There's Jemmy Twichit did both scrub and fidge it,
His head he roll'd about;
He stampt and swore he'd come there no more,
When he found the bill thrown out.
They blam'd old George that did not discharge,
His duty as he ought;
And his addle pate that cou'd not relate,
What kind of a bill he'd brought.
The wigs got a fall, I wish they ne'er may rise,
But henceforth for the future, may learn to be more wise;
And ne'er persume to sit in chairs, nor honoured be with Town affairs,
But stay at home and say their prayers, & not over us tyrannize.
Pray God above from this earth remove,
This vile deceitful crew,
And send them hence for their offence,
Where they may receive their due.
God bless Mundy and Cooke, on them we look,
As two from heaven sent;
To set us free from tyranny,
And serve in Parliament.
Lost and Dead.
In the parish register of Chapel-en-le-Frith is the sad entry of the burial of a child which was found dead in the neighbourhood—"S. Sept. 20, 1656. A poor child found dead in ye Forest." The following ballad, from the pen of Mr. Henry Kirke, is founded on this circumstance. It has not before been printed.
The fire burns brightly upon the hearth,
And dances and crackles with glee;
And the cottar's wife sits before the blaze,
But the child—ah, where is she.
The cottar's hand is on the latch,
And he stands by the opened door,
And his wife she kisses his sunburnt cheek,
But his child he shall see no more.