Curiosities of Street Literature

by Unknown

PETERLOO.

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See! see! where freedom’s noblest champion stands,

Shout! shout! illustrious patriot band,

Here grateful millions their generous tribute bring,

And shouts for freedom make the welkin ring,

While fell corruption and her hellish crew

The blood-stained trophies gained at Peterloo.

Soon shall fair freedom’s sons their right regain,

Soon shall all Europe join the hallowed strain,

Of Liberty and Freedom, Equal Rights and Laws,

Heaven’s choicest blessing crown this glorious cause,

While meanly tyrants, crawling minions too,

Tremble at their feats performed on Peterloo.

Britons, be firm, assert your rights, be bold,

Perish like heroes, not like slaves be sold,;

Firm and unite, bid millions be free,

Will to your children glorious liberty,

While cowards—despots long may keep in view,

And silent contemplate the deeds on Peterloo.

---

John Harkness, Printer, Preston.

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THE STATE
OF
Great Britain,
OR
A TOUCH AT THE TIMES.

---

TUNE—Irish Molly O.

---

As old John Bull was walking one morning free from pain,

He heard the Rose, the Shamrock, and the Thistle to complain,

An alteration must take place together they did sing,

In the Corn Laws and Poor Laws, and many another thing.

CHORUS.

Conversing on the present time together they did range,

All classes thro’ Great Britain now appear so very strange,

That England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales must quickly have a change.

The railroads all through England have great depression made;

Machinery of every kind has put a stop to trade;

The innkeepers are weeping in agony and grief,

And the ostlers swear they’ll buy a rope and go to felo-de-se.

The steam boats to old Belzebub the watermen do wish,

For they say they’ve nearly ruined them and drowned all the fish,

Of all their new inventions that we have lately seen—

There was none begun or thought upon when Betty was the queen.

Behold the well-bred farmer, how he can strut along,

Let a poor man do whatever he will he’s always in the wrong,

With hard labour and low wages he hangs his drooping head,

They won’t allow him half enough to find his children bread.

The farmers’ daughters ride about well clad and pockets full,

With horse and saddle like a queen and boa like a bull,

In their hand a flashy parasol, and on their face a veil,

And a bustle nearly seven times as big as a milking pail.

The nobles from the pockets of John Bull are all well paid;

Sometimes you hardly know the lady from the servant maid,

For now they are so very proud, silk stockings on their legs,

And every step they take you think they walk on pigeon’s eggs.

The tradesman he can hardly pay his rent and keep his home,

And the labourer has eighteen pence a day for breaking stones,

In former days the farmer rode a donkey or a mule,

There never was such times before since Adam went to school.

Some can live in luxury while others weep in woe,

There’s very pretty difference now and a century ago,

The world will shortly move by steam it may appear strange,

So you must all acknowledge that England wants a change.

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A NEW SONG
OF THE
ELECTION.

“THE CAP, THOSE WHOM IT FITS MAY WEAR IT.”

---

O the general Electiom is coming they say,

What an huhabolu and a bustle there’ll be,

With the new candidates to be Parliament men,

And the old ones who wished for to go back again.

There’ll be all sorts of shuffling and all kinds of rigs,

There’s some will call Tories and some will call Whigs,

There’s some will wear colours, blue, orange, and red,

And to prove which is best, they’ll break each other’s heads.

O the general Election is coming they say,

What canvassing, coaxing, and thumping there’ll be,

While some will shout —— and —— so clever,

And others bawl —— and free trade for ever.

O the Whigs for ten years have cut a great swell,

But now by the Tories they’ve been wollop’d well,

And to pay off the bad boys with a good tit for tat,

They are sending them home to see how they like that.

This has caused amongst Tories and Whigs a great rout,

And many may go tell their mothers the’re out,

While some of the boobies will do a deal worse,

By loosing their election, and emptying their purse,

O the Elections are coming, what doings there’’ll be,

Such gutting and guzzling you never did see,

There’ll be cheap beef and ale for poor voters just then,

With Wine, Turtle, and Venison for gentlemen,

There will be open houses in every street,

Where the Birds of a feather may daily meet,

And sly Booots attends to collect all their senses;

Crying, landlord, fill up now, and damn all expenses.

Then to see the great nobs, who a canvassing go,

In the house, or the garret, or the cellar below,

Altho’ by infection he dreads his sweet life,

He’ll shake hands with the cobbler or kiss the sweep’s wife,

Or perhaps he will dandle the sweet little child,

Till he suddenly finds that his trowsers are spoiled,

Tho’ his heart it is ready to come up at his throat,

Yet he’d do ten times more to secure a vote.

And then at the last, when all other means fail,

To catch them they try to put salt on their tails,

Don’t think I mean bribery, my good sir, dear no!

They only give friends a small present or so.

Or perhaps if you have a nice Bird, Dog, or Cat.

To sell, they will give you five sovereigns for that,

He’s a very good customer, that is quite true,

So I’ll vote for ——, pray what less can I do?

O the Election is coming, what meeting and speeching,

All their knavish tricks to all the world teaching;

What rogues, fools, and shufflers, each other they call,

And stick their good characters up on the wall.

Each party seem ready the other to mill,

About rural policy, or the new poor-law bill.

While the Elections are on, what patriots they are,

But when they get in, the d——l may care.

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LAMENTATION ON THE DEATH
OF THE
Duke of Wellington.

Britannia now lament for our Hero that is dead,

That son of Mars, brave Wellington, alas, his spirit’s fled.

That general of a hundred fights, to death he had to yield,

Who brav’d the cannons’ frightful blaze upon the battle field.

CHORUS.

Britannia weep and mourn, his loss all may deplore,

That conquering hero Wellington, alas, he is no more.

The destructive wars of Europe does not disturb him now,

Great laurels of bright victory sit smiling on his brow,

For the burning sands of India he trac’d with valour bright,

And against that daring Tippoo Saib so valiant he did fight.

Where cannons loud did rattle, spread death and sad dismay,

The Duke was always ready with his men to lead the way.

Fortified cities he laid low, that general of renown,

Intrenchments and their batteries he quickly levelled down.

Thro’ Portugal and Spain his enemy did pursue,

With the veteran sons of Britain he march’d to Waterloo,

And there he made a noble stand upon that blood-stain’d day,

And fought the French so manfully and made them run away.

At Vittoria,—Badagoz, and Talevara too,

On the plains of Salamanca, the French he did subdue,

With the veteran sons of Britain wherever he did go,

Amidst thundering peals of cannon he conquer’d every foe.

On the plains of Waterloo where thousands they lay dead,

The iron balls in showers flew around his martial head,

While his valiant men and generals lay bleeding in their gore,

The laurels from the French that day brave Wellington he tore.

Napoleon was as brave a man as ever took the field,

And with the warlike sons of France he said he would not yield;

But the reverse of fortune that day did on him frown,

By Wellington and his army his eagles were pulled down.

Now let him rest in peace, and none upbraid his name,

On his military glory there never was a stain,

The steel-clad Cuirasiers of France that day at Waterloo,

He quickly made them face about and cut their armour through.

Brave Ponsonby and Picton they fell upon that day,

And many a valiant soldier brave in peace their ashes lay,

And that brave Duke that led them on his spirit’s took its flight,

To see him laid down in his tomb will be a solemn sight.

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DEATH

OF
WELLINGTON.

---

J. Harkness, Printer, 121, Church Street, Preston.

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On the 14th of September, near to the town of Deal,

As you may well remember who have a heart to feel,

Died Wellington, a general bold, of glorious renown,

Who beat the great Napoleon near unto Brussels town.

CHORUS.

So don’t forget brave Wellington, who won at Waterloo,

He beat the great Napoleon and all his generals too.

He led the British army on through Portugal and Spain,

And every battle there he won the Frenchmen to restrain,

He ever was victorious in every battle field,

He gained a fame most glorious because he’d never yield.

He drove Napoleon from home, in exile for to dwell,

Far o’er the sea, and from his home, and all he loved so well.

He stripped him quite of all his power, and banished him away,

To St. Helena’s rocks and towers the rest of his life to stay.

Then on the throne of France he placed Louis the king by right,

In after years he was displaced all by the people’s might,

But should the young Napoleon threaten our land and laws,

We’ll find another Wellington should ever we have cause.

He’s dead, our hero’s gone to rest, and o’er his corpse we’ll mourn,

With sadness and with grief oppress’d, for he will not return,

But we his deeds will not forget, and should we ere again,

Follow the example that he set, his glory we’ll not stain.

So don’t forget brave Wellington, who won at Waterloo,

He beat the great Napoleon and all his generals too.

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THE FALL

OF
SEBASTOPOL.

There is nothing now talked on wherever you go,

Among old folks or young be them high or low,

But the Crimean heroes I vow and declare,

That has smothered the Russians in this very year,

On the 8th of September, Eighteen hundred & fifty-five

The wounded old bear from his den did arise;

He curs’d and he swore and he fell off his stool,

He lost all Malakoff and Sebastopol too.

Chorus.

Then hurrah jolly soldiers and sailors likewise,

With the brave sons of France you blackened his eyes,

You knock’d off his muzzle and stole all his grub,

And his teeth is all rotten and he can’t chew his cud.

The soldiers of France went at it like steel,

Determined to conquer and make the Russians feel,

That they were the lads that could do it like fun,

Then crack went their rifles and the Russians did run;

The hearts of oak thundered, their guns had began,

As hearts of oak only ball’d at the Redan;

The French blaz’d away with courage so cool,

Now England and France has Sebastopol.

The Russian bears did grumble and said it is no joke

To smother in rubbish with powder and smoke,

And to be without water our thirst for to quench,

When a thundering big bomb shell came in from the French,

They all turned dizzy some spued and some spit,

And the Russian commander in his breeches did s—t,

For he had got the skitters with Johnny Bull’s pills,

Our shot is the doctors that find out their ills.

At last they retreated, these bears from their den,

They got nearly roasted with shot and with shell,

Dingdong they did trot unto to the North side,

If they’d stopt any longer we’d have tickled their hides,

The Russian commander these words he did say,

We must now all hook it without more delay,

We can stop no longer in Sebastopol;

If we do they will choke us with long iron tools.

So come my brave fellows let’s sing and let’s dance,

Both Turkey, Sardinnia, old England and France;

We will all have a jig while the music does play,

We have nothing to fear for the Russians will pay;

And when we come home we will all keep a pig,

Our wives shall have bustles made of Russian wigs,

We will all take a bumper and drink good health,

So down with the Russians and up with the French.

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BATTLE

OF
ALMA

Oh! boys have you heard of the battle,

The allies brave had on the shore,

The joybells and cannons did rattle,

Announcing it o’er and o’er,

The total defeat of the Russians,

Was echoed with joy everywhere;

Success to John Bull and Napolean,

And very soon peace may we hear.

Chorus.

Then here’s to the army and navy,

In Russia they’re on the advance,

Supporting the standard of freedom,

Success to old England and France.

It was on the heights of Alma,

The Russians were laying entrench’d

Lord Raglan and Marshal St. Arnaud,

Commanding the English and French;

In front of the fortified walls,

The allies marched into the fight,

Fifty-eight thousand men in bright armour,

Put all the wild Russians to flight,

Then here’s, &c.

On the twentieth of September,

The desperate battle was fought,

The Russians will ever remember,

Tho’ dearly my boys it was bought

With the blood of our courageous allies,

Who fell on the fortified plain,

They brought the flag of old England,

Without either blemish or stain.

Then here’s, &c.

The Russians held up their position,

And fought for the space of three hours,

Secluded behind their entrenchments,

The balls flew around us in showers;

At last at the point of the bayonet,

The Russians were forced to retreat,

And run in the greatest disorder,

Compell’d by a total defeat.

Then here’s &c.

The number that lay dead and wounded,

Is awful my friends to recite,

Let’s mourn the loss of our allies,

Who fell in the desperate fight;

They fought them with great desperation,

And forced the wild Russians to yield,

While cannons did rattle in battle,

They conquered and died on the field,

Then here’s, &c.

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THE
NIGHTINGALE
IN THE EAST.

---

On a dark lonely night, on the Crimea’s dread shore—

There had been bloodshed and strife on the morning before—

The dead and the dying lay bleeding around,

Some crying for help—there was none to be found.

Now God in his mercy He pity’d their cries,

And the soldier so cheerfully in the morning doth rise,

So forward my lads, may your hearts never fail,

You are cheered by the presence of a sweet Nightingale.

Now God sent this angel to succour the brave,

Some thousands she’s saved from an untimely grave;

Her eyes beam with pleasure, she’s bounteous and good,

The wants of the wounded are by her understood.

With fever some brought in, with life almost gone,

Some with dismantled limbs, some to fragments are torn,

But they keep up their spirits, their hearts never fail,

Now they’re cheered by the presence of a sweet Nightingale.

Her heart it means good—for no bounty she’ll take,

She’d lay down her life for the poor soldier’s sake,

She prays for the dying, she gives peace to the brave,

She feels that a soldier has a soul she may save.

The wounded they love her, as it has been seen;

She’s the soldier’s preserver, they call her their queen!

May God give her strength, and her heart never fail,

One of heaven’s best gifts is Miss Nightingale.

The wives of the wounded, how thankful are they;

Their husbands are cared for, how happy are they;

Whate’er her country, this gift God has given,

The soldiers they say she’s an angel from heaven.

Sing praise to this woman, and deny it who can!

And all women were sent for the comfort of man;

Let’s hope no more against them you’ll rail,

Treat them well, and they’ll prove like Miss Nightingale.

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BATTLE OF
INKERMAN;
OR
“There came a Tale to England.”

There came a tale to England,

’Twas of a battle won,

And nobly had her warriors

That day their duty done;

They fell like sheaves in autumn,

Yet ’mid that fearful scene,

Their last shout was for England,

Their last breath for their queen.

There came a tale to England,

Of suffering, want, and woe,

Of the night watch in the trenches,

Of the sortie by the foe;

‘Mid rain, and storm, and sickness,

With no rest, no pause between,

And there was grief through England,

From the humblest to the Queen.

Then wrote the Queen of England,

God’s blessing on her pen.

Oh! tell those wounded soldiers,

Those sick, patient, suffering men,

There’s no heart in England,

Can feel a pang more keen,

That day and night her own lov’d troops

Are thought of by their Queen.

Then rose a shout through England,

From them ’twas wafted o’er,

From those sick wounded soldiers,

And it rang from shore to shore;

From Alma and Balaklava,

And Inkerman it came,

“God bless the Queen of England”

Again we’d do the same.

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GRAND CONVERSATION

ON
SEBASTOPOL AROSE!

As the western powers of Europe united all together,

In close deliberation they did appear to be,

And all their conversation seemed a grand determination,

To seize upon Sebastopol and set poor Turkey free!

When up steps Omar Pasha, saying here I am amongst you—

My country has been oppressed by tyranny and woes,

But now England and France in tens of thousands we’ll advance,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

The twentieth of September we ever shall remember,

Upon the heights of Alma we made the Russians run,

After a weary marching the day was hot and scorching,

We fought the first great battle by the setting of the sun,

Like hearts of oak we bounded and the enemy wounded,

And when the bugle sounded to charge our mighty foes,

For England’s home and beauty we nobly did our duty,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

Through rivers, brooks, and fountains, up hills and lofty mountains,

Our Generals were mounted in armour bright array,

Light infantry advancing with glittering bayonets glancing,

Upon the heights of Alma we showed them British play,

The cannons roared like thunder we cut their ranks asunder,

Though not an equal number unto our mighty foes,

We drove them from their quarters and made a dreadful slaughter,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

The cannons loud did rattle all in the field of battle,

To see the dead and wounded would grieve your heart full sore,

Through fields of blood we waded the enemy invaded,

As we beheld our comrades weltering in their gore,

With one determination and one loud exclamation,

We went with desperation against our mighty foes,

We cut them in succession of their guns we took possession,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

Lord Raglan that commander was brave as Alexander,

Describes this dreadful battle the first upon record,

The legions of France by the side of old England,

The power of the Russians could not them retard,

With fire and smoke around us nothing could confound us,

We gained the heights of Alma regardless of our foes,

Though hundreds fell upon the field we made the enemy to yield,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

The brave thirty-third and twenty-third regiments,

Also the ninty-fifth and the seventh fusiliers,

Under Sir Colin Campbell the gallant highlanders,

Died on the field of battle with the brave grenadiers,

Like lions they marched in the face of the cannon,

While hundreds lay bleeding as you may suppose,

They conquered and died on the hill of the Alma,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

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LITTLE
LORD JOHN
OUT OF
SERVICE.

---

You lads of this nation, in every station,

I pray give attention, and listen to me,

I’m little Jack Russell, a man of great bustle,

Who served Queen Victoria by land and by sea;

They call me a Proosian, an Austrian, a Roosian,

And off to Vienna they sent me afar;

They’d not me believe then, they vowed I’d deceived them,

And called me Friend of the great Russian Czar.

Chorus.

I’m little Jack Russell, a man of great bustle,

I’m full of vexation, grief, sorrow, and care,

I have got in disgrace, and am now out of place;

But I never broke windows round Bel-ge-rave Square.

In great London City for me they’ve no pity;

And Moon the Lord Mayor to my face told me plain,

All the freemen would scout me, and old women rout me,

If ever I went to the City again.

I’m the son of old Bedford, I’m going to Deptford

To look for employment, and find out a friend,

And then I’ll come back with a pack on my back,

Bawling frying-pans, saucepans, and kettles to mend.

Chorus, I’m, &c.

I have lost all my riches, I have worn out my breeches,

I am turned out of place, and have nowhere to go,

My state is most shocking, great holes in my stocking,

And my poor tender toes peeping out of my shoe—

Why should they so serve me, and try for to starve me?

I fought for my country and stood by my Queen.

Bad luck to the Prussians, the Austrians, and Russians,

And jolly bad luck to old Lord Aberdeen.

Chorus. I’m, &c.

I went like a wary plenipotentiary,

To the town of Vienna to settle the war,

Where I saw Francis Joseph, King Peter, and Moses,

And I fought Alexander, the great Russian Czar;

And when I came back they began for to clack,

They blamed me and gamed me and pulled out my hair,

They threatened to lick me, and nicely they kicked me,

Bawling pickled eel’s feet around Bel-ge-rave Square.

Chorus. I’m, &c.

I love Queen Victoria, I dearly adore her,

Although at Vienna I did her displease;

I wish all the Russians and Austrians and Prussians

Were tied in a blanket, and smothered with fleas.

Oh dear, hey down diddle, I have the Scotch fiddle,

I know that I caught it of old Aberdeen,—

Now I will so clever sing England for ever,

Down with the Russians, and God save the Queen.

Chorus. I’m, &c.

John Morgan.

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A NEW SONG
TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE
R. COBDEN, ESQ., M.P.,

“HE GAVE THE PEOPLE BREAD.”

TUNE—“FARMER’S BOY.”

Come mourn ye sons of Britain all,

The fact that Cobden’s dead:

Come sing his deeds, come praise his worth,

“He got the people bread.”

O death why didst thou snatch away

The best of England’s seed?

Why lay thy hand upon his brow?

“He gave the people bread.”

If ever man deserved a name,

Who did the people lead,

’Twas Richard Cobden known to all,

“He gave the people bread.”

His generous, loving, feeling heart

Brought blessings on his head,

Because he fought a long lifetime,

“To give the people bread.”

He lived a life of doing good,

This was his much loved creed,

Untiring zeal his labours crown’d

“To get the people bread.”

Yes, bread untax’d that all might live,

In every time of need;

Amidst the strife with truth as guide,

“To get the people bread.”

He’s now enshrin’d in the cold grave,

Which Kings and princes dread;

He died in peace, he smil’d at death,

“He’d gained the people bread.”

For ever shall his name endure,

Tho’ numbered with the dead,

His name through earth’s immortalised,

“He got the people bread.”

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GREAT NAVAL ACTION
BETWEEN THE
KEARSAGE & THE ALABAMA.

Come all you gallant hero’s

Of high and low degree,

And listen to the glorious fight

Was fought upon the sea;

The Alabama and Kearsage

Not far from the French shore,

Met on the 19th day of June,

Eighteen hundred and sixty four.

It was a glorious battle,

The crews fought manfully

In the Alabama and Kearsage,

That day upon the sea.

The English Yacht Deerhound

Was all the time quite near,

She belonged to Squire Lancaster,

Of Wigan in Lancashire;

And many a gallant seaman

So nobly did save,

Who when the Alabama sunk

Would have met a watery grave.

About nine miles from Cherbourg

This gallant fight took place,

The noted Alabama,

She did the Kearsage chase,

The Alabama’s guns did rattle,

And Captain Semmes believed

That he would win the battle,

But he was much deceived.

The men did fight like hero’s,

And round the decks did run,

Each ship did shake and no mistake,

As they fired their powerful guns,

Brave Captain Semmes did loudly call,

As he on the deck did stand,

Don’t move or flnch a single inch,

“Do your duty every man.”

But alas! the Alabama,

Began to feel affright,

Her sides were dreadfully shaken,

And she could no longer fight,

The Kearsage was chain plated,

And her guns were fired so free,

She beat the Alabama,

And sunk her in the sea.

The Deerhound was in readiness,

The conquered to receive;

And rendered great assistance,

My friends you may believe;

When the battle it was over,

The conquered, void of fear,

Safe in the Steam Yacht Deerhound,

Did to Southampton steer.

Now to conclude this gallant fight,

Undaunted brave and bold,

As great and glorious battle

As ever yet was told,

To the seaman and the officers,

We drink with three times three,

Who did their duty manfully

That day upon the sea.

---

John Harkness, Printer, Preston.

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DIZZY’S LAMENT.

Oh dear! oh dear! what shall I do?

They call me saucy Ben the Jew,

The leader of the Tory crew,

Poor old Benjamin Dizzy.

I’d a great big house in Buckinghamshire,

My Wages was Five Thousand a year;

But now they have turned me out of place,

With a ticket for soup, in great disgrace.

I had a challenge last Monday night,

Billy Gladstone wanted me to fight;

The challenge was brought by Jackey Bright,

To poor old Benjamin Dizzy,

I’ve got the sack, what shall I do?

They call me a converted Jew,

Bad luck to Bright and Gladstone too,

They mean to drive me crazy.

I never thought they’d turn me out,

For well I knew my way about,

But I am licked without a doubt,

So pity poor Benjamin Dizzy.

Oh! if I could Bill Gladstone thump,

I’d burst his nose, and kick his r—p;

If like Jack Heenan I could fight,

I’d wollop both him and Johnny Bright.

Gladstone will play the deuce with me,

For he’s got a great majority,

And as sure as my name is Disreali,

I am shoved out by Gladstone.

Billy Gladstone made a great big birch,

And said he’d not be in the lurch,

But he’d sweep away the Irish Church,

And kill poor Benjamin Dizzy.

If he had his will he’d play some rigs,

He’d smother the people with Parsons’ wigs;

But if I had my will, mark what I mean,

I’d make Murphy a footman to the Queen.

Murphy and me could make it right,

If like a Lancashire lad I could fight,

I’d poke out the eyes of Jackey Bright,

And punch the shins of Gladstone.

I tremble and I quake with fear,

For Gladstone he is so severe,

Though he was kicked out in Lancashire,

For Greenwich he’s elected.

The destructives say all over the land,

Every tub on his own bottom shall stand.

But in spite of all their joy and prate,

I will support the Church and State.

Bill Gladstone, Bright, and old Bob Lowe,

Are in the Cabinet you know,

And I will whistle not for Joe,

To all the measures they bring forward.

Where the Shamrock, Leek and Thistle grow,

I find that I had lots of foes,

So I will stick to England’s Rose,

And never will surrender.

Last night as I lay on my bed,

Some dreadful things came in my head,

I dreamt that I was whacked with a birch,

And that I’d swallowed the Irish Church.

Oh, Bright and Gladstone go the rig,

The Irish Church the fishes and pigs,

That you may be choked with Parsons’ wigs,

Is the wish of Benjamin Dizzy.

---

John Harkness, Printer, Preston.

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THE GREAT BATTLE
FOR
FREEDOM AND REFORM.

---

You working men of England,

Who live by daily toil,

Speak for your rights, bold Englishmen,

All thro’ Britain’s isle;

The titled tories keep you down,

Which you cannot endure,

And the reason I to tell am bound,

You’re but working men—and poor.

With Gladstone, Russell, Beales, and Bright

We shall weather through the storm,

To give the working man his rights,

And gain the Bill,—Reform.

If the Hyde Park meeting had been allowed,

No disturbance would have been.

Long life, they cried, to the Prince of Wales,

And God bless England’s Queen!

Why should the parks be ever closed

Against the poor, who for them pay,

Work with a will for equality,

And you will gain the day.

We want no Tory government,

The poor man to oppress,

They never try to do you good,

The truth you will confess.

The Liberals are the poor man’s friend,

To forward all they try,

They’ll beat their foes you may defend,

And never will say, die.

Great meetings are held in high parts,

In country and in town,

The names of Beales and Gladstone,

With working men resound,

Riches are but worthless dross,

Without our working brother,

Which proves that in our national cause

We could help each other.

Great praise is due to the Reform League,

They have generous hearts and minds,

For the prisoners taken in Hyde Park,

They intend to pay the fines;

At the Agricultural Hall they met,

With band and flags so gay,

And when they meet at Lincoln’s-Inn fields

Give them a loud huzza!

Then vote for manhood suffrage,

And the ballot too, likewise,

For Freedom of opinion,

All Englishmen doth prize;

And why should not a working man

Have power to give his vote,

To one that is the poor man’s friend,

Tho’ he wears a ragged coat.

If the public parks of London

Are only for one class,

They ought to put this notice up:—

The poor they cannot pass.

It’s time our laws they altered were,

You’ll say it is a bore,

That one law should be for the rich,

And another for the poor.

An Englishman is not a slave,

For that was never sent,

Then give the working man his rights,

You’ll find he is content;

Give us the ballot and franchise,

It’s the only boon we ask,

Then shouts will rend the skies,

For that will end our task.

---

Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles.

---

THE GREAT
REFORM MEETING

On Monday, December 3rd, 1866.

---

You true friend of Reform,

Just listen to my song,

And some truth in these verses will be found:

It’s the talk throughout the nation,

About the Monster Demonstration,

Announc’d to take place in Ashburnham Grounds.

Then, cheer for Reform, and on be marching!

And you will find you will weather the storm;

For depend on what I say, you will sure to gain the day,

If you will lend a willing shoulder to Reform.

Now when the Tories found,

That in Ashburnham Grounds,

England’s sons were to meet—now only mark,—

At their dirty work they got,

And determined they should not,

As if they wished another scene like Hyde Park.

But, my lads, do not despair,

There is the pure and open air,

Which belong to the great and the small,

And though our foes they make a fuss,

There our rights we can discuss,

For the song says “There’s room enough for all.”

Shall our liberties be crushed.

And be trampled to the dust,

By men who never earnt a penny in their lives?

And yet we must not meet,

Nor for our rights dare speak,

But if we cannot win, boys, we must try!

Now the Tories they do say,

If we will only wait, some day

They will give us Reform upon their plan;

But their kindness it comes slow,

And the quarters they would show,

Would be the sort the wolf he shows the lamb.

So England’s working men,

The Rights they still defend,

Of the mightiest nation in the world;

And thousands will be found,

Who will gladly rally round,

So the banner of Reform we’ll keep unfurled.

Then send the Adullamite crew,

And their pals, the Tories, too,

Headlong to Old Nick altogether,

But for men like Beale and Bright,

Let’s shout with all our might,

Here’s the good cause, Reform, boys, for ever!

---

WHEN WE GET JOHNNY’S
REFORM.

---

Oh! is there not a fuss and bother

About Reform, Reform?

From one end of England to the other,

It’s Reform, Reform.

They say it’s to place us in a position,

That we may better our condition,

And be so jolly happy

When we get Johnny’s Reform.

Little Johnny, bless the darling boy,

Love’s Reform, Reform,

Long time he has nursed his favourite toy,

Reform, Reform;

And the dunderheads says, now really,

Is not it a fine grown baby,

Shan’t we be jolly happy,

When we get Johnny’s Reform.

There is our old friend Jacky Bright,

Says that Reform, Reform,

Is just the thing that’s right,

Reform, Reform;

To the seven-pound franchise he will stick,

And send all opponents to old Nick,

And make all jolly happy

When we get Johnny’s Reform.

Now our pauper system loud does call

For Reform, Reform;

With the great as well as small

Need Reform, Reform;

For the poor are not the only ones,

That feed upon the nation’s crumbs,

But never mind, be happy,

When we get Johnny’s Reform.

The teetotalers they will preach

Up Reform, Reform;

And the water-drinking dodge they teach,

Reform, Reform;

But the tipplers they all do say,

They will get tight three times a day,

And be so jolly happy

When they get Johnny’s Reform.

The little boys and girls they say,

Reform, Reform,

They expect it’s coming some fine day,

Reform, Reform;

Their bellies then they will be stuffing,

With almond rock and cakes for nuffin,

And be so jolly happy,

When they get Johnny’s Reform.

The farmers all throughout the nation,

Want Reform, Reform,

For they stand in need of reformation,

Reform, Reform;

But must not they have tidy cheek,

To give their men eight bob a week,

And tell them to be happy

When they get Johnny’s Reform.

Many they aloud will shout,

For Reform, Reform,

Scarcely knowing what about,

Bawl Reform, Reform;

They think no poor there will be then,

But all be ladies and gentlemen,

And be so jolly happy,

When they get Johnny’s Reform.

Now if the Bill should pass,

This Reform, Reform;

Now little Johnny he will laugh

At Reform, Reform;

His little body he will strut, sir,

Like a crow along the gutter,

And be so jolly happy

When we get the new Reform.

Then let us hope that we may see

This Reform, Reform,

Do some good for you and me,

Reform, Reform;

But liberty give to your thought,

If it don’t do good, why then it ought,

And make us jolly happy,

When we get Johnny’s Reform.

---

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles.

---

FREEDOM & REFORM.

---

Unto these lines I’ve penned,

Listen, England’s working men,

Be united, we shall weather thro’ the storm,

Gladstone, Beales, & Bright, God save,

And your banners proudly wave,

Shout Old England for ever and Reform.

Hark to those drums so loudly beating,

See those glorious banners proudly wave,

Come men, and shout with me, Old England’s liberty,

And Reform! for Britons won’t be slaves.

Let’s be firm my boys, I say,

While the sun shines make your hay,

They’ve promis’d it long enough I vow.

At length the die is cast,

And the Lion’s woke at last,

No longer will he wait, he’ll have it now.

Fellow workmen, let them know,

We won’t have such men as Lowe,

Who treat the working classes all with scorn

Let them try with all their might,

For the working men are right,

And they’ll gain what they’re working for,—Reform.

What stagnation through the land,

For all trade is at a stand,

While the Tory government holds the sway.

Let us join then heart and hand,

And boldly make a stand,

If we’ve only got the will we’ll find the way.

Then banish care and pain,

Never mind Old Dicky Mayne,

He says this time he’ll not interfere;

He remembers it quite well,

How the Hyde Park railings fell

We his noble staff of Poleaxes don’t fear.

Then shout with all your might,

God save Gladstone, Beales, and Bright,

Wave your banners, let your ranks closer form,

And let your watchword be:—

“Old England! Liberty!

Manhood Suffrage! Vote by Ballot! and Reform!”

---

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles.

---

THE GREAT
LIBERAL MAJORITY OF 110.

The Tories they are Froze out, and got no Work to do.

---

Draw near all you true Liberals,

And listen for awhile,

While I a ditty sing to you

That will cause you for to smile;

It’s concerning of the poor Tories,

Who are in a precious stew, oo-oo

They are out of a job, so-help-my-bob,

And got no work to do,

For the Liberals they have gained you see,

One hundred and ten majority,

And the Tories they are all froze out,

And got no work to do.

Through England and Ireland,

Scotland and Wales, they cry,

Give us the brave Liberals,

And let their colours fly;

For you may see by the returns,

The Tories they have cause to mourn,

They are in disgrace, and out place,

And got no work to do;

They are a selfish crew, oo-oo,

And their noses look quite blue oo-oo,

Their day is past, done brown at last,

And got no work to do.

For the Liberals, &c.

Now there is the Irish Bishops,

Must spout their shovel, hat, and wigs,

They will get no rent in shape of tenths,

Nor get no nice tythe pigs:

And the little boys will them get at,

I say, old boy, I’ll have your hat;

You have lost your tythes, and sarve you right,

You will have no work to do.

Yes, they will be licked clean off their perch,

If they capsize the Irish Church,

For Gladstone will give them the sack,

They’ll have no work to do.

For the Liberals, &c.

Ben Dizzey, he is lamenting,

For he is in a dreadful fix,

And from St. Stephen’s Cabinet-works,

He has had to cut his stick;

He is grieving for the loaves and fishes,

He may say his grace to empty dishes,

For Gladstone he will cut his comb,

Oh dear, what will he do?

His hopes are up the flue oo-oo,

But I pity him, don’t you, oo-oo?

He is all the way from Buckinghamshire,

And got no work to do.

For the Liberals, &c.

Now the Tories boast in Westminster,

They have gained a victory,

But how John Mill he has turned out,

You all may plainly see;

And there are more in the same state,

Who have been fishing with a golden bait,

But it is all of no use, we have cooked their goose,

They’ll have no work to do,

They dirty tricks can do, oo-oo,

What I tell you is quite true, oo-oo,

In St. Stephen’s Hall, they will sing small,

We have got no work to do, oo-oo.

For the Liberals, &c.

Now the working-men of England,

May chance to get their rights,

While they have their Champion Gladstone,

Their battles for to fight;

For that he is a brick, you’ll say I am right,

And so is that old cock Johnny Bright,

And the Tories them for to affright,

Will have their work to do.

Then for Reform give three huzzas!

The Liberals have gained the day,

And the Tories they in grief do say,

We have got no work to do.

For the Liberals, &c.

---

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London.

---

THE
REFORM DEMONSTRATION
In Hyde Park, May 6th, 1867.

---

Good people come listen, I’ll tell of a lark,

That happened on Monday, the 6th, in Hyde Park,

For brave Edmund Beales and his friends they did start,

To meet the working men there.

They reached there at six o’clock, gallant and right,

And when in so boldly did shout,

We’re here my brave boys, and we’ll show them this night

We’ll speak, and they shan’t turn us out.

So remember, my boys, ’twas a glorious sight,

In Hyde Park, on the 6th, it was right against might,

With Beales for our leader, we beat them that night,

At last working men they are free.

Now Dickey M—— to his friend Walley said,

If you go to Hyde Park pray mind your poor head,

And I’m sure I expect to be taken home dead,

And for me it will not be a lark.

Now don’t go says Walley, to you I declare,

Against us you know they’ve a spite,

The people mean business, so I shan’t go there,

Not in Hyde Park, on that Monday night.

In busses the Poleaxes hurried along,

And when they arrived they were five thousand strong,

But during the night you couldn’t see one,

Interfere with our friends in Hyde Park.

I heard that one said to his mate, “Bill, I say,

If they have a row, I’ll be off quick,

For I got in a bother the last reform day,

And they measured my head with a brick.”

Now Government frightened on Monday they were,

Some constables special in then they did swear,

Their staffs they did hide, when in the Park there,

They thought that they would have to fight.

One went home enraged, says he, “I’ll have a row—

Since to Hyde Park I’ve been on the march,

I am almost a boiling—we have been I vow,

Like dummies stuck on the Marble Arch.”

So the Franchise for ever, we’ve beat them, hurra!

Long life to brave Beales, and Reformers, I say,

United let’s be, and we’ll yet gain the day,

And always remember Hyde Park.

We do not want SPECIAL duty to be done,

Our rights! it is all that we ask,

To meet with each other when labour is done,

And speak out our minds in the Park.

---

REFORM MEETING

AT
BLACKHEATH.

---

For Reform, meet again, boys, on Monday I say,

Let trumpets sound loudly, we’ll yet gain the day,

Your banners wave proudly, and shout, boys, hurrah!

When to Blackheath on Monday you start;

Manhood suffrage, you know, is the working man’s own.

We only want that which is right,

Then raise loud your voices, the cause we shall gain,

If united we stand in our might.

Then forward for Liberty, Justice, and Right,

On Blackheath, my boys, ’twas a glorious sight,

And shout loud for Gladstone, for Beales, and for Bright,

Manhood Suffrage for ever, hurrah!

We’ll have it at last, of that you may be sure,

If they had not turned tail we’d have had it before,

We must have the Suffrage on England’s shore,

To be free is all that we ask;

You remember Hyde Park on the last 6th of May,

When there they boldly did shout,

Manhood Suffrage, the Franchise, we will have fair play,

Special Constables won’t turn us out.

So onward to Blackheath without care or pain

In Hyde Park we have met, and will meet there again,

In spite of the Specials, or old Dicky Mayne,

I am sure he will not interfere;

With Beales for our leader, again they will show,

English workmen themselves can behave,

Without the poleaxes, we can let them know,

That we will not be treated like slaves.

If we are to be governed, let us cry far & wide,

Let us be governed well, ’tis an Englishman’s pride,

And not have disturbance and bloodshed besides,

On this, our own dear native land.

Then let us have Justice, we do not want more,

We ask for our wives and our homes,

And have peace and prosperity on Britain’s shore,

Then we shall have what is our own.

Then wave high your banners, your trumpets then sound,

Manhood Suffrage for ever! let Blackheath resound,

And victory, yet we shall win, I’ll be bound,

If united we stand firm and true.

Long life to brave Beales & Reformers I pray,

The Reform League for ever, hurrah!

We’ll all work together, united we’ll be,

And, my boys, we will yet gain the day.

---

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London.

---

THE FENIANS
ARE COMING.

---

Wherever we go, wherever we be,

Some wonder of wonders we daily do see;

All classes through Britain are trembling with fear,

The Fenians are coming,—oh, don’t things look queer?

The land of old Erin looks bashful and blue,

Colonel Catchem and General Doodlem doo,

Has crossed the Atlantic, poor Erin to sack,

And carry Hibernia away on their back.

There’s a rumpus in Ireland by night and by day,

Old women and girls are afraid out to stray;

Cheer up and be happy on St. Patrick’s day,

The Fenians are coming,—get out of the way!

Pop goes the weazel, and shoot goes the gun,

While over the mountains the Fenians do run;

As a regiment of soldiers did after them jog,

Four hundred and fifty fell into a bog!

The best of the fun was—the soldiers did shout,

We have got in a mess, and we cannot get out!

When a funny old woman so nimbly flew,

And collared great General Doodlem-doo.

Some could not fire, and some could’nt run,

One carried a reap-hook, another a gun,

They tried to kill nobody, just for a spree,

So they both went together to cut down a tree;

There was a young lady, her name it was Peg,

She’d one eye and two noses, one arm and one leg,

March on, lads, she shouted, to glory we’ll steer,

The Fenians are coming, oh dear, oh dear!

Some with big stones and brickbats their pockets did fill,

They thought of the battle of great Bunker’s Hill,

Cut away, fire away, go along Pat,

A soldier fired at a Fenian, and shot a tom cat;

Old Molly Maloney, up her chimney did creep,

Over the hills and the mountains she had a good peep,

While under her window the bagpipes did play,

To cheer Moll with the tune of St. Patrick’s day.

What do you think of the Fenians? said Kit, in a joke,

Why, says Nell, it will end in a bottle of smoke,

Thousands over the mountains, like grasshoppers flew,

Be aisy, cried General Doodlem-doo:

Colonel Catch’em commanded, had a hump on his back,

Shoot away, fire away, philliloo whack,

Then a jolly old fiddler from famed Mullingar,

Struck up the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.

The soldiers one night when the bugle did sound,

That night going over the mountains they found,

A cat and a donkey, a pig and a dog,

And twenty old women stuck fast in a bog;

While down at Killarney, ’twas fire away whack,

At the glorious battle of herrings and sprats!

And although they fought without trousers or shirt,

I think they were really more frightened than hurt.

Cheer up, says old Barney, here comes the police:

Here’s old Erin and glory, plum pudding and peace,

A glass of good whiskey twice every day,

That is better than fighting and running away!

As for me, my dear boys, if a row I was in it,

I’d rather run for a mile than fight for a minute;

And I would advise all to have done with such capers,

And just stay at home to look after the taters.

Old Dennis Mahoney got up in a tree,

His musket was loaded with skillagalee,

Blood-an-ouns, said old Denny, I’m a Fenian, here goes,

He fired, and shot two policemen under the nose;

The bough of the tree with old Dennis soon broke,

And Dennis came down like a pig in a poke.

He died as he fell, and he whistled, oh la!

Singing, farewell for ever, old Erin-go-bragh.

---

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London.

---

AWFUL
EXPLOSION

IN
CLERKENWELL.
DREADFUL LOSS OF LIFE.

---

Now mothers all pray give attention,

And fathers listen to the tale I’ll tell,

To the fearful scene at the House of Detention

In Corporation Lane at Clerkenwell;

While parents for their children are weeping,

And tender mothers wring their hands in pain

Do tell me, are they dead, or only sleeping,

O shall I never see my child again.

To rescue Burke it was their intention,

At Clerkenwell this wicked deed was done,

And such a sight as this I’ll mention,

Was never heard of beneath the sun.

Three men they say on that fatal Friday,

At four o’clock on that afternoon,

Those villians caused that explosion,

And hurried those poor creatures to their doom.

They from a truck took a barrel of powder,

A female, Ann Justice was there as well,

And in one moment death and disorder

Around the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell.

Then all around lay the dead and dying,

Some crying, where is my mother dear,

Among the ruins in anguish lying,

Where tender mothers and children dear;

Covered with blood and mutilated,

And some they found, death had stilled their cries,

For mothers, fathers, and helpless infants,

Now in Bartholomew Hospital lies,

Three persons there were apprehended,

Allen and Desmond to escape they tried,

Their purpose it was frustrated,

But destruction was spread far and wide.

The one who did this deed so cruel,

From that sad spot he did escape,

But justice quickly will follow after,

Be sure it will that villain overtake.

They little thought on the fatal morning,

With hearts so light and spirits gay

That ere the sun should again be dawning,

Their little homes would be swept away;

That little children in death be sleeping,

Or parents for them in anguish cry,

For Minnie Abbot many now are weeping,

Another little girl has lost her eyes.

For those that’s gone shed a tear of pity,

And God bless those who assistance gave,

Such a crime we seldom hear in London city,

May God receive their souls now in the grave.

The government has relieved the sufferers,

From the Queen, a message to those in pain,

And such a sad and dreadful story,

In London may we never hear again.

---

SUNDAY
TRADING BILL.

---

Oh dear, oh lor, what shall we do?

I am sure I cannot tell, can you?

Of Lord Chelmsford’s Bill, I’ll tell you true—

The Bill on Sunday trading.

The mawworms seem to try, I’m sure,

Each way they can to crush the poor,

And bring them to the workhouse door,

By stopping Sunday trading.

I’m sure it is a lying sin,

It’s no harm to say, bad luck to him,—

He might as well try to stop our wind,

As to stop all Sunday trading.

Oh! Chelmsford, you use the poor man ill,

Starve us all, I’m sure you will,

If they should pass your infamous Bill,

And stop all Sunday trading.

Tho’ the swells they may blow out their kites,

On jellies and tarts, and all things nice,

For the poor to live it is not right,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

With watercresses they must not go round,

Nor with winkles or shrimps to earn a brown,

Or else you will get fined a crown,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

No cat must mew, no dog must bark,

They’ll stop the warbling of the lark,

And drive them all bang out of the parks,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

The poor may buy potatoes and greens,

That is if they have got the means,

But no coals to cook them, though strange it seems,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

The nobs may call at the pastry shops

And with all sorts of dainties cram their chops,

But the poor must not buy a lollipop,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

You must not take, at least, they say,

A dose of salts on Saturday,

Lest they should work on the Sabbath day,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

If on Sunday you feel inclined to eat,

You can buy both bread and meat,

But no tea or sugar,—what a treat!

Says the Bill on Sunday trading

But to wash it down, Lord Chelmsford say,

To the gin shop you can cut away

And get blind drunk upon that day,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

And by and bye, if you have got the tin, sir,

To raise a baked joint for your dinner,

They’ll say, drop that dish, you hungry sinner,

Don’t you know it’s Sunday trading?

If your wife should be in the family-way,

She must not be confined upon Sunday,

But put it off till another day,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

No milkman through his rounds must go,

With milk, my pretty maids, below!

Without paying a crown,—the Lords say so,

In the Bill on Sunday trading.

Even the kittens must not play,

Nor frisk about upon that day,

Or their grub will be stopped for three whole days,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

No shoeblack, he must not dare to say,

Polish your boots upon Sunday,

Or else a dollar he will have to pay,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

And if you want to enjoy your pipe,

Where would you get a box of lights,

For the sellers they will be put to flight,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

No Yarmouth bloaters must be sold,

Nor peppermint drops for coughs or colds,

And muffin man’s bell it’s clapper must hold,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

You must not buy, but you must starve,

You must not sing, you must not laugh,

So you had better sow your mouth up fast,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

You must not sell, you must not buy,

To earn a crust you must not try,

Nor in the streets lay down and die,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

For the poor a fig they do not care,

More workhouses they must prepare,

He ought to be kicked to I know where,

For his Bill on Sunday trading.

---

H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles.

---

SOUTHWARK ELECTION.

---

ODGER
AND
VICTORY.

---

Now all you gallant Southwark men,

Who does require protection,

Just mind I say, your p’s and q’s

At this Great Grand Election;

Never don’t elect a man

Who your wages will be stinting,

And never have a covetuous man

Like one who lives by printing.

Then act like men you Southwark blades,

Have neither a printer nor a “sodger,

Vote for a man who will protect your trade,

And sing, Southwark, lads, and Odger.

Long enough the poor man has been crushed,

Now is your time or never,

Come, now with me lads, nimble be,

Here’s Odger, lads, for ever.

Don’t you elect a Waterlow,

Whose principles are stinting,

He knows as much about the poor man’s rights

As a donkey knows of printing.

There has lately been some glorious fights,

In Southwark, says Ben Fagan.

It beat the Battle of Bunker’s Hill,

And the glories of Copenhagen;

An old lady stood by London Bridge,

Bawling, lick me you shall never,

She jumped complete to Toloey Street,

Bawling, Odger, boys, for ever.

In Bermondsey there was glorious fun

Among the girls and sailors,

It put the Borough all in mind

Of the devil among the tailors.

A grocer’s wife, full of spleen and spite,

Doffed her chignon so clever,

Pulled her petticoat off and went aloft,

Singing, Odger, boys, for ever.

Oh, Colonel, Colonel Beresford,

You are a rum old codger,

Neither you or Waterlow

Can ever cope with Odger;—

Odger is a working man,

And as clever a man as Pompey,

Odger is a gentleman,

And you are a pair of donkeys.

When Odger is returned, my boys,

To the brim we’ll fill our glasses,

We will drink success to the tanners’ wives,

And the blooming Kent Street lasses;

From the Bricklayers’ Arms to London Bridge,

There will be such a bustle,

Aye, and all the way from Cotton’s Wharf

To the Elephant and Castle.

Put the right man in the right place,

Keep out the aristocratic sodger

Tell old Waterlow it is no go—

It is victory and Odger;

The working men must have a friend,

Who against tyranny is clever,

With heart and glee, sing liberty,

Odger, my lads, for ever.

Odger we know is a working man,

If he’s not rich, he’s noble-minded,

He will understand how the working man

Has been crushed down and grinded.

Then send him into Parliament,

To put a stop to their capers,

And tell them we want a good beef steak,

Instead of herrings and taters.

Keep out the printing gentleman,

Banish the tyrant sodger,

Strive with all your might to do what’s right,

And plump my lads for Odger.

---

Printed for the Vendors.

---

A COLLECTION
OF
“BALLADS ON A SUBJECT.”

---

DIVISION III.
A COLLECTION OF
BALLADS ON A SUBJECT.

---

“What hast here, ballads? I love a ballad in print; for then we are sure they are true.”—Shakspeare.

“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 and street sale. These effusions, however, are known in the trade by a title appropriate enough,—“Ballads on a Subject.” The most successful workers of this branch of the profession are the men described as 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 a subject” is often written, printed, and sung “in honour,” it was announced “of Lord John Russell’s resignation.” Of course there is no time for either 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.

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

The “Ballads on a Subject” 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.—Henry Mayhew’s London Labour and the London Poor.

The writer of an able article in the Quarterly Review, 1867, on “The Poetry of Seven Dials,” remarks that ‘Our next section of ‘Modern Events’ is characterised throughout by such a general sameness of treatment as to need few examples by way of illustration. They are clearly written, for the most part hastily, on the spur of the moment; and though they may command a good sale at first, they do so not by the wit, beauty, or aptness of the verse, but by the absorbing interest of the calamity which it describes. Thus, say, an appalling accident happens in London; the news spreads like wildfire throughout the city, and gives rise to rumours, even more dreadful than the reality. Before night it is embalmed in verse by one out of five or six well-known bards who get their living by writing for Seven Dials, and then chanting their own strains to the people. The inspiration of the poet is swift, the execution of the work rapid,—how rapid may be judged from the following fact. On Thursday, February 21, a woman named Walker was brought before the magistrate and charged with robbing Mr. F. Brown, her master, a publican, to whom she had offered her services as a man. She was sent to prison, and there her sex was discovered. The next morning, at 10 a.m., two men and two women were singing her personal history and adventures in the New Cut, to a large but not select audience, under the title of ‘The She Barman of Southwark.’ It was great trash, but sold well—but the pay for such work is small. ‘I gets a shilling a copy for my verses’ (says one), ‘besides what I can make by selling ’em.’ But the verses are ready and go to press at once. A thousand or two copies are struck off instantly, and the ‘Orfle Calamity’ is soon flying all over London from the mouths of a dozen or twenty minstrels, in the New Cut, in Leather Lane, Houndsditch, Bermondsey, Whitechapel, High Street, Tottenham-court-road—or wherever a crowd of listeners can be easily and safely called together. If the subject admits of it, two minstrels chant the same strain

‘In lofty verse

‘Pathetic they alternately rehearse.’

each taking a line in turn, and each vying with the other in doleful tragedy of look and voice. A moment suffices to give out in sepulchral accents, ‘Dreadful Accident this day on the Ice in Regent’s Park,’ &c., &c.

“These Halfpenny Sheets form almost the entire poetry of Seven Dials, and though they teach little or no history, they show, at least, what kind of poetry finds the most favourable reception and the readiest sale among our lowest classes. As far as we can ascertain, there are in London eight or ten publishers of the Fortey and Disley stamp—though not on so large a scale. Of ballad-singers and patterers of prose recitations (such as the ‘Political Catechism’), there may be about a hundred scattered over the metropolis, who haunt such localities as the New Cut, Tottenham-court-road, Whitechapel, and Clerkenwell Green; and according to the weather, the state of trade, and the character of their wares, earn a scanty or a jovial living by chanting such strains as we have now laid before our readers. ‘Songs if they’re over religious,’ says one minstrel, ‘don’t sell at all; though a tidy moral does werry well. But a good, awful murder’s the thing. I’ve knowed,’ says our authority, ‘a man sell a ream a day of them.—that’s twenty dozen you know;’ and this sale may go on for days, so that with forty or fifty men at work as minstrels, a popular ballad will soon attain a circulation of thirty or forty or fifty thousand. Now and then the publisher himself composes a song, and in this case is saved the cost of copyright, though his expenses are very trifling, even when he has to purchase it. If one of the patterers writes a ballad on a taking subject, he hastens at once to Seven Dials, where, if accepted, his reward is ‘a glass of rum, a slice of cake, and five dozen copies,’—which, if the accident or murder be a very awful one, are struck off for him while he waits. A murder always sells well, so does a fire, or a fearful railway accident. A good love story, embracing

‘infidi perjuria nautæ

Deceptamque dolo nympham’

often does fairly; but politics among the lowest class are a drug. Even the famous Ballad on Pam’s death didn’t do much except among the better sort of people; and though the roughs are fond of shouting Reform, they don’t care, it would seem, to spend money on it.”

We have submitted this wretched doggrel to our readers, that they may form some idea of the kind of Street Literature which is still popular with so many of the lower classes. It is humiliating, in the midst of all the schools and teaching of the present day, to find such rubbish continually poured forth, and eagerly read. Still there are some redeeming features in this weary waste. Taken as a whole, the moral tone of the ballads, if not lofty, is certainly not bad; and the number of single stanzas that could not be quoted in these pages on account of their gross or indecent language is very small; while that of entire Ballads, to be excluded on the same ground, is still smaller.

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THE FEMALE HUSBAND,
WHO HAD BEEN MARRIED TO ANOTHER FEMALE FOR
TWENTY-ONE YEARS.

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What wonders now I have to pen, sir,

Women turning into men, sir,

For twenty-one long years, or more, sir,

She wore the breeches we are told, sir,

A smart and active handsome groom, sir,

She then got married very soon, sir,

A shipwright’s trade she after took, sir,

And of his wife, he made a fool sir.

Sing hey! sing O! ’twas my downfall, sir,

To marry a man with nothing at all, sir,

Well Mother Sprightly, what do you think of this Female Husband; it appears to me a strange piece of business. Why, Mother Chatter, I do not believe half what is said about it—Pho, pho, do you think I would have been in bed with my husband twenty-one minutes without knowing what he was made of, much more twenty-one years, for I should never have patience to wait so long. My old man cuddles me as close as wax these cold winter nights, and if he was to turn his back to me I would stick a needle into it.

If the wife asked for a favour,

Then she flew into a fever,

Gave to her a precious thump, sir,

Which after left a largeish lump, sir,

Then her limbs so straight and tall, sir,

She turn’d her face against the wall, sir,

And oft have quarrel’d and much strife, sir,

Because he would not cuddle the wife, sir.

Why I must say, Mother Chatter, if he had been my husband, I think after hard work all day he must have slept sound, and I would have seen what he was before I rose in the morning, or I’d know the reason why.

Was woman ever so perplex’d, sir,

And through life so grievously vex’d, sir,

And disappointments oft did meet, sir,

And instead of a kiss, I oft got beat, sir,

Sometimes cuff’d and sometimes scouted,

Because I asked what woman wanted,

And if ever that I marry again, sir,

I’ll surely marry a perfect man, sir.

Mother Chatter,—Man, indeed! yes, I hope she will take care next time she marries, and not be duped in that way again; and as she was such a bad judge I would advise her to taste and try first next time.

Mother Sprightly,—I have no doubt but she’ll examine the beard and whiskers of the next man she marries, and not take a beardless thing at his own word.

With this pretty handsome groom, sir,

She went and spent the honey-moon, sir,

The very first night my love should cuddle,

Up in the clothes he close did huddle;

And with his face against the wall, sir,

He never spoke a word at all, sir,

A maid to bed I then did go, sir,

And a maiden am now, heigho! heigho! sir.

Well, Mother Frisky, how is your old man? Why he is quite hearty, and every inch a man, none of your sham husbands; give me the real man or none at all. Well, I am of your way of thinking, and I hope the next husband she has she will have thumping children.

Pretty maidens list I pray, sir,

Unto what I now do say, sir,

Taste and try before you buy, sir,

Or you’ll get bit as well as I, sir;

See he’s perfect in all parts, sir,

Before you join your hand and heart, sir,

You then with all your strength may try, sir,

To be fruitful, increase, and multiply, sir.

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Printed by T. Birt, No. 10, Great St. Andrew Street, Seven Dials.

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SHAKESPEARE’S HOUSE.

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“Pulling down and building up is all the go,

And the scene changes like a raree show,”

Yet is it not disgraceful to the nation,

That Shakespeare’s house is doomed to mutilation?

The house in which that great man first drew breath,

A spot renowned before and after death—

Where pilgrims from every land have come,

To see his birth place, Nature’s learned home—

Where first shone forth, a pale, an infant light,

A spreading brilliancy, which still burns bright.

Oh, who shall have the writings on the walls,

Oh, who can save the house that’s doomed to fall?

True genius, of which we vainly boast,

By our rulers seems neglected most.

How we took the kernel, and threw by the shell,

Profanation, degradation,—Oh, England, thou art a tardanation!

Time-hallowed spot, could we call back those days,

When Shakespeare here in thoughtless boyhood plays.

Before his plays had graced the mimic scene,

Since which three hundred years have been

Food for reflection, here the thinking mind,

“And good in everything” we ought to find.

From out the walls in fancy we might trace

Macbeth, Hamlet, and King Richard’s face;

And all the clouds that on this house have lowered,

Look frowningly, as ’twere upon a coward,

Who thus stands meekly by this sacred wood,

Nor helps to save it for its country’s good.

But let it go, our Shakespeare needs no fame,

’Tis but a house! a house! “What’s in a name?”

Let it be sold, or in the sea be tossed—

His loved and mighty labours ne’er will be lost.

Altercation, dilapidation,—Time steps in and cheats the nation!

Great Premier,—Oh, King John,—grant this our charter,

Why in this land should genius be a martyr?

The Tempest’s rising, if we fail we fall;

And time may tell you a sad Winter’s Tale.

Come, As you like it, make this house a treasure,

Do not divide it, Measure for Measure.

Methinks in sadness I can see the Moor,

Othello, looking blacker than before;

Therefore, good John, we look to you

To put this house in order, and to Tame the Shrew.

The very age and body of the time (reflecting mirrors)

Proclaims this sale a Comedy of Errors,

While England wastes her thousands, ’tis not soothing,

To say this is Much Ado about Nothing;

For to the wise and thoughtful this would seem

A summer cloud or Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Moderation, preservation,—Is all we’re asking of the nation!

Robins, at knocking houses down so fond,

Exclaims, with Shakespeare’s Jew, I’ll have my bond.

Put down your hammer, Mr Robins, stop;

You take my house when you do touch the prop.

Hard-hearted man, such antique relics ridding,

With hammer soon to fall and looks for-bidding,

Shakespeare by you has been puffed up and praised,

To sell his house you have a story raised.

And is it true this house is coming down,

To be put on wheels and dragged about the town?

Can such things be, can it be so!

What, make this classic pile a travelling show?

Tis true; ’tis pity chaps from Yankee land

Are coming over with the cash in hand.

Blow winds, crack cheeks, their paltry lucre spurn,

To what base uses may we not return.

Speculation—British nation, Oh, save the house from exportation!

Time was, and it seems but t’other day,

When we could see a real Shakesperian play,

With Miss O’Neill, Siddons, or the great John Kemble,

Could laugh at Munden, or at old Kean tremble.

Macready does Shakespeare now, with Kean’s son Charlie,

And Drury Lane holds legitimate with Harley;

Shakespeare inside has long been quite neglected,

His statue outside looks forlorn, dejected;

For great folks now run after Greas or All-bony,

Tamburini, Jenny Lind, or Taglioni,

Which John Bull’s dire indignation rouses,

Till he exclaims, “A plague on both your houses.”

Portia, Miranda, Juliet for him plead,

Preserve this house, thy potent spell we need.”

My song is done, and you I pardon crave—

All’s well that ends well, if this house we save.

Determination, stimulation,—and Shakespeare’s house an honour to the nation.

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E. Hodges, Printer (from the late J. Pitt’s), Wholesale Toy Warehouse, 38, Dudley Street, 7 Dials.

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A NEW SONG
ON
THE BLOOMER COSTUME.

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Oh, did you hear the news of late,

According to the rumours,

The pretty ladies one and all,

Are going to join the bloomers.

Since Mrs Dexter’s come to town,

She says, oh, what a row, sir,

The men shall wear the petticoats

And ladies wear the trousers.

Oh, did you hear, &c.

Now Mrs. Dexter’s come to town,

She says, she’ll not be lazy,

But quickly turn the ladies’ brains,

And set the men all crazy.

Old maids and lasses fine and gay,

Short, stumpy, tall and bandy,

Long petticoats now throw away,

And beat the yanky dandy.

Prince Albert and the Queen one day,

Had such a jolly row, sirs,

She threw off her petticoats

And put on boots and trousers;

Won’t it be funny for to see

Ladies possessed of riches,

Riding up and down the town

In Wellingtons and breeches.

Now you with ancles short and thick,

Of every rank and station,

Oh, won’t you cut it fine and slick,

By this new alteration.

And landladies that creep about,

Well known as twenty stoners,

Come shove your bustles up the spout,

And join the dashing bloomers.

The bloomers dress, the people say,

Is getting all the go now,

The pretty factory lasses they,

Will cut a gallant show now,

In petticoats above their knes,

And breeches too you’ll fit them.

Nice jackets made of velveteen,

All button’d up behind them.

Now married men take my advice,

Step out and spend your riches,

And buy your wife all in a trice,

Short petticoats and breeches,

For in the fashion she will hop,

Whene’er she’s out of humour,

I wonder if her tongue will stop,

When she becomes a bloomer.

Last night my wife she said to me,

Tom, when we’ve got the notes in,

I’ll have a pair of gaiters, and

Breeches made of goat’s skin.

A pair of boots and silver spurs,

For I have got such bad legs,

I cannot hide I’ll have to ride,

The donkey now a strad-legs.

The men must go out selling fish,

And deal in shrimps and mussels,

Dress’d up in ladies’ petticoats,

Fine flounces and big bustles,

You’ll have no call to work at all,

But walk out in your broaches,

The ladies are determined, for,

To drive the cabs and coaches.

The tailors now must all be sharp

In making noble stitches,

And be sure and clap their burning goose

Upon the ladies’ breeches;

Their pretty little fingers will

Be just as sore as mutton,

Until that they have found the way

Their trousers to unbutton.

You factory lasses, one and all,

Your dresses all reform now,

Buy a jacket and a trousers for

To keep you snug and warm now;

Short petticoats and garters too,

No matter how the time goes,

A billycock and feather for

To see which way the wind blows.

M. O’LOUGHNAN.

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MANCHESTER’S
AN
ALTERED TOWN.

Once on a time this good old town was nothing but a village,

Of husbandry, and farmers too, whose time was spent in tillage;

But things are altered very much, such building now allotted is,

It rivals far and soon will leave behind the great Metropolis.

O dear O, Manchester’s an altered town, O dear O.

Once on a time were you inclin’d, your weary limbs to lave, sir,

In summer’s scorching heat in the Irwell’s cooling wave, sir;

You had only got to go to the Old Church for the shore, sir,

But since those days the fish have died, and now they are no more, sir.

When things do change you ne’er do know what next is sure to follow,

For mark the change in Broughton now, of late ’twas but a hollow

For they have found it so snug, and chang’d its etymology,

They have clapt in it a wild beast’s show, now call’d the Gardens of Zoology.

A market on Shudehill was, and it remains there still, sir,

The Salford old bridge is taken away, and clapt a new one in, sir,

There’s Newton lane I now shall name, has had an alteration,

They’ve knock’d a great part of it down, to make a railway station.

There’s the Bolton railway station in Salford, give attention,

Besides many more too numerous to mention;

Besides a new Police, to put the old ones down stairs, sir,

A mayor and corporation to govern this old town, sir.

There’s the Manchester and Salford old bridge, that long has stood, the weather,

Because it was so very old they drown’d it altogether;

And Brown street market too, it forms part of this sonnet,

Down it must come, they say, to build a borough gaol upon it.

Not long ago if you had taken a walk thro’ Stevenson’s square, sir,

You might have seen, if you look’d, a kind of chapel there, sir,

And yet this place, some people thought, had better to come down, sir,

And in the parson’s place they put a pantaloon and clown, sir.

In former times our cotton swells were not half so mighty found, sir,

But in these modern times they everywhere abound, sir,

With now police and watchmen, to break peace there’s none dare

And at every step the ladies go, policemen will cry, move on there’.

In former days this good old town was guarded from the prigs, sir,

By day constables, by night by watchmen with Welsh wigs, sir;

But things are alter’d very much, for all those who are scholars,

May tell the new policemen by their numbers on their collars.

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A NEW SONG ON THE
PRESTON GUILD,
1842.

---

J. Harkness, Printer, 121, Church Street, Preston.

---

You lads and lasses far and near,

Unto my song pray lend an ear,

The time is come for mirth and glee,

To Preston Guild let’s haste away,

For Tom and Sal with Jim and Peg,

And daddy with his wooden leg,

And grunting Jack with Sam and Will,

Are all gone off to Preston Guild.

There lords and ladies, Kings and Queens,

At Preston Guild they may be seen,

Yes, Merchants, Tradesmen,—a grand show,

With ladies walking in a row;

And then the trades they do appear,

By gum it makes one feel quite queer,

Some walking,—others standing still,

This is the fun at Preston Guild.

The tailors they lead up the van,

With Adam and Eve they look so grand,

Then Robin Hood’s men and gardeners,

Who represent Mars the God of Wars,

Shopkeepers, Publicans so free,

Will follow up for liberty,

The grandest show in England still,

Is the jublilee at Preston Guild.

The factory folks are next in view,

Spinners, weavers, and carders too,

The piecers do not lag behind,

Brickmakers at the Guild we find,

Bricksetters, masons two and two,

To see them walking in a row,

The men who houses and factories build,

You’ll see them walk at Preston Guild.

When at the Guild you do arrive,

Like bees they’re swarming all alive,

All kinds of trades are working still,

You’ll see, now you’re at Preston Guild.

There’s swinging boxes, likewise shows,

And soldiers ’listing drunken fools,

Both drunkards and teetotallers will,

Enjoy a peep at Preston Guild.

Its toss or buy for cakes or nuts,

Sweet meats or ORMSKIRK, stuff your guts,

Or take a trow at civil will,

Now lads you’ve come to Preston Guild,

Or see the sports that’s up and down,

At Preston Guild in Preston town,

Two shillings a bed pay with good will,

If you stop one night at Preston Guild.

The times are hard, the wages low,

Some thousands to the Guild can’t go,

From Blackburn, Burnley, and Chorley still,

They will roll on to Preston Guild,

From Wigan, Bolton, Lancaster,

From Liverpool and Manchester,

The Railroad brings them on it still,

To see the fun at Preston Guild.

So young and old I’ll tell you true,

It’s different now since twenty-two,

The men did labour with good will,

It’s not so now this Preston Guild.

But let us hope the times will mend,

When the poor man can the poor befriend,

We want our rights and then we will,

Have plenty of sport next Preston Guild.

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PROPHECY

FOR 1850————

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John Harkness, Printer, Church St.;—Office, North Road, Preston.

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Now Christmas it is gone and past, throughout the British nation,

Come list to me and you will see a wonderful alteration;

In the new year there will appear, or I may cause a blunder,

Some curious changes that will fill you with amaze and wonder.

CHORUS.

So listen to me of all degree, both single, wise, and thrifty,

While I prophecy what you will see, in eighteen hundred and fifty.

The Queen will have another son, he will be a steam-loom weaver,

And Prince Albert he is going to be a wopping big coal-heaver;

Old Wellington as I’ve heard say, with his great whacking nose, sir,

With a donkey cart is going out a gathering old clothes, sir.

Russell and Grey, as I’ve heard say, are going to be sailors,

And Bobby Peel will make, of steel, new thimbles for the tailors;

Cobden and Bright will have a fight, and conquer in dirch man,

Without protection, in a crack, knock down the Duke of Richmond.

The muck carts they will go by steam, no horses will be wanted,

We will have four pound loaves for threepence each, then we shall be undaunted,

Girls must new fashioned whiskers wear, fine lawns they must adorn her,

Their stockings must be made of gold brought home from California.

All females over seventeen, that out of doors are flocking,

Will sadly rue if there should be, a hole seen in their stocking,

Either in the leg or heel, the law to nothing flinches,

Each bustle must be stuffed with straw full nine feet eleven inches.

And very soon, in May or June, we will be amaz’d with wonder,

For it will either rain or freeze, with heavy claps of thunder,

The free hall is going to fall, believe me it’s no fable,

And legs of mutton from the clouds will fall upon the table.

No little boys must smoke cigars, nor yet be seen a courting,

Male and female under twenty-two, must not be seen a flirting,

Any factory lass that has a child until she is married really,

Must serve twelve months in ———— or else in the New Bailey.

If any landlord call for rent upon a Monday morning,

His tenants shall be authorised without a moment’s warning

To strip him naked to the skin in any sort of weather,

Daub him with tar from head to foot, and cover him with feathers.

And Scotchmen, too, mark what I say, you may roll in soot and cinders,

And after that take him up stairs, and throw him through the windows,

They will take the duty off the gin, and clap it on the mussels,

And lay an extra shilling on the gutta-percha bustles.

The old women they will dance with glee, and if I’m not mistaken,

They will take the duty off the tea, the sugar, and the bacon;

Morning and night they’ll have fat cakes, the frying pans will flourish,

With mutton chops and good beef steaks, their stomachs for to nourish.

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