Hi! those were fine times, especially the fairs,
When the Inns were kept open for dancing upstairs;
The Commercial, Lord Rodney, as well as the Crown
To the ancient Wool-comber were fairly well known.
But now we’ll get back to the pot and the pad,
The fair it is over, the women are glad;
For now the Wool-comber his follies he sees,
And makes resolutions as staunch as you please.
For now he commences to work hard and late,
He is building a Castle on a phantom estate;
And he toils for a time but long hoggs make him sick,
Then he duffs, and his castle falls down, every brick.
When Winter comes in with its keen bitter blast,
And the poor rustic hind has to cope with the frost;
Yet the Comber was happy in village and town,
Though he knew that his calling was fast going down.
Oh yes, it was vanquished, the once noble art,
For science had bid it for ever depart;
Yet for thee old Comber fresh fields have arose,
That have found thee in victuals, in fuel, and clothes.
So many brave thanks to the Mayor of the town
Who has made the Wool-comber once more to be known;
Let us drink to the health of our worthy host,
The friend of the Comber, the Knight of the post.
T’ Village Harem-Skarem.
In a little cot so dreary,
With eyes and forehead hot and bleary,
Sat a mother sad and weary,
With her darling on her knee;
Their humble fare at best was sparing
For the father he was shearing,
With his three brave sons of Erin,
All down in the Fen countree.
All her Saxon neighbours leave her,
With her boy and demon fever,
The midnight watch—none to relieve her,
Save a little Busy Bee:
He was called the Harem-Skarem,
Noisy as a drum-clock larum,
Yet his treasures he would share ’em,
With his friend right merrily.
Every night and every morning,
With the day sometimes at dawning—
While lay mother, sick and swooning—
To his dying mate went he:
Robbing his good Saxon mother,
Giving to his Celtic brother,
Who asked for him and no other,
Until his spirit it was free.