I give the titles of the others, not chronologically, but as they occurred to my informant’s recollection—“A Cobbler there was, and he liv’d in a Stall”—Parnell’s song of “My Days have been so wond’rous Free,” now sung in the streets to the tune of “Gramachree.” A song (of which I could not procure a copy, but my informant had lately heard it in the street) about the Cock-lane Ghost—

the “Children in the Wood” and “Chevy-chase.” Concerning this old ditty one man said to me: “Yes, sir, I’ve sung it at odd times and not long ago in the north of England, and I’ve been asked whereabouts Chevy-chase lay, but I never learned.”

“Barbara Allen’s selling yet,” I was told. “Gilderoy was a Bonnie Boy,” is another song yet sung occasionally in the streets.

“The ballad,” says a writer on the subject, “may be considered as the native species of poetry of this country. It very exactly answers the idea formerly given of original poetry, being the rude uncultivated verse in which the popular tale of the time was recorded. As our ancestors partook of the fierce warlike character of the northern nations, the subjects of their poetry would chiefly consist of the martial exploits of their heroes, and the military events of national history, deeply tinctured with that passion for the marvellous, and that superstitious credulity, which always attend a state of ignorance and barbarism. Many of the ancient ballads have been transmitted to the present times, and in them the character of the nation displays itself in striking colours.”

The “Ballads on a Subject,” of which I shall proceed to treat, 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.

Of Street “Ballads on a Subject.”

There is a class of ballads which may with perfect propriety be called street ballads, as they are written by street authors for street singing (or chaunting) and street sale. These effusions, however, are known in the trade by a title appropriate enough—“Ballads on a Subject.” The most successful workers in this branch of the profession, are the men I have already described among the 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 the subject” is often enough written, printed, and sung in the street, in little more than an hour. Such was the case with a song “in honour,” it was announced, “of Lord John Russell’s resignation.” Of course there is no time for either the 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.

I need not treat this branch of our street literature at any great length, as specimens of the “Ballad on a Subject” will be found in many of the preceding statements of paper-workers.

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 by 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 to be beyond their vocal powers; neither may it be relished by the critical in street song, 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 a rare impartiality, lash all classes and all creeds, as well as any individual. One man, upon whose information I can rely, told me that, eleven years ago, he himself had “worked,” in town and country, 23 different songs at the same period and on 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 the “Dusty Miller;” and “it was good,” said the ballad-man, “because we could easily dress up to the character given to Albert.” I quote a verse:

“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 of 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, and didn’t we drink it! There can’t be a mistake about that.”

Of street ballads on political subjects, or upon themes which have interested the whole general public, I need not cite additional instances. There are, however, other subjects, which, though not regarded as of great interest by the whole body of the people are still eventful among certain classes, and for them the street author and ballad-singer cater.

I first give a specimen of a ballad on a Theatrical Subject. The best I find, in a large collection of these street effusions, is entitled “Jenny Lind and Poet B.” After describing how Mr. Bunn “flew to Sweden” and engaged Miss Lind, the poet proceeds,—the tune being “Lucy Long”:

I am inclined to think—though I know it to be an unusual case—that in this theatrical ballad the street poet was what is tenderly called a “plagiarist.” I was assured by a chaunter that it was written by a street author,—but probably the chaunter was himself in error or forgetfulness.

Next, there is the Ballad on a Civic Subject. In the old times the Lord Mayor had his laureate. This writer, known as “poet to the City of London,” eulogised all lord mayors, and glorified all civic pageants. That of the 9th November, especially, “lived in Settle’s numbers, one day more,”—but Elkanah Settle was the last of such scribes. After his death, the city eschewed a poet. The office has now descended to the street bard, who annually celebrates the great ceremony. I cite two stanzas and the chorus from the latest of these civic Odes:

There is, beside the descriptions of ballads above cited, the Ballad Local. One of these is headed the “Queer Doings in Leather-lane,” and is on a subject concerning which street-sellers generally express themselves strongly—Sunday trading. The endeavour to stop street trading (generally) in Leather-lane, with its injurious results to the shopkeepers, has been already mentioned. The ballad on this local subject presents a personality now, happily, almost confined to the street writers:

There are yet three themes of these street songs, of which, though they have been alluded to, no specimens have been given. I now supply them. The first is the election ballad. I quote two stanzas from “Middlesex and Victory! or, Grosvenor and Osborne for ever!”

Then come the “elegies.” Of three of these I cite the opening stanza. That on the “Death of Queen Adelaide” has for an illustration a figure of Britannia leaning on her shield, with the “Muse of History,” (as I presume from her attributes,) at Britannia’s feet. In the distance is the setting sun:

The elegy on the “Death of the Right Honourable Sir Robert Peel, Bart. M.P.,” is set off with a very fair portrait of that statesman.

The verses which bewail the “Death of H. R. H. the Duke of Cambridge,” and which are adorned with the same illustration as those upon Queen Adelaide, begin

The third class of street-ballads relates to “fires.” The one I quote, “On the Awful Fire at B. Caunt’s, in St. Martin’s-lane,” is preceded by an engraving of a lady and a cavalier, the lady pointing to a column surmounted by an urn. I again give the first stanza:

In a subsequent stanza are four lines, not without some rough pathos, and adapted to move the feelings of a street audience. The writer is alluding to the grief of the parents who had lost two children by a terrible death:

I find no difference in style between the ballads on a subject of to-day, and the oldest which I could obtain a sight of, which were sung in the present generation—except that these poems now begin far less frequently with what at one time was as common as an invocation to the Muse—the invitation to good Christians to attend to the singer. One on the Sloanes, however, opens in the old fashion:

I now conclude this account of street-ballads on a subject with two verses from one on the subject of “The Glorious Fight for the Championship of England.” The celebration of these once-popular encounters is, as I have already stated, one of the points in which the modern ballad-man emulates his ancient brother minstrel:

Of the Street Poets and Authors.

Authorship, for street sale, is chiefly confined to the production of verse, which, whatever be its nature, is known through the trade as “ballads.” Two distinctions, indeed, are recognised—“Ballads” and “Ballads on a Subject.” The last-mentioned is, as I have said and shown, the publication which relates to any specific event; national or local, criminal or merely extraordinary, true or false. Under the head “Ballads,” the street-sellers class all that does not come under the description of “Ballads on a Subject.”

The same street authors—now six in number—compose indiscriminately any description of ballad, including the copy of verses I have shown to be required as a necessary part of all histories or trials of criminals. When the printer has determined upon a “Sorrowful Lamentation,” he sends to a poet for a copy of verses, which is promptly supplied. The payment I have already mentioned—1s.; but sometimes, if the printer (and publisher) like the verses, he “throws a penny or two over;” and sometimes also, in case of a great sale, there is the same over-sum.

Fewer ballads, I was assured, than was the case ten or twelve years ago, are now written expressly for street sale or street minstrelsy. “They come to the printer, for nothing, from the concert-room. He has only to buy a ‘Ross’ or a ‘Sharp’” [song-books] “for 1d., and there’s a lot of ’em; so, in course, a publisher ain’t a-going to give a bob, if he can be served for a farthing, just by buying a song-book.”

Another man, himself not a “regular poet,” but a little concerned in street productions, said to me, with great earnestness: “Now look at this, sir, and I hope you’ll just say, sir, as I tell you. You’ve given the public a deal of information about men like me, and some of our chaps abuses you for it like mad; but I say it’s all right, for it’s all true. Now you’ll have learned, sir, or, any way, you will learn, that there’s songs sung in the streets, and sometimes in some tap-rooms, that isn’t decent, and relates to nothing but wickedness. There wasn’t a few of those songs once written for the streets, straight away, and a great sale they had, I know—but far better at country fairs and races than in town. Since the singing-houses—I don’t mean where you pay to go to a concert, no! but such as your Cyder-cellars, and your night-houses, where there’s lords, and gentlemen, and city swells, and young men up from the colleges—since these places has been up so flourishing, there hasn’t, I do believe, been one such song written by one of our poets. They all come from the places where the lords, and genelmen, and collegians is capital customers; and they never was a worse sort of ballads than now. In course those houses is licensed, and perticler respectable, or it wouldn’t be allowed; and if I was to go to the foot of the bridge, sir (Westminster-bridge), and chaunt any such songs, and my mate should sell them, why we should very soon be taking reg’lar exercise on Colonel Chesterton’s everlasting staircase. We has a great respect for the law—O, certainly!”

Parodies on any very popular song, which used to be prepared expressly for street trade, are now, in like manner, derived from the night-house or the concert-room; but not entirely so. The parody “Cab, cab, cab!” which was heard in almost every street, was originated in a concert-room.

The ballads which have lately been written, and published expressly for the street sale, and have proved the most successful, are parodies or imitations of “The Gay Cavalier.” One street ballad, commencing in the following words, was, I am told, greatly admired, both in the streets and the public-houses.

I now give three stanzas of “The Way to Live Happy Together,”—a ballad said to have been written expressly for street sale. Its popularity is anything but discreditable to the street-buyers:

“It’s all as one, sir,” was the answer of a man whom I questioned on the subject; “it’s the same poet; and the same tip for any ballad. No more nor a bob for nothing.”

A large number of ballads which I procured, and all sold and sung in the street, though not written expressly for the purpose, presented a curious study enough. They were of every class. I specify a few, to show the nature of the collection (not including ballads on a subject): “Ye Banks and Braes o’ Bonnie Doun,” with (on the same sheet) “The Merry Fiddler,” (an indecent song)—“There’s a good Time coming, Boys,” “Nix, my Dolly,” “The Girls of ——shire,” (which of course is available for any county)—“Widow Mahoney,” “Remember the Glories of Brian the Brave,” “Clementina Clemmins,” “Lucy Long,” “Erin Go Bragh,” “Christmas in 1850,” “The Death of Nelson,” “The Life and Adventures of Jemmy Sweet,” “The Young May Moon,” “Hail to the Tyrol,” “He was sich a Lushy Cove,” &c. &c.

I may here mention—but a fuller notice may be necessary when I treat of street art—that some of these ballads have an “illustration” always at the top of the column. “The Heart that can Feel for Another” is illustrated by a gaunt and savage-looking lion. “The Amorous Waterman of St. John’s Wood,” presents a very short, obese, and bow-legged grocer, in top-boots, standing at his door, while a lady in a huge bonnet is “taking a sight at him,” to the evident satisfaction of a “baked ’tater” man. “Rosin the Beau” is heralded by the rising sun. “The Poachers” has a cut of the Royal Exchange above the title. “The Miller’s Ditty” is illustrated by a perfect dandy, of the slimmest and straightest fashion; and “When I was first Breeched,” by an engraving of a Highlander. Many of the ballads, however have engravings appropriate enough.

Of the Experience of a Street Author, or Poet.

I have already mentioned the present number of street authors, as I most frequently heard them styled, though they write only verses. I called upon one on the recommendation of a neighbouring tradesman, of whom I made some inquiries. He could not tell me the number of the house in the court where the man lived, but said I had only to inquire for the Tinker, or the Poet, and any one would tell me.

I found the poor poet, who bears a good character, on a sick bed; he was suffering, and had long been suffering, from abscesses. He was apparently about forty-five, with the sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, and, not pale but thick and rather sallow complexion, which indicate ill-health and scant food. He spoke quietly, and expressed resignation. His room was not very small, and was furnished in the way usual among the very poor, but there were a few old pictures over the mantel-piece. His eldest boy, a lad of thirteen or fourteen, was making dog-chains; at which he earned a shilling or two, sometimes 2s. 6d., by sale in the streets.

“I was born at Newcastle-under-Lyne,” the man said, “but was brought to London when, I believe, I was only three months old. I was very fond of reading poems, in my youth, as soon as I could read and understand almost. Yes, very likely, sir; perhaps it was that put it into my head to write them afterwards. I was taught wire-working, and jobbing, and was brought up to hawking wire-work in the streets, and all over England and Wales. It was never a very good trade—just a living. Many and many a weary mile we’ve travelled together,—I mean, my wife and I have: and we’ve sometimes been benighted, and had to wander or rest about until morning. It wasn’t that we hadn’t money to pay for a lodging, but we couldn’t get one. We lost count of the days sometimes in wild parts; but if we did lose count, or thought we had, I could always tell when it was Sunday morning by the look of nature; there was a mystery and a beauty about it as told me. I was very fond of Goldsmith’s poetry always. I can repeat ‘Edwin and Emma’ now. No, sir; I never read the ‘Vicar of Wakefield.’ I found ‘Edwin and Emma’ in a book called the ‘Speaker.’ I often thought of it in travelling through some parts of the country.

“Above fourteen years ago I tried to make a shilling or two by selling my verses. I’d written plenty before, but made nothing by them. Indeed I never tried. The first song I ever sold was to a concert-room manager. The next I sold had great success. It was called the ‘Demon of the Sea,’ and was to the tune of ‘The Brave Old Oak.’ Do I remember how it began? Yes, sir, I remember every word of it. It began:

That song was written for a concert-room, but it was soon in the streets, and ran a whole winter. I got only 1s. for it. Then I wrote the ‘Pirate of the Isles,’ and other ballads of that sort. The concert-rooms pay no better than the printers for the streets.

“Perhaps the best thing I ever wrote was the ‘Husband’s Dream.’ I’m very sorry indeed that I can’t offer you copies of some of my ballads, but I haven’t a single copy myself of any of them, not one, and I dare say I’ve written a thousand in my time, and most of them were printed. I believe 10,000 were sold of the ‘Husband’s Dream.’ It begins:

“Then Dermot tells how he dreamed of his wife’s sudden death, and his childrens’ misery as they cried about her dead body, while he was drunk in bed, and as he calls out in his misery, he wakes, and finds his wife by his side. The ballad ends:

“Dermot turned teetotaller. The teetotallers were very much pleased with that song. The printer once sent me 5s. on account of it.

“I have written all sorts of things—ballads on a subject, and copies of verses, and anything ordered of me, or on anything I thought would be accepted, but now I can’t get about. I’ve been asked to write indecent songs, but I refused. One man offered me 5s. for six such songs.—‘Why, that’s less than the common price,’ said I, ‘instead of something over to pay for the wickedness.’—All those sort of songs come now to the streets, I believe all do, from the concert-rooms. I can imitate any poetry. I don’t recollect any poet I’ve imitated. No, sir, not Scott or Moore, that I know of, but if they’ve written popular songs, then I dare say I have imitated them. Writing poetry is no comfort to me in my sickness. It might if I could write just what I please. The printers like hanging subjects best, and I don’t. But when any of them sends to order a copy of verses for a ‘Sorrowful Lamentation’ of course I must supply them. I don’t think much of what I’ve done that way. If I’d my own fancy, I’d keep writing acrostics, such as one I wrote on our rector.” “God bless him,” interrupted the wife, “he’s a good man.” “That he is,” said the poet, “but he’s never seen what I wrote about him, and perhaps never will.” He then desired his wife to reach him his big Bible, and out of it he handed me a piece of paper, with the following lines written on it, in a small neat hand enough:

“There would be some comfort, sir,” he continued, “if one could go on writing at will like that. As it is, I sometimes write verses all over a slate, and rub them out again. Live hard! yes, indeed, we do live hard. I hardly know the taste of meat. We live on bread and butter, and tea; no, not any fish. As you see, sir, I work at tinning. I put new bottoms into old tin tea-pots, and such like. Here’s my sort of bench, by my poor bit of a bed. In the best weeks I earn 4s. by tinning, never higher. In bad weeks I earn only 1s. by it, and sometimes not that,—and there are more shilling than four shilling weeks by three to one. As to my poetry, a good week is 3s., and a poor week is 1s.—and sometimes I make nothing at all that way. So I leave you to judge, sir, whether we live hard; for the comings in, and what we have from the parish, must keep six of us—myself, my wife, and four children. It’s a long, hard struggle.” “Yes, indeed,” said the wife, “it’s just as you’ve heard my husband tell, sir. We’ve 2s. a week and four loaves of bread from the parish, and the rent’s 2s. 6d., and the landlord every week has 2s.,—and 6d. he has done for him in tinning work. Oh, we do live hard, indeed.”

As I was taking my leave, the poor man expressed a desire that I would take a copy of an epitaph which he had written for himself. “If ever,” he said, “I am rich enough to provide for a tomb-stone, or my family is rich enough to give me one, this shall be my epitaph” [I copied it from a blank page in his Bible:]

Of the Street-sellers of Broad-Sheets.

The broad-sheet known in street-sale is an unfolded sheet, varying in size, and printed on one side. The word is frequently used to signify an account of a murder or execution, but it may contain an account of a fire, an “awful accident and great loss of life,” a series of conundrums, as in those called “Nuts to Crack,” a comic or intended comic engraving, with a speech or some verses, as recently in satire of the Pope and Cardinal Wiseman (these are sometimes called “comic exhibitions”), or a “bill of the play.” The “cocks” are more frequently a smaller size than the broad-sheet.

The sellers of these articles (play-bills excepted), are of the class I have described as patterers. The play-bill sellers are very rarely patterers on other “paper work.” Some of them are on the look-out during the day for a job in porterage or such like, but they are not mixed up with any pattering,—and a regular patterer looks down upon a play-bill seller as a poor creature, “fit for nothing but play-bills.” I now proceed to describe such of these classes as have not been previously given.

Of the “Gallows” Literature of the Streets.

Under this head I class all the street-sold publications which relate to the hanging of malefactors. That the question is not of any minor importance must be at once admitted, when it is seen how very extensive a portion of the reading of the poor is supplied by the “Sorrowful Lamentations” and “Last Dying Speech, Confession, and Execution” of criminals. One paper-worker told me, that in some small and obscure villages in Norfolk, which, he believed, were visited only by himself in his line, it was not very uncommon for two poor families to club for 1d. to purchase an execution broad-sheet! Not long after Rush was hung, he saw, one evening after dark, through the uncurtained cottage window, eleven persons, young and old, gathered round a scanty fire, which was made to blaze by being fed with a few sticks. An old man was reading, to an attentive audience, a broad-sheet of Rush’s execution, which my informant had sold to him; he read by the fire-light; for the very poor in those villages, I was told, rarely lighted a candle on a spring evening, saying that “a bit o’ fire was good enough to talk by.” The scene must have been impressive, for it had evidently somewhat impressed the perhaps not very susceptible mind of my informant.

The procedure on the occasion of a “good” murder, or of a murder expected to “turn out well,” is systematic. First appears a quarter-sheet (a hand-bill, 9½ in. by 7½ in.) containing the earliest report of the matter. Next come half-sheets (twice the size) of later particulars, or discoveries, or—if the supposed murderer be in custody—of further examinations. The sale of these bills is confined almost entirely to London, and in their production the newspapers are for the most part followed closely enough. Then are produced the whole, or broad-sheets (twice the size of the half-sheets), and, lastly, but only on great occasions, the double broad-sheet. [I have used the least technical terms that I might not puzzle the reader with accounts of “crowns,” “double-crowns,” &c.]

The most important of all the broad-sheets of executions, according to concurrent, and indeed unanimous, testimony is the case of Rush. I speak of the testimony of the street-folk concerned, who all represent the sale of the papers relative to Rush, both in town and country, as the best in their experience of late years.

The sheet bears the title of “The Sorrowful Lamentation and Last Farewell of J. B. Rush, who is ordered for Execution on Saturday next, at Norwich Castle.” There are three illustrations. The largest represents Rush, cloaked and masked, “shooting Mr. Jermy, Sen.” Another is of “Rush shooting Mrs. Jermy.” A prostrate body is at her feet, and the lady herself is depicted as having a very small waist and great amplitude of gown-skirts. The third is a portrait of Rush,—a correct copy, I was assured, and have no reason to question the assurance,—from one in the Norwich Mercury. The account of the trial and biography of Rush, his conduct in prison, &c., is a concise and clear enough condensation from the newspapers. Indeed, Rush’s Sorrowful Lamentation is the best, in all respects, of any execution broad-sheet I have seen; even the “copy of verses” which, according to the established custom, the criminal composes in the condemned cell—his being unable, in some instances, to read or write being no obstacle to the composition—seems, in a literary point of view, of a superior strain to the run of such things. The matters of fact, however, are introduced in the same peculiar manner. The worst part is the morbid sympathy and intended apology for the criminal. I give the verses entire: