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

by Edwin Waugh

TICKLE TIMES.

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.

THE END

JOHN HEYWOOD, PRINTER, MANCHESTER.

WAUGH'S POEMS AND LANCASHIRE SONGS. 5s.

CONTENTS.

POEMS.

The Moorland Flower—To the Rose-Tree on my Window Sill—Keen Blows the North Wind—Now Summer's Sunlight Glowing—The Moorland Witch—The Church Clock—God Bless Thee, Old England—All on a Rosy Morn of June—Glad Welcome to Morn's Dewy Hours—Alas, how Hard it is to Smile—Ye Gallant Men of England—Here's to my Native Land—What Makes your Leaves Fall Down—Oh, had she been a Lowly Maid—The Old Bard's Welcome Home—Oh, Come Across the Fields—Oh, Weave a Garland for my Brow—The Wanderer's Hymn—Alone upon the Flowery Plain—Life's Twilight—Time is Flying—The Moorlands—The Captain's Friends—The World—To a Married Lady—Cultivate your Men—Old Man's Song—Bide on—Christmas Song—Love and Gold—When Drowsy Daylight—Mary—To the Spring Wind—Nightfall—To a Young Lady—Poor Travellers all—The Dying Rose—Lines—The Man of the Time—Christmas Morning.

SONGS IN THE DIALECT.

Come Whoam to thi Childer an' Me—What ails Thee, my Son Robin—God Bless these Poor Folk—Come, Mary, Link thi Arm i Mine—Chirrup —The Dule's i' this Bonnet o' Mine—Tickle Times—Jamie's Frolic—Owd Pinder—Come, Jamie, let's Undo thi Shoon—The Goblin Parson—While Takin' a Wift o' my Pipe—God Bless thi Silver Yure—Margit's Coming.

WAUGH'S LANCASHIRE SONGS.

Cloth, neat, 1s.

CONTENTS.

Come Whoam to thi Childer an' Me—What ails Thee, my Son Robin—God Bless these Poor Folk—Come, Mary, Link thi Arm i' Mine—The Dule's i' this Bonnet o' Mine—Come, Jamie, let's Undo thi Shoon—Aw've Worn my Bits o' Shoon Away—Chirrup—Bonny Nan—Tum Rindle—Tickle Times—Jamie's Frolic—Owd Pinder—The Goblin Parson—While Takin' a Wift o' my Pipe—Yesterneet—God Bless thi Silver Yure—Margit's Coming—Eawr Folk—Th' Sweetheart Gate—Gentle Jone—Neet Fo'—A Lift on th' Way.

WAUGH'S LANCASHIRE SONGS.

In sheets, 1d. each.

CONTENTS.

Come Whoam to thi Childer an' Me—What ails Thee, my Son Robin—God Bless these Poor Folk—Come, Mary, Link thi Arm i' Mine—The Dule's i' this Bonnet o' Mine—Come, Jamie, let's Undo Thi Shoon—While Takin' a Wift o' my Pipe—God Bless thi Silver Yure—Aw've Worn my Bits o' Shoon Away —Yesterneet—Owd Enoch—Chirrup —Tickle Times—Jamie's Frolic—Owd Pinder—Th' Goblin Parson—Margit's Coming—Eawr Folk—Th' Sweetheart Gate—Gentle Jone—Neet Fo'—Bonnie Nan—A Lift on th' Way—Tum Rindle—Buckle to.

WAUGH'S. The Birtle Carter's Tale about Owd Bodle. 3d.
WAUGH'S. The Goblin's Grave. 3d.
WAUGH'S. Chapel Island: An Adventure on the Ulverstone Sands. 1d.
WAUGH'S. Norbreck: A Sketch on the Lancashire Coast. 1d.
WAUGH'S. Birth-Place of Tim Bobbin. 6d.
WAUGH'S. Rambles in the Lake Country and its Borders. Cloth, neat. 2s. 6d.
WAUGH'S. Sketches of Lancashire Life and Localities. 1s.
WAUGH'S. Fourteen Days in Scotland. 1s.
WAUGH'S. Wandering Minstrels; or, Wails of the Workless Poor. 1d.
WAUGH'S. The Barrel Organ. With Illustrations. 3d.
WAUGH'S. Tattlin Matty. 3d.
WAUGH'S. The Dead Man's Dinner. 3d.
WAUGH'S. Over Sands to the Lakes. 6d.
WAUGH'S. Sea-Side Lakes and Mountains of Cumberland. 6d.
WAUGH'S. Home-Life of the Lancashire Factory Folk during the Cotton Famine. 3s. 6d.
WAUGH'S. Tufts of Heather from the Northern Moors. 5s.

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.