Home-Life of the Lancashire Factory Folk during the Cotton Famine Part 9

"Mother! mother! see! 'twas truly Said last week the mill would stop; Mark yon chimney, nought is going, There's no smoke from 'out o'th top!'

"Father! father! what's the reason That the chimneys smokeless stand?

Is it true that all through strangers, We must starve in our own land?"

Low upon her chair that mother Droops, and sighs with tearful eye; At the hearthstone lags the father, Musing o'er the days gone by.

Days which saw him glad and hearty, Punctual at his work of love; When the week's end brought him plenty, And he thanked the Lord above.

When his wages, earned so justly, Gave him clothing, home, and food; When his wife, with fond caresses, Blessed his heart, so kind and good.

Neat and clean each Sunday saw them, In their place of prayer and praise, Little dreaming that the morrow Piteous cries for help would raise.

Weeks roll on, and still yon chimney Gives of better times no sign; Men by thousands cry for labour, Daily cry, and daily pine.

Now the things, so long and dearly Prized before, are pledged away; Clock and Bible, marriage-presents, Both must go--how sad to say!

Charley trots to school no longer, Nelly grows more pale each day; Nay, the baby's shoes, so tiny, Must be sold, for bread to pay.

They who loathe to be dependent Now for alms are forced to ask Hard is mill-work, but, believe me, Begging is the bitterest task.

Soon will come the doom most dreaded, With a horror that appals; Lo! before their downcast faces Grimly stare the workhouse walls.

Stranger, if these sorrows touch you, Widely bid your bounty flow; And a.s.sist my poor endeavours To relieve this load of woe.

Let no more the smokeless chimneys Draw from you one word of praise; Think, oh, think upon the thousands Who are moaning out their days.

Rather pray that peace, soon bringing Work and plenty in her train, We may see these smokeless chimneys Blackening all the land again.

1862.

THE MILL-HAND'S PEt.i.tION.

The following verses are copied from "Lancashire Lyrics," edited by John Harland, Esq., F.S.A. They are extracted from a song "by some 'W.C.,' printed as a street broadside, at Ashton-under-Lyne, and sung in most towns of South Lancashire."

We have come to ask for a.s.sistance; At home we've been starving too long; An' our children are wanting subsistence; Kindly aid us to help them along.

CHORUS.

For humanity is calling; Don't let the call be in vain; But help us; we're needy and falling; And G.o.d will return it again.

War's clamour and civil commotion Has stagnation brought in its train; And stoppage bring with it starvation, So help us some bread to obtain.

For humanity is calling.

The American war is still lasting; Like a terrible nightmare it leans On the breast of a country, now fasting For cotton, for work, and for means.

And humanity is calling.

CHEER UP A BIT LONGER. {2} BY SAMUEL LAYc.o.c.k.

Cheer up a bit longer, mi brothers i' want, There's breeter days for us i' store; There'll be plenty o' tommy an' wark for us o'

When this 'Merica bother gets o'er.

Yo'n struggled reet n.o.bly, an' battled reet hard, While things han bin lookin' so feaw; Yo'n borne wi' yo're troubles and trials so long, It's no use o' givin' up neaw.

Feight on, as yo' han done, an' victory's sure, For th' battle seems very nee won, Be firm i' yo're sufferin', an' dunno give way; They're nowt n.o.bbut ceawards'at run.

Yo' know heaw they'n praised us for stondin' so firm, An' shall we neaw stagger an' fo?

Nowt o'th soart;--iv we n.o.bbut brace up an' be hard, We can stond a bit longer, aw know.

It's hard to keep clemmin' an' starvin' so long; An' one's hurt to see th' little things fret, Becose there's no b.u.t.tercakes for 'em to eat; But we'n allus kept pooin' thro' yet.

As bad as toimes are, an' as feaw as things look, We're certain they met ha' bin worse; We'n had tommy to eat, an' clooas to put on; They'n only bin roughish, aw know.

Aw've begged on yo' to keep up yo're courage afore, An' neaw let me ax yo' once moor; Let's noan get disheartened, there's hope for us yet, We needn't dispair tho' we're poor.

We cannot expect it'll allus be foine; It's dark for a while, an' then clear; We'n mirth mixed wi' sadness, an' pleasure wi' pain, An' shall have as long as we're here.

This world's full o' changes for better an' wur, An' this is one change among th' ruck; We'n a toime o' prosperity,--toime o' success, An' then we'n a reawnd o' bad luck.

We're baskin' i' sunshine, at one toime o'th day, At other toimes ceawerin' i'th dark; We're sometoimes as hearty an' busy as owt, At other toimes ill, an' beawt wark.

Good bless yo'! mi brothers, we're n.o.bbut on th' tramp, We never stay long at one spot; An' while we keep knockin' abeawt i' this world, Disappointments will fall to eawer lot: So th' best thing we can do, iv we meon to get thro', Is to wrastle wi' cares as they come; We shall feel rayther tired,--but let's never heed that,-- We can rest us weel when we get whoam.

Cheer up, then, aw say, an' keep hopin' for th' best, An' things 'll soon awter, yo'll see; There'll be oceans o' b.u.t.ties for Tommy an' Fred, An' th' little un perched on yo're knee.

Bide on a bit longer, tak' heart once ogen, An' do give o'er lookin' so feaw; As we'n battled, an' struggled, an' suffered so long, It's no use o' givin' up neaw.

FRETTIN'.

(From "Phases of Distress--Lancashire Rhymes.")

BY JOSEPH RAMSBOTTOM.

Fro' heawrs to days--a dhreary length-- Fro' days to weeks one idle stons, An' slowly sinks fro' pride an' strength To weeny heart an' wakely honds; An' still one hopes, an' ever tries To think 'at better days mun come; Bo' th' sun may set, an' th' sun may rise,-- No sthreak o' leet one finds a-whoam.

Aw want to see thoose days again, When folk can win whate'er they need; O G.o.d! to think 'at wortchin' men Should be poor things to pet an' feed!

There's some to th' Bastile han to goo, To live o'th rates they'n help'd to pay; An' some get "dow" {3} to help 'em through; An' some are taen or sent away.

What is there here, 'at one should live, Or wish to live, weigh'd deawn wi' grief, Through weary weeks an' months, 'at give Not one short heawr o' sweet relief?

A sudden plunge, a little blow, Would end at once mi' care an' pain!

An' why noa do't?--for weel aw know Aw's lose bo' ills, if nowt aw gain.