeblack, he must not dare to say,

Polish your boots upon Sunday,

Or else a dollar he will have to pay,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

And if you want to enjoy your pipe,

Where would you get a box of lights,

For the sellers they will be put to flight,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

No Yarmouth bloaters must be sold,

Nor peppermint drops for coughs or colds,

And muffin man’s bell it’s clapper must hold,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

You must not buy, but you must starve,You must not sing, you must not laugh,So you had better sow your mouth up fast,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.You must not sell, you must not buy,To earn a crust you must not try,Nor in the streets lay down and die,Says the Bill on Sunday trading.For the poor a fig they do not care,More workhouses they must prepare,He ought to be kicked to I know where,For his Bill on Sunday trading.

You must not buy, but you must starve,

You must not sing, you must not laugh,

So you had better sow your mouth up fast,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

You must not sell, you must not buy,

To earn a crust you must not try,

Nor in the streets lay down and die,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

For the poor a fig they do not care,

More workhouses they must prepare,

He ought to be kicked to I know where,

For his Bill on Sunday trading.

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles.

ODGERANDVICTORY.

Now all you gallant Southwark men,Who does require protection,Just mind I say, your p’s and q’sAt this Great Grand Election;Never don’t elect a manWho your wages will be stinting,And never have a covetuous manLike one who lives by printing.Then act like men you Southwark blades,Have neither a printer nor a “sodger,Vote for a man who will protect your trade,And sing, Southwark, lads, and Odger.Long enough the poor man has been crushed,Now is your time or never,Come, now with me lads, nimble be,Here’s Odger, lads, for ever.Don’t you elect a Waterlow,Whose principles are stinting,He knows as much about the poor man’s rightsAs a donkey knows of printing.There has lately been some glorious fights,In Southwark, says Ben Fagan.It beat the Battle of Bunker’s Hill,And the glories of Copenhagen;An old lady stood by London Bridge,Bawling, lick me you shall never,She jumped complete to Toloey Street,Bawling, Odger, boys, for ever.In Bermondsey there was glorious funAmong the girls and sailors,It put the Borough all in mindOf the devil among the tailors.A grocer’s wife, full of spleen and spite,Doffed her chignon so clever,Pulled her petticoat off and went aloft,Singing, Odger, boys, for ever.Oh, Colonel, Colonel Beresford,You are a rum old codger,Neither you or WaterlowCan ever cope with Odger;—Odger is a working man,And as clever a man as Pompey,Odger is a gentleman,And you are a pair of donkeys.When Odger is returned, my boys,To the brim we’ll fill our glasses,We will drink success to the tanners’ wives,And the blooming Kent Street lasses;From the Bricklayers’ Arms to London Bridge,There will be such a bustle,Aye, and all the way from Cotton’s WharfTo the Elephant and Castle.Put the right man in the right place,Keep out the aristocratic sodgerTell old Waterlow it is no go—It is victory and Odger;The working men must have a friend,Who against tyranny is clever,With heart and glee, sing liberty,Odger, my lads, for ever.Odger we know is a working man,If he’s not rich, he’s noble-minded,He will understand how the working manHas been crushed down and grinded.Then send him into Parliament,To put a stop to their capers,And tell them we want a good beef steak,Instead of herrings and taters.Keep out the printing gentleman,Banish the tyrant sodger,Strive with all your might to do what’s right,And plump my lads for Odger.

Now all you gallant Southwark men,

Who does require protection,

Just mind I say, your p’s and q’s

At this Great Grand Election;

Never don’t elect a man

Who your wages will be stinting,

And never have a covetuous man

Like one who lives by printing.

Then act like men you Southwark blades,Have neither a printer nor a “sodger,Vote for a man who will protect your trade,And sing, Southwark, lads, and Odger.

Then act like men you Southwark blades,

Have neither a printer nor a “sodger,

Vote for a man who will protect your trade,

And sing, Southwark, lads, and Odger.

Long enough the poor man has been crushed,Now is your time or never,Come, now with me lads, nimble be,Here’s Odger, lads, for ever.Don’t you elect a Waterlow,Whose principles are stinting,He knows as much about the poor man’s rightsAs a donkey knows of printing.

Long enough the poor man has been crushed,

Now is your time or never,

Come, now with me lads, nimble be,

Here’s Odger, lads, for ever.

Don’t you elect a Waterlow,

Whose principles are stinting,

He knows as much about the poor man’s rights

As a donkey knows of printing.

There has lately been some glorious fights,In Southwark, says Ben Fagan.It beat the Battle of Bunker’s Hill,And the glories of Copenhagen;An old lady stood by London Bridge,Bawling, lick me you shall never,She jumped complete to Toloey Street,Bawling, Odger, boys, for ever.

There has lately been some glorious fights,

In Southwark, says Ben Fagan.

It beat the Battle of Bunker’s Hill,

And the glories of Copenhagen;

An old lady stood by London Bridge,

Bawling, lick me you shall never,

She jumped complete to Toloey Street,

Bawling, Odger, boys, for ever.

In Bermondsey there was glorious funAmong the girls and sailors,It put the Borough all in mindOf the devil among the tailors.A grocer’s wife, full of spleen and spite,Doffed her chignon so clever,Pulled her petticoat off and went aloft,Singing, Odger, boys, for ever.

In Bermondsey there was glorious fun

Among the girls and sailors,

It put the Borough all in mind

Of the devil among the tailors.

A grocer’s wife, full of spleen and spite,

Doffed her chignon so clever,

Pulled her petticoat off and went aloft,

Singing, Odger, boys, for ever.

Oh, Colonel, Colonel Beresford,You are a rum old codger,Neither you or WaterlowCan ever cope with Odger;—Odger is a working man,And as clever a man as Pompey,Odger is a gentleman,And you are a pair of donkeys.

Oh, Colonel, Colonel Beresford,

You are a rum old codger,

Neither you or Waterlow

Can ever cope with Odger;—

Odger is a working man,

And as clever a man as Pompey,

Odger is a gentleman,

And you are a pair of donkeys.

When Odger is returned, my boys,To the brim we’ll fill our glasses,We will drink success to the tanners’ wives,And the blooming Kent Street lasses;From the Bricklayers’ Arms to London Bridge,There will be such a bustle,Aye, and all the way from Cotton’s WharfTo the Elephant and Castle.

When Odger is returned, my boys,

To the brim we’ll fill our glasses,

We will drink success to the tanners’ wives,

And the blooming Kent Street lasses;

From the Bricklayers’ Arms to London Bridge,

There will be such a bustle,

Aye, and all the way from Cotton’s Wharf

To the Elephant and Castle.

Put the right man in the right place,Keep out the aristocratic sodgerTell old Waterlow it is no go—It is victory and Odger;The working men must have a friend,Who against tyranny is clever,With heart and glee, sing liberty,Odger, my lads, for ever.

Put the right man in the right place,

Keep out the aristocratic sodger

Tell old Waterlow it is no go—

It is victory and Odger;

The working men must have a friend,

Who against tyranny is clever,

With heart and glee, sing liberty,

Odger, my lads, for ever.

Odger we know is a working man,If he’s not rich, he’s noble-minded,He will understand how the working manHas been crushed down and grinded.Then send him into Parliament,To put a stop to their capers,And tell them we want a good beef steak,Instead of herrings and taters.

Odger we know is a working man,

If he’s not rich, he’s noble-minded,

He will understand how the working man

Has been crushed down and grinded.

Then send him into Parliament,

To put a stop to their capers,

And tell them we want a good beef steak,

Instead of herrings and taters.

Keep out the printing gentleman,Banish the tyrant sodger,Strive with all your might to do what’s right,And plump my lads for Odger.

Keep out the printing gentleman,

Banish the tyrant sodger,

Strive with all your might to do what’s right,

And plump my lads for Odger.

Printed for the Vendors.

“What hast here, ballads? I love a ballad in print; for then we are sure they are true.”—Shakspeare.

“Street Ballads on a Subject.”—There is a class of ballads which may with perfect propriety be calledstreetballads, as they are written by street authors for street singing and street sale. These effusions, however, are known in the trade by a title appropriate enough,—“Ballads on a Subject.” The most successful workers of this branch of the profession are the men described as patterers and chaunters.

The “Ballads on a Subject” are always on a political, criminal, or exciting public event, or one that has interested the public, and the celerity with which one of them is written, and then sung in the streets, is in the spirit of “these railroad times.” After any great event “a ballad on a subject” is often written, printed, and sung “in honour,” it was announced “of Lord John Russell’s resignation.” Of course there is no time for either correction of the rhymes or of the press; but this is regarded as of little consequence,—while an early “start” with a new topic is of great consequence, I am assured; “Yes, indeed, both for the sake of meals and rents.” If, however, the songs were ever so carefully revised, their sale would not be greater.

It will have struck the reader that all the street lays quoted as popular have a sort of burthen or jingle at the end of each verse. I was corrected, however, by a street chaunter for speaking of this burthen as a jingle. “It’s a chorus, sir,” he said. “In a proper ballad on a subject there’s often twelve verses, none of them under eight lines, and there’s a four-line chorus to every verse; and, if it’s the right sort, it’ll sell the ballad.” I was told, on all hands, that it was not the words that ever made a ballad, but the subject, and, more than the subject,—the chorus; and, far more than either,—the tune! Indeed, many of the street-singers of ballads on a subject, have as supreme a contempt for words as can be felt for any modern composer. To select a tune for a ballad, however, is a matter of deep deliberation. To adapt the ballad to a tune too common or popular is injudicious; for then, I was told, any one can sing it—boys and all. To select a more elaborate and less-known air, however appropriate, may not be pleasing to some of the members of “the school” of ballad-singers who may feel it beyond their vocal powers; neither may it be relished by the critical in street songs, whose approving criticism induces them to purchase as well as to admire.

The license enjoyed by the court jesters, and in some respects by the minstrels of old, is certainly enjoyed, undiminished, by the street writers and singers of ballads on a subject. They are unsparing satirists, who, with rare impartiality, lash all classes and all creeds, as well as any individual. One man, upon whose information I can rely, told me that, many years ago, he himself had “worked” in town and country, twenty-three different songs at the same period and the same subject—the Marriage of the Queen. They all “sold”—but the most profitable was one “as sung by Prince Albert in character.” It was to the air of “Dusty Miller;” and “it was good,” said the ballad-man, “because we could easily dress up to the character given to Albert. And what’s more, sir,” continued my informant, “not very long after the honeymoon, the Duchess of L—— drove up in her carriage to the printer’s, and bought all the songs in honour to Victoria’s wedding, and gave a sovereign for them and wouldn’t take the change. It was a Duchess. Why I’m sure about it—though I can’t say whether it were the Duchess of L—— or S——; for didn’t the printer, like an honest man, when he’d stopped the price of the papers, hand over to us chaps the balance to drink, anddidn’twe drink it! There can’t be a mistake aboutthat.”

The “Ballads on a Subject” are certainly “the rude uncultivated verse in which the popular tale of the times is recorded,” and what may be the character of the nation as displayed in them, I leave to the reader’s judgment.—Henry Mayhew’s London Labour and the London Poor.

The writer of an able article in theQuarterly Review, 1867, on “The Poetry of Seven Dials,” remarks that ‘Our next section of ‘Modern Events’ is characterised throughout by such a general sameness of treatment as to need few examples by way of illustration. They are clearly written, for the most part hastily, on the spur of the moment; and though they may command a good sale at first, they do so not by the wit, beauty, or aptness of the verse, but by the absorbing interest of the calamity which it describes. Thus, say, an appalling accident happens in London; the news spreads like wildfire throughout the city, and gives rise to rumours, even more dreadful than the reality. Before night it is embalmed in verse by one out of five or six well-known bards who get their living by writing for Seven Dials, and then chanting their own strains to the people. The inspiration of the poet is swift, the execution of the work rapid,—how rapid may be judged from the following fact. On Thursday, February 21, a woman named Walker was brought before the magistrate and charged with robbing Mr. F. Brown, her master, a publican, to whom she had offered her services as aman. She was sent to prison, and there her sex was discovered. The next morning, at 10 a.m., two men and two women were singing her personal history and adventures in the New Cut, to a large but not select audience, under the title of ‘The She Barman of Southwark.’ It was great trash, but sold well—but the pay for such work is small. ‘I gets a shilling a copy for my verses’ (says one), ‘besides what I can make by selling ’em.’ But the verses are ready and go to press at once. A thousand or two copies are struck off instantly, and the ‘Orfle Calamity’ is soon flying all over London from the mouths of a dozen or twenty minstrels, in the New Cut, in Leather Lane, Houndsditch, Bermondsey, Whitechapel, High Street, Tottenham-court-road—or wherever a crowd of listeners can be easily and safely called together. If the subject admits of it, two minstrels chant the same strain

‘In lofty verse‘Pathetic they alternately rehearse.’

‘In lofty verse

‘Pathetic they alternately rehearse.’

each taking a line in turn, and each vying with the other in doleful tragedy of look and voice. A moment suffices to give out in sepulchral accents, ‘Dreadful Accident this day on the Ice in Regent’s Park,’ &c., &c.

“These Halfpenny Sheets form almost the entire poetry of Seven Dials, and though they teach little or no history, they show, at least, what kind of poetry finds the most favourable reception and the readiest sale among our lowest classes. As far as we can ascertain, there are in London eight or ten publishers of the Fortey and Disley stamp—though not on so large a scale. Of ballad-singers and patterers of prose recitations (such as the ‘Political Catechism’), there may be about a hundred scattered over the metropolis, who haunt such localities as the New Cut, Tottenham-court-road, Whitechapel, and Clerkenwell Green; and according to the weather, the state of trade, and the character of their wares, earn a scanty or a jovial living by chanting such strains as we have now laid before our readers. ‘Songs if they’re over religious,’ says one minstrel, ‘don’t sell at all; though a tidy moral does werry well. But a good, awful murder’s the thing. I’ve knowed,’ says our authority, ‘a man sell a ream a day ofthem.—that’s twenty dozen you know;’ and this sale may go on for days, so that with forty or fifty men at work as minstrels, a popular ballad will soon attain a circulation of thirty or forty or fifty thousand. Now and then the publisher himself composes a song, and in this case is saved the cost of copyright, though his expenses are very trifling, even when he has to purchase it. If one of the patterers writes a ballad on a taking subject, he hastens at once to Seven Dials, where, if accepted, his reward is ‘a glass of rum, a slice of cake, and five dozen copies,’—which, if the accident or murder be a very awful one, are struck off for him while he waits. A murder always sells well, so does a fire, or a fearful railway accident. A good love story, embracing

‘infidi perjuria nautæDeceptamque dolo nympham’

‘infidi perjuria nautæ

Deceptamque dolo nympham’

often does fairly; but politics among the lowest class are a drug. Even the famousBallad on Pam’s death didn’t do muchexcept among the better sort of people; and though the roughs are fond of shoutingReform, they don’t care, it would seem, to spend money on it.”

We have submitted this wretched doggrel to our readers, that they may form some idea of the kind of Street Literature which is still popular with so many of the lower classes. It is humiliating, in the midst of all the schools and teaching of the present day, to find such rubbish continually poured forth, and eagerly read. Still there are some redeeming features in this weary waste.Taken as a whole, the moral tone of the ballads, if not lofty, is certainly not bad; and the number of single stanzas that could not be quoted in these pages on account of their gross or indecent language is very small; while that of entire Ballads, to be excluded on the same ground, is still smaller.

What wonders now I have to pen, sir,Women turning into men, sir,For twenty-one long years, or more, sir,She wore the breeches we are told, sir,A smart and active handsome groom, sir,She then got married very soon, sir,A shipwright’s trade she after took, sir,And of his wife, he made a fool sir.Sing hey! sing O! ’twas my downfall, sir,To marry a man with nothing at all, sir,

What wonders now I have to pen, sir,

Women turning into men, sir,

For twenty-one long years, or more, sir,

She wore the breeches we are told, sir,

A smart and active handsome groom, sir,

She then got married very soon, sir,

A shipwright’s trade she after took, sir,

And of his wife, he made a fool sir.

Sing hey! sing O! ’twas my downfall, sir,

To marry a man with nothing at all, sir,

Well Mother Sprightly, what do you think of this Female Husband; it appears to me a strange piece of business. Why, Mother Chatter, I do not believe half what is said about it—Pho, pho, do you think I would have been in bed with my husband twenty-one minutes without knowing what he was made of, much more twenty-one years, for I should never have patience to wait so long. My old man cuddles me as close as wax these cold winter nights, and if he was to turn his back to me I would stick a needle into it.

If the wife asked for a favour,Then she flew into a fever,Gave to her a precious thump, sir,Which after left a largeish lump, sir,Then her limbs so straight and tall, sir,She turn’d her face against the wall, sir,And oft have quarrel’d and much strife, sir,Because he would not cuddle the wife, sir.

If the wife asked for a favour,

Then she flew into a fever,

Gave to her a precious thump, sir,

Which after left a largeish lump, sir,

Then her limbs so straight and tall, sir,

She turn’d her face against the wall, sir,

And oft have quarrel’d and much strife, sir,

Because he would not cuddle the wife, sir.

Why I must say, Mother Chatter, if he had been my husband, I think after hard work all day he must have slept sound, and I would have seen what he was before I rose in the morning, or I’d know the reason why.

Was woman ever so perplex’d, sir,And through life so grievously vex’d, sir,And disappointments oft did meet, sir,And instead of a kiss, I oft got beat, sir,Sometimes cuff’d and sometimes scouted,Because I asked what woman wanted,And if ever that I marry again, sir,I’ll surely marry a perfect man, sir.

Was woman ever so perplex’d, sir,

And through life so grievously vex’d, sir,

And disappointments oft did meet, sir,

And instead of a kiss, I oft got beat, sir,

Sometimes cuff’d and sometimes scouted,

Because I asked what woman wanted,

And if ever that I marry again, sir,

I’ll surely marry a perfect man, sir.

Mother Chatter,—Man, indeed! yes, I hope she will take care next time she marries, and not be duped in that way again; and as she was such a bad judge I would advise her to taste and try first next time.

Mother Sprightly,—I have no doubt but she’ll examine the beard and whiskers of the next man she marries, and not take a beardless thing at his own word.

With this pretty handsome groom, sir,She went and spent the honey-moon, sir,The very first night my love should cuddle,Up in the clothes he close did huddle;And with his face against the wall, sir,He never spoke a word at all, sir,A maid to bed I then did go, sir,And a maiden am now, heigho! heigho! sir.

With this pretty handsome groom, sir,

She went and spent the honey-moon, sir,

The very first night my love should cuddle,

Up in the clothes he close did huddle;

And with his face against the wall, sir,

He never spoke a word at all, sir,

A maid to bed I then did go, sir,

And a maiden am now, heigho! heigho! sir.

Well, Mother Frisky, how is your old man? Why he is quite hearty, and every inch a man, none of your sham husbands; give me the real man or none at all. Well, I am of your way of thinking, and I hope the next husband she has she will have thumping children.

Pretty maidens list I pray, sir,Unto what I now do say, sir,Taste and try before you buy, sir,Or you’ll get bit as well as I, sir;See he’s perfect in all parts, sir,Before you join your hand and heart, sir,You then with all your strength may try, sir,To be fruitful, increase, and multiply, sir.

Pretty maidens list I pray, sir,

Unto what I now do say, sir,

Taste and try before you buy, sir,

Or you’ll get bit as well as I, sir;

See he’s perfect in all parts, sir,

Before you join your hand and heart, sir,

You then with all your strength may try, sir,

To be fruitful, increase, and multiply, sir.

Printed by T. Birt, No. 10, Great St. Andrew Street, Seven Dials.

“Pulling down and building up is all the go,And the scene changes like a raree show,”Yet is it not disgraceful to the nation,That Shakespeare’s house is doomed to mutilation?The house in which that great man first drew breath,A spot renowned before and after death—Where pilgrims from every land have come,To see his birth place, Nature’s learned home—Where first shone forth, a pale, an infant light,A spreading brilliancy, which still burns bright.Oh, who shall have the writings on the walls,Oh, who can save the house that’s doomed to fall?True genius, of which we vainly boast,By our rulers seems neglected most.How we took the kernel, and threw by the shell,Profanation, degradation,—Oh, England, thou art a tardanation!Time-hallowed spot, could we call back those days,When Shakespeare here in thoughtless boyhood plays.Before his plays had graced the mimic scene,Since which three hundred years have beenFood for reflection, here the thinking mind,“And good in everything” we ought to find.From out the walls in fancy we might traceMacbeth, Hamlet, and King Richard’s face;And all the clouds that on this house have lowered,Look frowningly, as ’twere upon a coward,Who thus stands meekly by this sacred wood,Nor helps to save it for its country’s good.But let it go, our Shakespeare needs no fame,’Tis but a house! a house! “What’s in a name?”Let it be sold, or in the sea be tossed—His loved and mighty labours ne’er will be lost.Altercation, dilapidation,—Time steps in and cheats the nation!Great Premier,—Oh, King John,—grant this our charter,Why in this land should genius be a martyr?The Tempest’s rising, if we fail we fall;And time may tell you a sad Winter’s Tale.Come, As you like it, make this house a treasure,Do not divide it, Measure for Measure.Methinks in sadness I can see the Moor,Othello, looking blacker than before;Therefore, good John, we look to youTo put this house in order, and to Tame the Shrew.The very age and body of the time (reflecting mirrors)Proclaims this sale a Comedy of Errors,While England wastes her thousands, ’tis not soothing,To say this is Much Ado about Nothing;For to the wise and thoughtful this would seemA summer cloud or Midsummer Night’s Dream.Moderation, preservation,—Is all we’re asking of the nation!Robins, at knocking houses down so fond,Exclaims, with Shakespeare’s Jew, I’ll have my bond.Put down your hammer, Mr Robins, stop;You take my house when you do touch the prop.Hard-hearted man, such antique relics ridding,With hammer soon to fall and looks for-bidding,Shakespeare by you has been puffed up and praised,To sell his house you have a story raised.And is it true this house is coming down,To be put on wheels and dragged about the town?Can such things be, can it be so!What, make this classic pile a travelling show?Tis true; ’tis pity chaps from Yankee landAre coming over with the cash in hand.Blow winds, crack cheeks, their paltry lucre spurn,To what base uses may we not return.Speculation—British nation, Oh, save the house from exportation!Time was, and it seems but t’other day,When we could see a real Shakesperian play,With Miss O’Neill, Siddons, or the great John Kemble,Could laugh at Munden, or at old Kean tremble.Macready does Shakespeare now, with Kean’s son Charlie,And Drury Lane holds legitimate with Harley;Shakespeare inside has long been quite neglected,His statue outside looks forlorn, dejected;For great folks now run after Greas or All-bony,Tamburini, Jenny Lind, or Taglioni,Which John Bull’s dire indignation rouses,Till he exclaims, “A plague on both your houses.”Portia, Miranda, Juliet for him plead,Preserve this house, thy potent spell we need.”My song is done, and you I pardon crave—All’s well that ends well, if this house we save.Determination, stimulation,—and Shakespeare’s house an honour to the nation.

“Pulling down and building up is all the go,

And the scene changes like a raree show,”

Yet is it not disgraceful to the nation,

That Shakespeare’s house is doomed to mutilation?

The house in which that great man first drew breath,

A spot renowned before and after death—

Where pilgrims from every land have come,

To see his birth place, Nature’s learned home—

Where first shone forth, a pale, an infant light,

A spreading brilliancy, which still burns bright.

Oh, who shall have the writings on the walls,

Oh, who can save the house that’s doomed to fall?

True genius, of which we vainly boast,

By our rulers seems neglected most.

How we took the kernel, and threw by the shell,

Profanation, degradation,—Oh, England, thou art a tardanation!

Time-hallowed spot, could we call back those days,When Shakespeare here in thoughtless boyhood plays.Before his plays had graced the mimic scene,Since which three hundred years have beenFood for reflection, here the thinking mind,“And good in everything” we ought to find.From out the walls in fancy we might traceMacbeth, Hamlet, and King Richard’s face;And all the clouds that on this house have lowered,Look frowningly, as ’twere upon a coward,Who thus stands meekly by this sacred wood,Nor helps to save it for its country’s good.But let it go, our Shakespeare needs no fame,’Tis but a house! a house! “What’s in a name?”Let it be sold, or in the sea be tossed—His loved and mighty labours ne’er will be lost.Altercation, dilapidation,—Time steps in and cheats the nation!

Time-hallowed spot, could we call back those days,

When Shakespeare here in thoughtless boyhood plays.

Before his plays had graced the mimic scene,

Since which three hundred years have been

Food for reflection, here the thinking mind,

“And good in everything” we ought to find.

From out the walls in fancy we might trace

Macbeth, Hamlet, and King Richard’s face;

And all the clouds that on this house have lowered,

Look frowningly, as ’twere upon a coward,

Who thus stands meekly by this sacred wood,

Nor helps to save it for its country’s good.

But let it go, our Shakespeare needs no fame,

’Tis but a house! a house! “What’s in a name?”

Let it be sold, or in the sea be tossed—

His loved and mighty labours ne’er will be lost.

Altercation, dilapidation,—Time steps in and cheats the nation!

Great Premier,—Oh, King John,—grant this our charter,Why in this land should genius be a martyr?The Tempest’s rising, if we fail we fall;And time may tell you a sad Winter’s Tale.Come, As you like it, make this house a treasure,Do not divide it, Measure for Measure.Methinks in sadness I can see the Moor,Othello, looking blacker than before;Therefore, good John, we look to youTo put this house in order, and to Tame the Shrew.The very age and body of the time (reflecting mirrors)Proclaims this sale a Comedy of Errors,While England wastes her thousands, ’tis not soothing,To say this is Much Ado about Nothing;For to the wise and thoughtful this would seemA summer cloud or Midsummer Night’s Dream.Moderation, preservation,—Is all we’re asking of the nation!

Great Premier,—Oh, King John,—grant this our charter,

Why in this land should genius be a martyr?

The Tempest’s rising, if we fail we fall;

And time may tell you a sad Winter’s Tale.

Come, As you like it, make this house a treasure,

Do not divide it, Measure for Measure.

Methinks in sadness I can see the Moor,

Othello, looking blacker than before;

Therefore, good John, we look to you

To put this house in order, and to Tame the Shrew.

The very age and body of the time (reflecting mirrors)

Proclaims this sale a Comedy of Errors,

While England wastes her thousands, ’tis not soothing,

To say this is Much Ado about Nothing;

For to the wise and thoughtful this would seem

A summer cloud or Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Moderation, preservation,—Is all we’re asking of the nation!

Robins, at knocking houses down so fond,Exclaims, with Shakespeare’s Jew, I’ll have my bond.Put down your hammer, Mr Robins, stop;You take my house when you do touch the prop.Hard-hearted man, such antique relics ridding,With hammer soon to fall and looks for-bidding,Shakespeare by you has been puffed up and praised,To sell his house you have a story raised.And is it true this house is coming down,To be put on wheels and dragged about the town?Can such things be, can it be so!What, make this classic pile a travelling show?Tis true; ’tis pity chaps from Yankee landAre coming over with the cash in hand.Blow winds, crack cheeks, their paltry lucre spurn,To what base uses may we not return.Speculation—British nation, Oh, save the house from exportation!

Robins, at knocking houses down so fond,

Exclaims, with Shakespeare’s Jew, I’ll have my bond.

Put down your hammer, Mr Robins, stop;

You take my house when you do touch the prop.

Hard-hearted man, such antique relics ridding,

With hammer soon to fall and looks for-bidding,

Shakespeare by you has been puffed up and praised,

To sell his house you have a story raised.

And is it true this house is coming down,

To be put on wheels and dragged about the town?

Can such things be, can it be so!

What, make this classic pile a travelling show?

Tis true; ’tis pity chaps from Yankee land

Are coming over with the cash in hand.

Blow winds, crack cheeks, their paltry lucre spurn,

To what base uses may we not return.

Speculation—British nation, Oh, save the house from exportation!

Time was, and it seems but t’other day,When we could see a real Shakesperian play,With Miss O’Neill, Siddons, or the great John Kemble,Could laugh at Munden, or at old Kean tremble.Macready does Shakespeare now, with Kean’s son Charlie,And Drury Lane holds legitimate with Harley;Shakespeare inside has long been quite neglected,His statue outside looks forlorn, dejected;For great folks now run after Greas or All-bony,Tamburini, Jenny Lind, or Taglioni,Which John Bull’s dire indignation rouses,Till he exclaims, “A plague on both your houses.”Portia, Miranda, Juliet for him plead,Preserve this house, thy potent spell we need.”My song is done, and you I pardon crave—All’s well that ends well, if this house we save.Determination, stimulation,—and Shakespeare’s house an honour to the nation.

Time was, and it seems but t’other day,

When we could see a real Shakesperian play,

With Miss O’Neill, Siddons, or the great John Kemble,

Could laugh at Munden, or at old Kean tremble.

Macready does Shakespeare now, with Kean’s son Charlie,

And Drury Lane holds legitimate with Harley;

Shakespeare inside has long been quite neglected,

His statue outside looks forlorn, dejected;

For great folks now run after Greas or All-bony,

Tamburini, Jenny Lind, or Taglioni,

Which John Bull’s dire indignation rouses,

Till he exclaims, “A plague on both your houses.”

Portia, Miranda, Juliet for him plead,

Preserve this house, thy potent spell we need.”

My song is done, and you I pardon crave—

All’s well that ends well, if this house we save.

Determination, stimulation,—and Shakespeare’s house an honour to the nation.

E. Hodges, Printer (from the late J. Pitt’s), Wholesale Toy Warehouse, 38, Dudley Street, 7 Dials.

Oh, did you hear the news of late,According to the rumours,The pretty ladies one and all,Are going to join the bloomers.Since Mrs Dexter’s come to town,She says, oh, what a row, sir,The men shall wear the petticoatsAnd ladies wear the trousers.Oh, did you hear, &c.Now Mrs. Dexter’s come to town,She says, she’ll not be lazy,But quickly turn the ladies’ brains,And set the men all crazy.Old maids and lasses fine and gay,Short, stumpy, tall and bandy,Long petticoats now throw away,And beat the yanky dandy.Prince Albert and the Queen one day,Had such a jolly row, sirs,She threw off her petticoatsAnd put on boots and trousers;Won’t it be funny for to seeLadies possessed of riches,Riding up and down the townIn Wellingtons and breeches.Now you with ancles short and thick,Of every rank and station,Oh, won’t you cut it fine and slick,By this new alteration.And landladies that creep about,Well known as twenty stoners,Come shove your bustles up the spout,And join the dashing bloomers.The bloomers dress, the people say,Is getting all the go now,The pretty factory lasses they,Will cut a gallant show now,In petticoats above their knes,And breeches too you’ll fit them.Nice jackets made of velveteen,All button’d up behind them.Now married men take my advice,Step out and spend your riches,And buy your wife all in a trice,Short petticoats and breeches,For in the fashion she will hop,Whene’er she’s out of humour,I wonder if her tongue will stop,When she becomes a bloomer.Last night my wife she said to me,Tom, when we’ve got the notes in,I’ll have a pair of gaiters, andBreeches made of goat’s skin.A pair of boots and silver spurs,For I have got such bad legs,I cannot hide I’ll have to ride,The donkey now a strad-legs.The men must go out selling fish,And deal in shrimps and mussels,Dress’d up in ladies’ petticoats,Fine flounces and big bustles,You’ll have no call to work at all,But walk out in your broaches,The ladies are determined, for,To drive the cabs and coaches.The tailors now must all be sharpIn making noble stitches,And be sure and clap their burning gooseUpon the ladies’ breeches;Their pretty little fingers willBe just as sore as mutton,Until that they have found the wayTheir trousers to unbutton.You factory lasses, one and all,Your dresses all reform now,Buy a jacket and a trousers forTo keep you snug and warm now;Short petticoats and garters too,No matter how the time goes,A billycock and feather forTo see which way the wind blows.M. O’LOUGHNAN.

Oh, did you hear the news of late,

According to the rumours,

The pretty ladies one and all,

Are going to join the bloomers.

Since Mrs Dexter’s come to town,

She says, oh, what a row, sir,

The men shall wear the petticoats

And ladies wear the trousers.

Oh, did you hear, &c.

Now Mrs. Dexter’s come to town,She says, she’ll not be lazy,But quickly turn the ladies’ brains,And set the men all crazy.Old maids and lasses fine and gay,Short, stumpy, tall and bandy,Long petticoats now throw away,And beat the yanky dandy.

Now Mrs. Dexter’s come to town,

She says, she’ll not be lazy,

But quickly turn the ladies’ brains,

And set the men all crazy.

Old maids and lasses fine and gay,

Short, stumpy, tall and bandy,

Long petticoats now throw away,

And beat the yanky dandy.

Prince Albert and the Queen one day,Had such a jolly row, sirs,She threw off her petticoatsAnd put on boots and trousers;Won’t it be funny for to seeLadies possessed of riches,Riding up and down the townIn Wellingtons and breeches.

Prince Albert and the Queen one day,

Had such a jolly row, sirs,

She threw off her petticoats

And put on boots and trousers;

Won’t it be funny for to see

Ladies possessed of riches,

Riding up and down the town

In Wellingtons and breeches.

Now you with ancles short and thick,Of every rank and station,Oh, won’t you cut it fine and slick,By this new alteration.And landladies that creep about,Well known as twenty stoners,Come shove your bustles up the spout,And join the dashing bloomers.

Now you with ancles short and thick,

Of every rank and station,

Oh, won’t you cut it fine and slick,

By this new alteration.

And landladies that creep about,

Well known as twenty stoners,

Come shove your bustles up the spout,

And join the dashing bloomers.

The bloomers dress, the people say,Is getting all the go now,The pretty factory lasses they,Will cut a gallant show now,In petticoats above their knes,And breeches too you’ll fit them.Nice jackets made of velveteen,All button’d up behind them.

The bloomers dress, the people say,

Is getting all the go now,

The pretty factory lasses they,

Will cut a gallant show now,

In petticoats above their knes,

And breeches too you’ll fit them.

Nice jackets made of velveteen,

All button’d up behind them.

Now married men take my advice,Step out and spend your riches,And buy your wife all in a trice,Short petticoats and breeches,For in the fashion she will hop,Whene’er she’s out of humour,I wonder if her tongue will stop,When she becomes a bloomer.

Now married men take my advice,

Step out and spend your riches,

And buy your wife all in a trice,

Short petticoats and breeches,

For in the fashion she will hop,

Whene’er she’s out of humour,

I wonder if her tongue will stop,

When she becomes a bloomer.

Last night my wife she said to me,Tom, when we’ve got the notes in,I’ll have a pair of gaiters, andBreeches made of goat’s skin.A pair of boots and silver spurs,For I have got such bad legs,I cannot hide I’ll have to ride,The donkey now a strad-legs.

Last night my wife she said to me,

Tom, when we’ve got the notes in,

I’ll have a pair of gaiters, and

Breeches made of goat’s skin.

A pair of boots and silver spurs,

For I have got such bad legs,

I cannot hide I’ll have to ride,

The donkey now a strad-legs.

The men must go out selling fish,And deal in shrimps and mussels,Dress’d up in ladies’ petticoats,Fine flounces and big bustles,You’ll have no call to work at all,But walk out in your broaches,The ladies are determined, for,To drive the cabs and coaches.

The men must go out selling fish,

And deal in shrimps and mussels,

Dress’d up in ladies’ petticoats,

Fine flounces and big bustles,

You’ll have no call to work at all,

But walk out in your broaches,

The ladies are determined, for,

To drive the cabs and coaches.

The tailors now must all be sharpIn making noble stitches,And be sure and clap their burning gooseUpon the ladies’ breeches;Their pretty little fingers willBe just as sore as mutton,Until that they have found the wayTheir trousers to unbutton.

The tailors now must all be sharp

In making noble stitches,

And be sure and clap their burning goose

Upon the ladies’ breeches;

Their pretty little fingers will

Be just as sore as mutton,

Until that they have found the way

Their trousers to unbutton.

You factory lasses, one and all,Your dresses all reform now,Buy a jacket and a trousers forTo keep you snug and warm now;Short petticoats and garters too,No matter how the time goes,A billycock and feather forTo see which way the wind blows.

You factory lasses, one and all,

Your dresses all reform now,

Buy a jacket and a trousers for

To keep you snug and warm now;

Short petticoats and garters too,

No matter how the time goes,

A billycock and feather for

To see which way the wind blows.

M. O’LOUGHNAN.

Once on a time this good old town was nothing but a village,Of husbandry, and farmers too, whose time was spent in tillage;But things are altered very much, such building now allotted is,It rivals far and soon will leave behind the great Metropolis.O dear O, Manchester’s an altered town, O dear O.Once on a time were you inclin’d, your weary limbs to lave, sir,In summer’s scorching heat in the Irwell’s cooling wave, sir;You had only got to go to the Old Church for the shore, sir,But since those days the fish have died, and now they are no more, sir.When things do change you ne’er do know what next is sure to follow,For mark the change in Broughton now, of late ’twas but a hollowFor they have found it so snug, and chang’d its etymology,They have clapt in it a wild beast’s show, now call’d the Gardens of Zoology.A market on Shudehill was, and it remains there still, sir,The Salford old bridge is taken away, and clapt a new one in, sir,There’s Newton lane I now shall name, has had an alteration,They’ve knock’d a great part of it down, to make a railway station.There’s the Bolton railway station in Salford, give attention,Besides many more too numerous to mention;Besides a new Police, to put the old ones down stairs, sir,A mayor and corporation to govern this old town, sir.There’s the Manchester and Salford old bridge, that long has stood, the weather,Because it was so very old they drown’d it altogether;And Brown street market too, it forms part of this sonnet,Down it must come, they say, to build a borough gaol upon it.Not long ago if you had taken a walk thro’ Stevenson’s square, sir,You might have seen, if you look’d, a kind of chapel there, sir,And yet this place, some people thought, had better to come down, sir,And in the parson’s place they put a pantaloon and clown, sir.In former times our cotton swells were not half so mighty found, sir,But in these modern times they everywhere abound, sir,With now police and watchmen, to break peace there’s none dareAnd at every step the ladies go, policemen will cry, move on there’.In former days this good old town was guarded from the prigs, sir,By day constables, by night by watchmen with Welsh wigs, sir;But things are alter’d very much, for all those who are scholars,May tell the new policemen by their numbers on their collars.

Once on a time this good old town was nothing but a village,

Of husbandry, and farmers too, whose time was spent in tillage;

But things are altered very much, such building now allotted is,

It rivals far and soon will leave behind the great Metropolis.

O dear O, Manchester’s an altered town, O dear O.

Once on a time were you inclin’d, your weary limbs to lave, sir,In summer’s scorching heat in the Irwell’s cooling wave, sir;You had only got to go to the Old Church for the shore, sir,But since those days the fish have died, and now they are no more, sir.

Once on a time were you inclin’d, your weary limbs to lave, sir,

In summer’s scorching heat in the Irwell’s cooling wave, sir;

You had only got to go to the Old Church for the shore, sir,

But since those days the fish have died, and now they are no more, sir.

When things do change you ne’er do know what next is sure to follow,For mark the change in Broughton now, of late ’twas but a hollowFor they have found it so snug, and chang’d its etymology,They have clapt in it a wild beast’s show, now call’d the Gardens of Zoology.

When things do change you ne’er do know what next is sure to follow,

For mark the change in Broughton now, of late ’twas but a hollow

For they have found it so snug, and chang’d its etymology,

They have clapt in it a wild beast’s show, now call’d the Gardens of Zoology.

A market on Shudehill was, and it remains there still, sir,The Salford old bridge is taken away, and clapt a new one in, sir,There’s Newton lane I now shall name, has had an alteration,They’ve knock’d a great part of it down, to make a railway station.

A market on Shudehill was, and it remains there still, sir,

The Salford old bridge is taken away, and clapt a new one in, sir,

There’s Newton lane I now shall name, has had an alteration,

They’ve knock’d a great part of it down, to make a railway station.

There’s the Bolton railway station in Salford, give attention,Besides many more too numerous to mention;Besides a new Police, to put the old ones down stairs, sir,A mayor and corporation to govern this old town, sir.

There’s the Bolton railway station in Salford, give attention,

Besides many more too numerous to mention;

Besides a new Police, to put the old ones down stairs, sir,

A mayor and corporation to govern this old town, sir.

There’s the Manchester and Salford old bridge, that long has stood, the weather,Because it was so very old they drown’d it altogether;And Brown street market too, it forms part of this sonnet,Down it must come, they say, to build a borough gaol upon it.

There’s the Manchester and Salford old bridge, that long has stood, the weather,

Because it was so very old they drown’d it altogether;

And Brown street market too, it forms part of this sonnet,

Down it must come, they say, to build a borough gaol upon it.

Not long ago if you had taken a walk thro’ Stevenson’s square, sir,You might have seen, if you look’d, a kind of chapel there, sir,And yet this place, some people thought, had better to come down, sir,And in the parson’s place they put a pantaloon and clown, sir.

Not long ago if you had taken a walk thro’ Stevenson’s square, sir,

You might have seen, if you look’d, a kind of chapel there, sir,

And yet this place, some people thought, had better to come down, sir,

And in the parson’s place they put a pantaloon and clown, sir.

In former times our cotton swells were not half so mighty found, sir,But in these modern times they everywhere abound, sir,With now police and watchmen, to break peace there’s none dareAnd at every step the ladies go, policemen will cry, move on there’.

In former times our cotton swells were not half so mighty found, sir,

But in these modern times they everywhere abound, sir,

With now police and watchmen, to break peace there’s none dare

And at every step the ladies go, policemen will cry, move on there’.

In former days this good old town was guarded from the prigs, sir,By day constables, by night by watchmen with Welsh wigs, sir;But things are alter’d very much, for all those who are scholars,May tell the new policemen by their numbers on their collars.

In former days this good old town was guarded from the prigs, sir,

By day constables, by night by watchmen with Welsh wigs, sir;

But things are alter’d very much, for all those who are scholars,

May tell the new policemen by their numbers on their collars.

J. Harkness, Printer, 121, Church Street, Preston.

You lads and lasses far and near,Unto my song pray lend an ear,The time is come for mirth and glee,To Preston Guild let’s haste away,For Tom and Sal with Jim and Peg,And daddy with his wooden leg,And grunting Jack with Sam and Will,Are all gone off to Preston Guild.There lords and ladies, Kings and Queens,At Preston Guild they may be seen,Yes, Merchants, Tradesmen,—a grand show,With ladies walking in a row;And then the trades they do appear,By gum it makes one feel quite queer,Some walking,—others standing still,This is the fun at Preston Guild.The tailors they lead up the van,With Adam and Eve they look so grand,Then Robin Hood’s men and gardeners,Who represent Mars the God of Wars,Shopkeepers, Publicans so free,Will follow up for liberty,The grandest show in England still,Is the jublilee at Preston Guild.The factory folks are next in view,Spinners, weavers, and carders too,The piecers do not lag behind,Brickmakers at the Guild we find,Bricksetters, masons two and two,To see them walking in a row,The men who houses and factories build,You’ll see them walk at Preston Guild.When at the Guild you do arrive,Like bees they’re swarming all alive,All kinds of trades are working still,You’ll see, now you’re at Preston Guild.There’s swinging boxes, likewise shows,And soldiers ’listing drunken fools,Both drunkards and teetotallers will,Enjoy a peep at Preston Guild.Its toss or buy for cakes or nuts,Sweet meats or ORMSKIRK, stuff your guts,Or take a trow at civil will,Now lads you’ve come to Preston Guild,Or see the sports that’s up and down,At Preston Guild in Preston town,Two shillings a bed pay with good will,If you stop one night at Preston Guild.The times are hard, the wages low,Some thousands to the Guild can’t go,From Blackburn, Burnley, and Chorley still,They will roll on to Preston Guild,From Wigan, Bolton, Lancaster,From Liverpool and Manchester,The Railroad brings them on it still,To see the fun at Preston Guild.So young and old I’ll tell you true,It’s different now since twenty-two,The men did labour with good will,It’s not so now this Preston Guild.But let us hope the times will mend,When the poor man can the poor befriend,We want our rights and then we will,Have plenty of sport next Preston Guild.

You lads and lasses far and near,

Unto my song pray lend an ear,

The time is come for mirth and glee,

To Preston Guild let’s haste away,

For Tom and Sal with Jim and Peg,

And daddy with his wooden leg,

And grunting Jack with Sam and Will,

Are all gone off to Preston Guild.

There lords and ladies, Kings and Queens,At Preston Guild they may be seen,Yes, Merchants, Tradesmen,—a grand show,With ladies walking in a row;And then the trades they do appear,By gum it makes one feel quite queer,Some walking,—others standing still,This is the fun at Preston Guild.

There lords and ladies, Kings and Queens,

At Preston Guild they may be seen,

Yes, Merchants, Tradesmen,—a grand show,

With ladies walking in a row;

And then the trades they do appear,

By gum it makes one feel quite queer,

Some walking,—others standing still,

This is the fun at Preston Guild.

The tailors they lead up the van,With Adam and Eve they look so grand,Then Robin Hood’s men and gardeners,Who represent Mars the God of Wars,Shopkeepers, Publicans so free,Will follow up for liberty,The grandest show in England still,Is the jublilee at Preston Guild.

The tailors they lead up the van,

With Adam and Eve they look so grand,

Then Robin Hood’s men and gardeners,

Who represent Mars the God of Wars,

Shopkeepers, Publicans so free,

Will follow up for liberty,

The grandest show in England still,

Is the jublilee at Preston Guild.

The factory folks are next in view,Spinners, weavers, and carders too,The piecers do not lag behind,Brickmakers at the Guild we find,Bricksetters, masons two and two,To see them walking in a row,The men who houses and factories build,You’ll see them walk at Preston Guild.

The factory folks are next in view,

Spinners, weavers, and carders too,

The piecers do not lag behind,

Brickmakers at the Guild we find,

Bricksetters, masons two and two,

To see them walking in a row,

The men who houses and factories build,

You’ll see them walk at Preston Guild.

When at the Guild you do arrive,Like bees they’re swarming all alive,All kinds of trades are working still,You’ll see, now you’re at Preston Guild.There’s swinging boxes, likewise shows,And soldiers ’listing drunken fools,Both drunkards and teetotallers will,Enjoy a peep at Preston Guild.

When at the Guild you do arrive,

Like bees they’re swarming all alive,

All kinds of trades are working still,

You’ll see, now you’re at Preston Guild.

There’s swinging boxes, likewise shows,

And soldiers ’listing drunken fools,

Both drunkards and teetotallers will,

Enjoy a peep at Preston Guild.

Its toss or buy for cakes or nuts,Sweet meats or ORMSKIRK, stuff your guts,Or take a trow at civil will,Now lads you’ve come to Preston Guild,Or see the sports that’s up and down,At Preston Guild in Preston town,Two shillings a bed pay with good will,If you stop one night at Preston Guild.

Its toss or buy for cakes or nuts,

Sweet meats or ORMSKIRK, stuff your guts,

Or take a trow at civil will,

Now lads you’ve come to Preston Guild,

Or see the sports that’s up and down,

At Preston Guild in Preston town,

Two shillings a bed pay with good will,

If you stop one night at Preston Guild.

The times are hard, the wages low,Some thousands to the Guild can’t go,From Blackburn, Burnley, and Chorley still,They will roll on to Preston Guild,From Wigan, Bolton, Lancaster,From Liverpool and Manchester,The Railroad brings them on it still,To see the fun at Preston Guild.

The times are hard, the wages low,

Some thousands to the Guild can’t go,

From Blackburn, Burnley, and Chorley still,

They will roll on to Preston Guild,

From Wigan, Bolton, Lancaster,

From Liverpool and Manchester,

The Railroad brings them on it still,

To see the fun at Preston Guild.

So young and old I’ll tell you true,It’s different now since twenty-two,The men did labour with good will,It’s not so now this Preston Guild.But let us hope the times will mend,When the poor man can the poor befriend,We want our rights and then we will,Have plenty of sport next Preston Guild.

So young and old I’ll tell you true,

It’s different now since twenty-two,

The men did labour with good will,

It’s not so now this Preston Guild.

But let us hope the times will mend,

When the poor man can the poor befriend,

We want our rights and then we will,

Have plenty of sport next Preston Guild.

John Harkness, Printer, Church St.;—Office, North Road, Preston.

Now Christmas it is gone and past, throughout the British nation,Come list to me and you will see a wonderful alteration;In the new year there will appear, or I may cause a blunder,Some curious changes that will fill you with amaze and wonder.CHORUS.So listen to me of all degree, both single, wise, and thrifty,While I prophecy what you will see, in eighteen hundred and fifty.The Queen will have another son, he will be a steam-loom weaver,And Prince Albert he is going to be a wopping big coal-heaver;Old Wellington as I’ve heard say, with his great whacking nose, sir,With a donkey cart is going out a gathering old clothes, sir.Russell and Grey, as I’ve heard say, are going to be sailors,And Bobby Peel will make, of steel, new thimbles for the tailors;Cobden and Bright will have a fight, and conquer in dirch man,Without protection, in a crack, knock down the Duke of Richmond.The muck carts they will go by steam, no horses will be wanted,We will have four pound loaves for threepence each, then we shall be undaunted,Girls must new fashioned whiskers wear, fine lawns they must adorn her,Their stockings must be made of gold brought home from California.All females over seventeen, that out of doors are flocking,Will sadly rue if there should be, a hole seen in their stocking,Either in the leg or heel, the law to nothing flinches,Each bustle must be stuffed with straw full nine feet eleven inches.And very soon, in May or June, we will be amaz’d with wonder,For it will either rain or freeze, with heavy claps of thunder,The free hall is going to fall, believe me it’s no fable,And legs of mutton from the clouds will fall upon the table.No little boys must smoke cigars, nor yet be seen a courting,Male and female under twenty-two, must not be seen a flirting,Any factory lass that has a child until she is married really,Must serve twelve months in ———— or else in the New Bailey.If any landlord call for rent upon a Monday morning,His tenants shall be authorised without a moment’s warningTo strip him naked to the skin in any sort of weather,Daub him with tar from head to foot, and cover him with feathers.And Scotchmen, too, mark what I say, you may roll in soot and cinders,And after that take him up stairs, and throw him through the windows,They will take the duty off the gin, and clap it on the mussels,And lay an extra shilling on the gutta-percha bustles.The old women they will dance with glee, and if I’m not mistaken,They will take the duty off the tea, the sugar, and the bacon;Morning and night they’ll have fat cakes, the frying pans will flourish,With mutton chops and good beef steaks, their stomachs for to nourish.

Now Christmas it is gone and past, throughout the British nation,

Come list to me and you will see a wonderful alteration;

In the new year there will appear, or I may cause a blunder,

Some curious changes that will fill you with amaze and wonder.

CHORUS.

So listen to me of all degree, both single, wise, and thrifty,While I prophecy what you will see, in eighteen hundred and fifty.

So listen to me of all degree, both single, wise, and thrifty,

While I prophecy what you will see, in eighteen hundred and fifty.

The Queen will have another son, he will be a steam-loom weaver,And Prince Albert he is going to be a wopping big coal-heaver;Old Wellington as I’ve heard say, with his great whacking nose, sir,With a donkey cart is going out a gathering old clothes, sir.

The Queen will have another son, he will be a steam-loom weaver,

And Prince Albert he is going to be a wopping big coal-heaver;

Old Wellington as I’ve heard say, with his great whacking nose, sir,

With a donkey cart is going out a gathering old clothes, sir.

Russell and Grey, as I’ve heard say, are going to be sailors,And Bobby Peel will make, of steel, new thimbles for the tailors;Cobden and Bright will have a fight, and conquer in dirch man,Without protection, in a crack, knock down the Duke of Richmond.

Russell and Grey, as I’ve heard say, are going to be sailors,

And Bobby Peel will make, of steel, new thimbles for the tailors;

Cobden and Bright will have a fight, and conquer in dirch man,

Without protection, in a crack, knock down the Duke of Richmond.

The muck carts they will go by steam, no horses will be wanted,We will have four pound loaves for threepence each, then we shall be undaunted,Girls must new fashioned whiskers wear, fine lawns they must adorn her,Their stockings must be made of gold brought home from California.

The muck carts they will go by steam, no horses will be wanted,

We will have four pound loaves for threepence each, then we shall be undaunted,

Girls must new fashioned whiskers wear, fine lawns they must adorn her,

Their stockings must be made of gold brought home from California.

All females over seventeen, that out of doors are flocking,Will sadly rue if there should be, a hole seen in their stocking,Either in the leg or heel, the law to nothing flinches,Each bustle must be stuffed with straw full nine feet eleven inches.

All females over seventeen, that out of doors are flocking,

Will sadly rue if there should be, a hole seen in their stocking,

Either in the leg or heel, the law to nothing flinches,

Each bustle must be stuffed with straw full nine feet eleven inches.

And very soon, in May or June, we will be amaz’d with wonder,For it will either rain or freeze, with heavy claps of thunder,The free hall is going to fall, believe me it’s no fable,And legs of mutton from the clouds will fall upon the table.

And very soon, in May or June, we will be amaz’d with wonder,

For it will either rain or freeze, with heavy claps of thunder,

The free hall is going to fall, believe me it’s no fable,

And legs of mutton from the clouds will fall upon the table.

No little boys must smoke cigars, nor yet be seen a courting,Male and female under twenty-two, must not be seen a flirting,Any factory lass that has a child until she is married really,Must serve twelve months in ———— or else in the New Bailey.

No little boys must smoke cigars, nor yet be seen a courting,

Male and female under twenty-two, must not be seen a flirting,

Any factory lass that has a child until she is married really,

Must serve twelve months in ———— or else in the New Bailey.

If any landlord call for rent upon a Monday morning,His tenants shall be authorised without a moment’s warningTo strip him naked to the skin in any sort of weather,Daub him with tar from head to foot, and cover him with feathers.

If any landlord call for rent upon a Monday morning,

His tenants shall be authorised without a moment’s warning

To strip him naked to the skin in any sort of weather,

Daub him with tar from head to foot, and cover him with feathers.

And Scotchmen, too, mark what I say, you may roll in soot and cinders,And after that take him up stairs, and throw him through the windows,They will take the duty off the gin, and clap it on the mussels,And lay an extra shilling on the gutta-percha bustles.

And Scotchmen, too, mark what I say, you may roll in soot and cinders,

And after that take him up stairs, and throw him through the windows,

They will take the duty off the gin, and clap it on the mussels,

And lay an extra shilling on the gutta-percha bustles.

The old women they will dance with glee, and if I’m not mistaken,They will take the duty off the tea, the sugar, and the bacon;Morning and night they’ll have fat cakes, the frying pans will flourish,With mutton chops and good beef steaks, their stomachs for to nourish.

The old women they will dance with glee, and if I’m not mistaken,

They will take the duty off the tea, the sugar, and the bacon;

Morning and night they’ll have fat cakes, the frying pans will flourish,

With mutton chops and good beef steaks, their stomachs for to nourish.

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