Home-Life of the Lancashire Factory Folk during the Cotton Famine Part 10

An' why noa do't? It ill 'ud tell O' thoose wur laft beheend, aw fear; It's wring, at fust, to kill mysel', It's wring to lyev mi childer here.

One's like to tak' some thowt for them-- Some sort o' comfort one should give; So one mun bide, an' starve, an' clem, An' pine, an' mope, an' fret, an' live.

TH' SHURAT WEAVER'S SONG. {4}

BY SAMUEL LAYc.o.c.k.

TUNE--"Rory O'More."

Confound it! aw ne'er wur so woven afore; My back's welly brocken, mi fingers are sore; Aw've been starin' an' rootin' amung this Shurat, Till aw'm very near getten as bloint as a bat.

Aw wish aw wur fur enough off, eawt o'th road, For o' weavin' this rubb.i.t.c.h aw'm getten reet sto'd; Aw've nowt i' this world to lie deawn on but straw, For aw've n.o.bbut eight shillin' this fortnit to draw.

Neaw, aw haven't mi family under mi hat; Aw've a woife and six childer to keep eawt o' that; So aw'm rayther amung it just neaw, yo may see-- Iv ever a fellow wur puzzle't, it's me!

Iv aw turn eawt to steal, folk'll co' me a thief; An' aw conno' put th' cheek on to ax for relief; As aw said i' eawr heawse t'other neet to mi wife, Aw never did nowt o' this mak' i' my life.

O dear! iv yon Yankees could n.o.bbut just see, Heaw they're clemmin' an' starvin' poor weavers loike me, Aw think they'd soon sattle their bother, an' strive To send us some cotton to keep us alive.

There's theawsan's o' folk, just i'th best o' their days, Wi' traces o' want plainly sin i' their faze; An' a futur afore 'em as dreary an' dark; For, when th' cotton gets done, we's be o' eawt o' wark.

We'n bin patient an' quiet as lung as we con; Th' bits o' things we had by us are welly o' gone; Mi clogs an' mi shoon are both gettin' worn eawt, An' my halliday clooas are o' gone "up th' speawt!"

Mony a time i' my days aw've sin things lookin' feaw, But never as awkard as what they are neaw; Iv there isn't some help for us factory folk soon, Aw'm sure 'at we's o' be knock'd reet eawt o' tune.

G.o.d HELP THE POOR. {5}

BY SAMUEL BAMFORD.

G.o.d help the poor, who in this wintry morn, Come forth of alleys dim and courts obscure; G.o.d help yon poor, pale girl, who droops forlorn, And meekly her affliction doth endure!

G.o.d help the outcast lamb! she trembling stands, All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands; Her mournful eyes are modestly down cast, Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast; Her bosom, pa.s.sing fair, is half reveal'd, And oh! so cold the snow lies there congeal'd; Her feet benumb'd, her shoes all rent and worn;-- G.o.d help thee, outcast lamb, who stand'st forlorn!

G.o.d help the poor!

G.o.d help the poor! an infant's feeble wail Comes from yon narrow gate-way! and behold A female crouching there, so deathly pale, Huddling her child, to screen it from the cold!-- Her vesture scant, her bonnet crush'd and torn; A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold.

And there she bides the ruthless gale of morn, Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold!

And now she sudden darts a ravening look, As one with new hot bread comes past the nook; And, as the tempting load is onward borne, She weeps. G.o.d help thee, hapless one forlorn!

G.o.d help the poor!

G.o.d help the poor! Behold yon famish'd lad No shoes, no hose, his wounded feet protect; With limping gait, and looks so dreamy-sad, He wanders onward, stopping to inspect Each window, stored with articles of food; He yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal.

Oh! to his hungry palate, viands rude Would yield a zest the famish'd only feel!

He now devours a crust of mouldy bread-- With teeth and hands the precious boon is torn, Unmindful of the storm which round his head Impetuous sweeps. G.o.d help thee, child forlorn G.o.d help the poor!

G.o.d help the poor! Another have I found A bow'd and venerable man is he; His slouched hat with faded c.r.a.pe is bound, His coat is gray, and threadbare, too, I see; "The rude winds" seem to "mock his h.o.a.ry hair;"

His shirtless bosom to the blast is bare.

Anon he turns, and casts a wistful eye, And with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray; And looks again, as if he fain would spy Friends he hath feasted in his better day Ah! some are dead, and some have long forborne To know the poor; and he is left forlorn!

G.o.d help the poor!

G.o.d help the poor who in lone valleys dwell, Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow Theirs is a story sad indeed to tell!

Yet little cares the world, nor seeks to know The toil and want poor weavers undergo.

The irksome loom must have them up at morn; They work till worn-out nature will have sleep; They taste, but are not fed. Cold snow drifts deep Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door; The night-storm howls a dirge o'er moss and moor!

And shall they perish thus, oppress'd and lorn?

Shall toil and famine hopeless still be borne!-- No! G.o.d will yet arise, and HELP THE POOR!

TICKLE TIMES.

BY EDWIN WAUGH.

Neaw times are so tickle, no wonder One's heart should be deawn i' his shoon, But, dang it, we munnot knock under To th' freawn o' misfortin to soon; Though Robin looks fearfully gloomy, An' Jamie keeps starin' at th' greawnd, An' thinkin' o'th table 'at's empty, An' th' little things yammerin' reawnd.

Iv a mon be both honest an' willin', An' never a stroke to be had, An' clemmin' for want ov a shillin',-- It's likely to make him feel sad; It troubles his heart to keep seein'

His little brids feedin' o'th air; An' it feels very hard to be deein', An' never a mortal to care.

But life's sich a quare bit o' travel,-- A warlock wi' sun an' wi' shade,-- An' then, on a bowster o' gravel, They lay'n us i' bed wi' a spade; It's no use o' peawtin' an' fratchin'; As th' whirligig's twirlin' areawn'd, Have at it again; an' keep scratehin', As lung as your yed's upo' greawnd.

Iv one could but feel i'th inside on't, There's trouble i' every heart; An' thoose that'n th' biggest o'th pride on't, Oft leeten o'th keenest o'th smart.

Whatever may chance to come to us, Let's patiently hondle er share,-- For there's mony a fine suit o' clooas That covers a murderin' care.

There's danger i' every station, I'th palace, as weel as i'th cot; There's hanker i' every condition, An' canker i' every lot; There's folk that are weary o' livin', That never fear't hunger nor cowd; An' there's mony a miserly crayter 'At's deed ov a surfeit o' gowd.

One feels, neaw 'at times are so nippin', A mon's at a troublesome schoo', That slaves like a horse for a livin', An, flings it away like a foo; But, as pleasur's sometimes a misfortin, An' trouble sometimes a good thing,-- Though we liv'n o'th floor, same as layrocks, We'n go up, like layrocks, to sing.

THE END

JOHN HEYWOOD, PRINTER, MANCHESTER.

WAUGH'S POEMS AND LANCASHIRE SONGS. 5s.

CONTENTS.

POEMS.

The Moorland Flower--To the Rose-Tree on my Window Sill--Keen Blows the North Wind--Now Summer's Sunlight Glowing--The Moorland Witch-- The Church Clock--G.o.d Bless Thee, Old England--All on a Rosy Morn of June--Glad Welcome to Morn's Dewy Hours--Alas, how Hard it is to Smile--Ye Gallant Men of England--Here's to my Native Land--What Makes your Leaves Fall Down--Oh, had she been a Lowly Maid--The Old Bard's Welcome Home--Oh, Come Across the Fields--Oh, Weave a Garland for my Brow--The Wanderer's Hymn--Alone upon the Flowery Plain-- Life's Twilight--Time is Flying--The Moorlands--The Captain's Friends--The World--To a Married Lady--Cultivate your Men--Old Man's Song--Bide on--Christmas Song--Love and Gold--When Drowsy Daylight-- Mary--To the Spring Wind--Nightfall--To a Young Lady--Poor Travellers all--The Dying Rose--Lines--The Man of the Time-- Christmas Morning.