Or, A Night's Discharge to Care.
I sing not here of warriors bold—
Of battles lost or victories won—
Of cities sack'd, or nations sold,
Or any deeds by tyrants done.
I sing the Pitman's plagues and cares—
Their labour hard and lowly cot—
Their homely joys and humble fares—
Their pay-night o'er a foaming pot.
Their week's work done, the coaly craft—
These horny-handed sons of toil
Require a "right gude willie-waught,"
The creaking wheels of life to oil.
See hewers, putters, drivers too,
With pleasure hail this happy day—
All clean wash'd up, their way pursue
To drink, and crack, and get their pay.
The Buck, the Black Horse, and the Keys,
Have witness'd many a comic scene,
Where's yell to cheer and mirth to please,
And drollery that would cure the spleen.
With parched tongues and gyzen'd throats
They reach the place, where barleycorn
Soon down the dusty cavern floats,
From pewter-pot or homely horn.
The dust wash'd down, then comes the care
To find that all is rightly bill'd;
And each to get his hard-earn'd share
From some one in division skill'd.
The money-matters thus decided,
They push the pot more briskly round;
With hearts elate and hobbies strided,
Their cares are all in nappie drown'd.
"Here, lass," says Jack, "help this agyen,
It's better yell than's in the toun;
But then the road's se het it's tyen,
It fizz'd, aw think, as it went doun."