Sad are the sounds that are breaking forth
From the women and
men of the brave old North!
Sad are the sights for human eyes,
In
fireless homes, 'neath wintry skies;
Where wrinkles gather on childhood's
skin,
And youth's "clemm'd" cheek is pallid and thin;
Where
the good, the honest—unclothed, unfed,
Child, mother, and
father, are craving for bread!
But faint not, fear not—still
have trust;
Your voices are heard, and your claims are just.
England
to England's self is true,
And "God and the People" will
help you through.
Brothers and sisters! full well ye have stood,
While the gripe
of gaunt Famine has curdled your blood!
No murmur, no threat on
your lips have place,
Though ye look on the Hunger-fiend face to
face;
But haggard and worn ye silently bear,
Dragging your
death-chains with patience and prayer;
With your hearts as loyal,
your deeds as right,
As when Plenty and Sleep blest your day and
your night,
Brothers and sisters! oh! do not believe
It is
Charity's GOLD ALONE ye receive.
Ah, no! It is Sympathy, Feeling,
and Hope,
That pull out in the Life-boat to fling ye a rope.
Fondly I've lauded your wealth-winning hands,
Planting Commerce
and Fame throughout measureless lands;
And my patriot-love, and
my patriot-song,
To the children of Labour will ever belong.
Women
and men of this brave old soil!
I weep that starvation should guerdon
your toil;
But I glory to see ye—proudly mute—
Showing
souls like the hero, not fangs like the brute.
Oh!
keep courage within; be the Britons ye are;
HE, who driveth the
storm hath His hand on the star!
England to England's sons shall
be true,
And "God and the People" will carry ye through!
STRANGER! who to buy art willing,
Seek not here for talent rare;
Mine's
no song of love or beauty,
But a tale of want and care.
Traveller on the Northern Railway!
Look and learn, as on you
speed;
See the hundred smokeless chimneys,
Learn their tale
of cheerless need.
Ah! perchance the landscape fairer
Charms your taste, your artist-eye;
Little
do you guess how dearly
Costs that now unclouded sky.
"How much prettier is this county!"
Says the careless
passer-by;
"Clouds of smoke we see no longer,
What's
the reason?—Tell me why.
"Better far it were, most surely,
Never more such clouds
to see,
Bringing taint o'er nature's beauty,
With their foul
obscurity."
Thoughtless fair one! from yon chimney
Floats the golden breath
of life;
Stop that current at your pleasure!
Stop! and starve
the child—the wife.
Ah! to them each smokeless chimney
Is a signal of despair;
They
see hunger, sickness, ruin,
Written in that pure, bright air.
"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 assist 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 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 assistance;
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 God 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, 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
nobly, 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 nobbut 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 nobbut 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 buttercakes 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 nobbut 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' butties 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.
(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 God! 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.
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.
BY SAMUEL LAYCOCK.
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 rubbitch aw'm getten reet sto'd;
Aw've nowt i' this world
to lie deawn on but straw,
For aw've nobbut 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 nobbut 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.
BY SAMUEL BAMFORD.
God help the poor, who in this wintry morn,
Come forth of alleys
dim and courts obscure;
God help yon poor, pale girl, who droops
forlorn,
And meekly her affliction doth endure!
God 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, passing 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;—
God help thee, outcast lamb, who stand'st forlorn!
God
help the poor!
God 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. God help thee, hapless one forlorn!
God
help the poor!
God 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. God help thee, child forlorn
God
help the poor!
God help the poor! Another have I found
A bow'd
and venerable man is he;
His slouched hat with faded crape is bound,
His
coat is gray, and threadbare, too, I see;
"The rude winds"
seem to "mock his hoary 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!
God help the poor!
God 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! GOD will yet arise, and HELP
THE POOR!
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.
Footnotes:
{1} These stanzas are extracted, by permission, from the second volume of "Lancashire Lyrics," edited by John Harland, Esq., F.S.A. "They were written by a lady in aid of the Relief Fund. They were printed on a card, and sold, principally at the railway stations. Their sale there, and elsewhere, is known to have realised the sum of £160. Their authoress is the wife of Mr Serjeant Bellasis, and the only daughter of the late William Garnett, Esq. of Quernmore Park and Bleasdale, Lancashire."—Notes in "Lancashire Lyrics."
{2} From "Lancashire Lyrics," edited by John Harland, Esq., F.S.A.
{3} Dole; relief from charity.
{4} "During what has been well named 'The Cotton Famine,' amongst the imports of cotton from India, perhaps the worst was that denominated 'Surat,' from the city of that name in the province of Guzerat, a great cotton district. Short in staple, and often rotten, bad in quality, and dirty in condition, (the result too often of dishonest packers,) it was found to be exceedingly difficult to work up; and from its various defects, it involved considerable deductions, or 'batings,' for bad work, from the spinners' and weavers' wages. This naturally led to a general dislike of the Surat cotton, and to the application of the word 'Surat' to designate any inferior article. One action was tried at the assizes, the offence being the applying to the beverage of a particular brewer the term of 'Surat beer.' Besides the song given above, several others were written on the subject. One called 'Surat Warps,' and said to be the production of a Rossendale rhymester, (T. N., of Bacup,) appeared in Notes and Queries of June 3, 1865, (third series, vol. vii., p. 432,) and is there stated to be a great favourite amongst the old 'Deyghn Layrocks,' (Anglice, the 'Larks of Dean,' in the forest of Rossendale,) 'who sing it to one of the easy-going psalm-tunes with much gusto.' One verse runs thus:-
" 'I look at th' yealds, and there they stick;
I ne'er
seen the like sin' I wur wick!
What pity could befall a heart,
To
think about these hard-sized warps!'
Another song, called 'The Surat Weyver,' was written by William Billington of Blackburn. It is in the form of a lament by a body of Lancashire weavers, who declare that they had
" 'Borne what mortal man could bear,
Affoore they'd weave
Surat.'
But they had been compelled to weave it, though
" 'Stransportashun's not as ill
As weyvin rotten Su'.'
The song concludes with the emphatic execration,
" 'To
hell wi' o' Surat!'"
—Note in "Lancashire Lyrics," vol. ii., edited by John Harland, Esq., F.S.A.
{5} These beautiful lines, by the veteran Samuel Bamford, of Harperhey, near Manchester, author of "Passages in the Life of a Radical," &c., are copied from the new and complete edition of his poems, entitled "Homely Rhymes, Poems, and Reminiscences," published by Alexander Ireland & Co., Examiner and Times Office, Pall Mall, Manchester. Price 3s. 6d., with a portrait of the author.