Ode to an Herring.
Wee silvery fish, who nobly braves
The dangers o’ the ocean waves,
While monsters from the unknown caves
Make thee their prey;
Escaping which the human knaves
On thee ligs way.
No doubt thou was at first designed
To suit the palates o’ mankind;
Yet as I ponder now I find,
Thy fame is gone:
With dainty dish thou’rt behind
With every one.
I’ve seen the time thy silvery sheen
Were welcome both at morn and e’en,
Or any hour that’s in between,
Thy name wer good;
But now by some considered mean
For human food.
When peace and plenty’s smiling brow,
And trade and commerce speeds the plough;
Thy friends that were not long ago,
Such game they make;
Thy epitaph is soldier now,
Or two-eyed snake.
When times are hard we’re scant o’ cash,
And famine hungry bellies lash,
And tripes and trollabobble’s trash
Begins to fail,
Asteead o’ soups an’ oxtail ash,
Hail! herring, hail!
Full mony a time t’as made me groan,
To see thee stretched, despised, alone;
While turned-up noses passed have gone,
O’ purse-proud men!
No friends, alas! save some poor one
Fra t’ paddin can.
Whoe’er despise thee, let them know
The time may come when they may go
To some fish wife, and beg to know
If they can buy
The friendship o’ their vanquished foe,
We weeping eye.
To me nought could be better fun,
Than see a duke or noble don,
Or lord, or peer, or gentleman,
In search o’ thee:
And they were bidden to move on,
Or go t’at sea.
Yet I will sing thy praise, wee fish;
To me thou art a dainty dish;
For thee, ’tis true, we often wish,
My little bloater;
Either salted, cured, or shining fresh
Fra yon great water.
If through thy pedigree we peep,
Philosophy from thee can keep,
To me I need not study deep,
There’s nothing foreign;
For aw like thee, am sold too cheap,
My little herring.
Our Poor Little Factory Girls.
They are up in the morning right early,
They are up sometimes afore leet;
Aw hear their clogs they are clamping,
As t’ little things goes dahn the street.
They are off in the morning right early,
With their baskets o’ jock on their arms;
The bell is ting-tonging, ting-tonging,
As they enter the mill in a swarm.
They are skarpring backward and forward,
Their ends to keep up if they can;
They are doing their utmost endeavours,
For fear o’ the frown o’ man.
Wi’ fingers so nimble and supple,
They twist, an’ they twine, an’ they twirl,
Such walking, an’ running, an’ kneeling,
As the wee little factory girl.
They are bouncing abaht like a shuttle,
They are kneeling an’ rubbing the floor;
While their wee little mates they are doffing,
Preparing the spindles for more.
Them two little things they are thickest,
They help one another ’tis plain;
They try to be best and the quickest,
The smiles o’ their master to gain.
And now from her ten hours’ labour,
Back to her cottage sho shogs;
Aw hear by the tramping and singing,
’Tis the factory girl in her clogs.
An’ at night when sho’s folded i’ slumber,
Sho’s dreaming o’ noises and drawls;
Of all human toil under-rated,
’Tis our poor little factory girls.