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 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.
TH' SHURAT WEAVER'S SONG. [{4}]
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.
GOD HELP THE POOR. [{5}]
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!