Part 2

They must wash and iron on, They must mangle, starch, and blue, They must get your victuals ready in a crack, They must get you tea and toast, They must frizzle, fry, and roast, And wash the dirty shirt upon your back. They must clean the quilt and rugs, They must hunt the fleas and bugs, They must nurse your little daughter and your son, And, like a poor goose, Get nothing but abuse, A woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

_Chorus._

Men, to your wives be kind, Thus pleasure you will find, And happy through the world you will run, You must surely tell a lie, If this statement you deny, A woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

_THE TREATS OF LONDON._[3]

GOOD folks I will try at a song, So I hope you will make no wry faces, Believe me, I’ll not keep you long, With my budget of public places: To what I’m about to rehearse, If you’ll but please to attend, You will learn from my play-bill in verse, Where to go, if you’ve money to spend.

Covent Garden Garden of O.P.[4] renown, The contest you all may remember; Old Drury that was burnt down, And Bartlemy Fair in September. With the Tower of London so grand, Where a huge pocket-pistol you see, And Salmon’s Wax Work in the Strand, With the Sans Pareil after your tea.

There’s the Opera House at the West, A Chalk Farm and a famous Jew’s Harp, Where, pay well, you may feed on the best, Then walk in the Regency Park. A Lord’s Cricket Ground that is new, With a Tottenham Playhouse so gay, Hyde Park and the Serpentine too, For Men Milliners on a Sunday.

There’s Wigley’s promenade too, I ween, And Bond Street parade in addition, With Kensington Gardens when clean, And the Somerset House Exhibition. There’s the Wells, and Grimaldi so rum, Sirs, With Westminster Abbey to range, A walk in the Temple for Lawyers, And “All alive in Exeter ’Change.”

The British Museum’s a treat, Vauxhall with its fireworks pretty, Where belles and their sparks you will meet, And “the Royalty” too, in the City. A Surrey Theatre there’s too, Sirs, Where the bow-wow performers so grand, Played with eclat, and where you may view, The fine bridge ’twixt Bankside and the Strand.

A forum there is for debate, A Fives Court for milling in fun, Sirs, A Parliament House for the great, With a cock-pit for cruelty’s sport, Sirs, With balls, concerts, and masquerades, And spouting rooms, too, half a score, With prime song-clubs in the “Shades,” Knock ’em down with a Bravo! Encore!

Gas lights too flare in your eyes, Indian Jugglers deceive in Pall Mall, Guildhall for a lottery prize, Astley’s horses, too, still bear the bell. The Monument, too, a tall post, And also, without any raillery, The Londoners’ principal boast, St. Paul’s and its Whispering Gallery.

_THE INCOME TAX._

OH! poor old Johnny Bull has his Cup of sorrow full, And what with underfeeding him, and leeching him, and bleeding him, Though over-drained before, he must lose a little more, He’ll now be bled again by the Income Tax. And _Peel_[5] the state physician, has studied his condition, And daily, and hourly his own brain racks, He’s come to the conclusion, that John Bull’s constitution Is only to be saved by the Income tax.

_Chorus._

Sevenpence in the pound, is the sum that must be found, Useless is our grumbling, our grizzling, or mumbling, Still, had we to our aid, our former roaring trade, We’d laugh at Bobby Peel and his Income Tax.

The manufacturers say that they ought not to pay, Assert ’tis not a fib, but they really can’t contribute. The manufacturing bands are discharging all their hands, ’Tis the farmers that should, and ought to pay the Income Tax. The farmers all declare, that for them to pay be’ant fair, The cesses, rates, and tithes nearly breaks their backs. While all the parsons say, their business is to pray, So, pray, why should they pay the Income Tax?

The Lawyers all declare it really is unfair, The Law’s great alteration has brought them ruination, And if they make compliance, they all must rob their Clients, By swelling Bills of Costs for the Income Tax. The Doctors, full of ills, must increase their price of pills, They are already ruined by Infirmaries and Quacks, So they’ll all adopt Peel’s plan, of bleeding all they can, Their patients, (when they get ’em) for the Income Tax.

The shopkeeper, once gay, who kept his one horse shay, To drive out on a Sunday, and sometimes on a Monday, Must now his shay put down, and stick to trade and town, Because he must so pay to the Income Tax. His daughters and his wife, obliged to hear his strife, Stay at home and snivel, and in snarls go snacks, Their bonnets--those old blue ones--instead of having new ones, Are turned--and ’tis all through the Income Tax.

Those folk of middling rank, who have money in the Bank, And make by pocket’s clearance, a respectable appearance, And managing complete, to just make both ends meet, Must cut a bit off one end for the Income Tax. Oh, then, without a doubt, was their washing all put out, Now, laundresses are ruined--and these are facts-- For, wherever you may roam, all the washing’s done at home, So our wives are always cross through the Income Tax.

The Bishops, rich and great, and the Ministers of State, The gayest, the demurest, the Placeman, Sinecurist, And grumblers, or not, they must all pay their shot, In their rota, as their quota, of the Income Tax. And, as a tip-top sample, our Queen’s a high example, Her Majesty,[6] I wish of rupees had lacs. The Collector he sallies, to great Buckingham Palace, Your Majesty, I’ve come for the Income Tax.

The Lords, and all their train, must do without Champagne, The Squires--will they bear it? must give up Hock and Claret-- Tradesmen, no longer merry, think not of or port sherry, They all are out of spirits through the Income Tax. So, all ranks through the Nation, must put up with privation, One foregoes his Brandy--another his Max[7] The porter can’t regale, he’s obliged to leave off Ale, And a Teetotaller turn through the Income Tax.

Just like the tale of old, of the soldier we were told, Who, while the drummer[8] flogg’d him, writh’d about and jogg’d him, With torment all on fire, he cried aloud, “Strike higher,” Sir Robert Peel’s the drummer, with his Income Tax. The Tax with its fine tales, is like the cat o’ nine tails, It lashes our bodies--cuts into our backs.-- Sir Robert Peel he strikes, and cuts us where he likes, Nobody likes the cuts of the Income Tax.

In every civilized society there is an antagonism between employer and employed, between capital and labour. The men do not often take thought of the losses their employers have sustained, in order to keep their factories going and their hands employed; they do not think that England has to compete with the whole world, and that, on the Continent, wages are cheaper, and the men are more contented with their lot, so that when a depression in trade occurs, it is only fair that they should bear a portion of the burden. There are plenty of demagogues, who, for pay, will fan the flame of discontent, and the result is a _strike_, injurious to all parties. On the other hand, a man has a right to sell his labour as dearly as he can, or to refuse to sell it at all, if he so pleases, and a strike is very often the means of his getting an advance of wages which might not have been otherwise conceded, or at all events tardily granted.

Naturally there are many street ballads on this vital subject to the ballad-singer’s listeners, but I have only selected one, which appears to me to be fairly typical. As an antidote to the discontent and privation consequent on bad trade, Henry Russell wrote, “There’s a good time coming, boys,” which enjoyed immense popularity, and did much to banish the black spirit of discontent.

_STRIKING TIMES._

CHEER up, cheer up, you sons of toil, and listen to my song, While I try to amuse you, and I will not take you long. The working men of England, at length begin to see, They’ve made a bold strike for their rights in 1853.

_Chorus._

_It’s high time that working men should have it their own way, And for a fair day’s labour, receive a fair day’s pay._

This is the time for striking, at least, it strikes me so, Monopoly has had some knocks, but this must be the blow, The working men, by thousands, complain their fate is hard, May order mark their conduct, and success be their reward.

Some of our London Printers, this glorious work begun, And surely they’ve done something, for they’ve upset the Sun. Employers must be made to see they can’t do what they like, It is the master’s greediness causes the men to strike.

The labouring men of London, on both sides of the Thames, They made a strike last Monday, which adds much to their names. Their masters did not relish it, but they made them, understand, Before the next day’s sun had set, they gave them their demand.

The unflinching men of Stockport, with Kidderminster in their train, Three hundred honest weavers have struck, their ends to gain. Though the masters find they lose a deal, the tide must soon be turning, They find the men won’t, quietly, be robbed of half their earning.

Our London Weavers mean to show their masters, and the trade, That they will either cease to work, or else be better paid. In Spitalfields the Weavers worked with joy, in former ages, But they’re tired out of asking for a better scale of wages.

The monied men have had their way, large fortunes they have made, For things could not be otherwise, with labour badly paid; They roll along in splendour, and with a saucy tone, As Cobbett says, they eat the meat, the workman gnaws the bone.

In Liverpool the Postmen struck, and sent word to their betters, Begging them to recollect that they were men of letters, They asked for three bob more a week, and got it in a crack, And though each man has got his bag, they have not got the sack.

The Cabmen, and their masters, made up their minds last week, To stop the Cabs from running, now is not that a treat, The Hackney Carriage Act[9] has proved a very bitter pill, It’s no use to call out, Cab, Cab,[10] drive off and show your skill.

The Coopers and the Dockyard Men are all a going to strike. And soon there’ll be the devil to pay, without a little Mike, The farming men of Suffolk have lately called a go, And swear they’ll have their wages rose, before they reap or sow.

WE are all familiar with the carefully got up mendicants who infest the streets of London, with their mournful howls--how that they are “Frozen-out gardeners,” or “Have got no work to do,” etc., etc.; and in the early part of the century they were more numerous than now, as the police were not so efficient. One sample of this style of ballad must suffice.

_THE MECHANIC’S APPEAL TO THE PUBLIC._

GIVE attention awhile to my rhymes, Good people of every degree, I assure you these critical times Have reduced me to great poverty. I’m a tradesman reduced to distress, Dame Fortune on me long has frown’d, And that is the cause, I confess, Which compels me to roam up and down.

_Chorus._

_Then good people attend to my rhymes, And pity a tradesman reduced; For appealing to you in these times, I submissively hope you’ll excuse._

I once did in happiness dwell, With my family around me, at home; And little, (the truth I will tell) Did I think I’d have cause for to roam. But misfortune, she owed me a grudge, And entered in my Cottage door, And caused me in sorrow to mourn, And my misery long to deplore.

Mechanics are now at a stand, And trade, in all quarters, is bad, They’re complaining all over the land, And their children are hungry and sad. Travel Britain wherever you will, You may behold everything dead, The tradesmen are all standing still, And their children are crying for bread.

My family now weep in distress, With cold and with hunger they cry, Which grieves me to see, I confess, No food, nor employment have I. The Weather is cold and severe, And I do in sorrow lament; I have no food for my Children dear, And my goods are all taken for rent.

For a tradesman reduced, heave a sigh, Who in sorrow and agony grieve, And, good Christians, as you pass him by, With a little, pray, do him relieve. A little you never will miss, To one who in sorrow complain, And our heavenly Father above, The same will repay you again.

Oh, you that distress never knew, May your breast such affliction ne’er feel, The sufferings that I do endure, I cannot to you half reveal. For subsistence my clothes I have sold, I wander to look for a friend, So now my sad troubles are told, And my tale I am going to end.

THERE is a great deal of superstition, and folk-lore, contained in

_WOMEN’S SAYINGS_.

DRAW near, and give attention, And you shall hear my rhyme, The old women’s sayings, in the olden times High and low, rich and poor, By daylight or dark, Are sure to make Some curious remark; With some foolish idea Your brains they will bother, For some believe one thing, And some believe another.

_Chorus._

_These are odds and ends Of superstitious ways, The signs and the tokens, Of my grandmother’s days._

The first thing you will see, At the house of rich or poor, To keep the witches out, A horse shoe’s o’er the door. Bellows on the table, Cause a row both day and night, If there’s two knives across, You are sure to have a fight. There’s a stranger[11] in the grate, Or, if the cat should sneeze, Or lay before the fire, It will rain or freeze.

A cinder with a hole In the middle is a purse, But a long one, from the fire, Is a coffin, which is worse: A spider, ticking in the wall, Is the death watch at night, A spark in a candle, Is a letter sure as life. If your right eye itches, You’ll cry till out of breath, A winding sheet in the candle Is a sure sign of death.

If your left eye itches, You will laugh outright, But the left or the right, Is very good at night, If your elbow itch, A strange bed fellow found, If the bottom of your foot itch, You’ll tread on fresh ground: If your knee itch, you’ll kneel. In a church, that’s a good’un, And if your belly itch, You’ll get a lot of pudden.

If your back should itch, I do declare, Butter will be cheap, When the grass grows there: If the dog howl at night, Or mournfully cry, Or if the cock should crow, Some one will die. If you stumble upstairs, Indeed, I’m no railer, You’ll be married to a snob, Or else to a tailor.

A speck on your finger nail, Is a gift that’s funny, If your hand itch in the middle, You will get some money. Spilling of the salt Is anger outright, You’ll see a ghost, if the door Should rattle in the night. If your sweetheart Dreams of bacon and eggs, She’ll have a little boy That has got three legs.

The cat washing her face, The wind will blow, If the cat licks her foot It is sure for to snow. Put your gown, or your jacket On inside out, You will change your luck, And be put to the rout. If your nose itches, You’ll get vexed till you jump; If your great toe itches, You’ll get kicked on the rump.

If a girl snaps one finger, She’ll have a child it deems, And if she snaps two, She’s sure to have twins; And if she snaps eight, Nine, ten, or eleven, It’s a chance if she don’t Have twenty and seven. If you lay with your head Underneath the clothes, You’ll have an ugly old man, What has got no nose.

If you see a star shoot, You’ll get what you wish, If a hair get’s in your mouth, You’ll get as drunk as a fish. If your little toe itch, You’ll be lost in a wave, If you shiver, there’s somebody Going over your grave. If you go under a ladder, You’ll have bad luck and fall, And some say that bad luck Is better than none at all. So to please all outright, I have told you in rhyme, The great superstitions Of the olden time.

BALLADS exemplifying the first half of the present Century would be incomplete without some mention of coaching. It was essentially a horsey age, for railways were not, at least during the first quarter, the first (Stockton and Darlington) being opened September 27, 1825, so that people were obliged to rely on horses for their means of locomotion to any distance. Great improvement had been made in the construction of the stagecoaches, and they were very well horsed; in fact, with the exception of their being larger, they were very much like those which now run to Brighton, Guildford, etc.

Bob Logic, who is supposed to have written the subjoined ballad, was the companion of Corinthian Tom and Jerry Hawthorn, whose pranks were so graphically described by Pierce Egan in his “Life in London.” The George Shillibeer who is sung in the last verse was a large coach proprietor, even letting out hearses and mourning-coaches.--Nay, almost everything on wheels. To him is due the introduction of the Omnibus, the first of which ran from the Yorkshire Stingo, Marylebone Road, to the Bank of England, on July 4, 1829.

BOB LOGIC’S DESCRIPTION OF THE NEW BRIGHTON DILIGENCE FOR INSIDE PASSENGERS ONLY.

BOB LOGIC’S my name, to Brighton I’ve been, I don’t mean to tell you of all I have seen, But the _New Diligence_ is so much to my mind, That to sing in its praise I am fully inclined.

_Tippy Jack_, whom we all knew, a trump in his day, Once set off to Brighton, to figure away, But his gig was upset, so let persons of sense, Book for Brighton their place in the _New Diligence_.

There’s nothing so sure, as that pleasure they’ll find, Secure at all seasons from weather and wind, And each _Goodman_ will see, when the blasts bitter blow, The passengers all are secured from the _Snow_.

For they’re all inside places--no drenching with wet, In safety and comfort the company set; As in six hours time they at Brighton arrive, I am sure that no pleasure can equal the drive.

The Coupé the first in description must be, This, in English, means Chariot, and will just hold three; Here a lord, with his lady, and daughter may ride, As in their own carriage, in splendour and pride.

The next is the Coach, this is fitted for six, And here is the place where Bob Logic would fix. In company such as he wishes to be, Obliging and civil, good-natured and free.

And then comes the Omnibus, four on each side, Hold you secure in all weathers they ride, And if it were possible once to upset, I cannot imagine what harm they could get.

How different the time, when on the outside, You held fast by the rail, if you went for a ride, And the loss of a lynch pin, or crack of a spoke, Was the too certain signal to have your neck broke.

As economy now is the rage of the day, One Guinea a seat is the price of Coupé, Sixteen shillings the fare in the Coach large and fine, And the price in the Omni, twelve namesakes of mine.

’Tis my fate to suggest, so I’ll just give a hint, As I mean that my song should be put into print, The new diligence--_Constitution_ to name, And King, Lords, and Commons each part of the same.

Should their majesties then wish to come up to town, In prime style they’d be at St. James’s set down, If they take the Coupé, and Lords take the coach, With the Commons I would in the Omni approach.

_PAPER’D-UP HAIR._

OF all the gay fashions that are come in vogue, Since wearing the mantle, or bonny red brogue, There’s none so praiseworthy--you’ll find--I declare, As the elegant fashion of papering the hair.

The modern dames, both abroad and at home, Have got such a fashion of wearing the comb; To church or to market, they cannot repair, But must take an hour to paper their hair.

When in the evening they chance for to walk, To see their sweethearts, and with them to talk, An hour or two they must certainly spare, To fit in their combs, and to paper their hair.

From walking at evening these ladies retire, They draw up their seats, and chat by the fire, The tongs then to warm, they ready prepare, To squeeze up the papers quite tight in their hair.

And when that these ladies give over their talk, Then up to the looking-glass straight they will walk, They’ll dance, and they’ll caper, their arms they will square, To see if the papers look tight in their hair.

It’s the cheapest of curling that ever was found, You may do it with pipes, white, black, or brown; For colour of hair, I suppose they don’t care, For they tear up the Bible to paper their hair.

All you young lads that are frisky and trig, Pray shun the old females that wear a false wig; To toy with a young one, still make it your care, Whose delight is to trim up, and paper her hair.

Should you meet with a female, whose hair is cut short, Among other fair ones she is but a sport; She looks very shabby and out of repair, When she’s wanting the comb, and the paper’d-up hair.

But when they are married, it’s just the reverse, The paper and combs they quickly disperse; For nursing and cooking is then their whole care, They may then bid adieu to the paper’d-up hair.

_I LIKES A DROP OF GOOD BEER._

COME one and all, both great and small, With voices loud and clear, And let us sing, bless Billy the King, Who bated the tax upon beer.

_Chorus._

_For I likes a drop of good beer, I does, I’se pertickler fond of my beer, I is, And ---- his eyes, whoever he tries To rob a poor man of his beer._

Let Ministers shape the Duty on Cape, And cause Port wine to be dear, So that they keep, the bread and meat cheap, And gie us a drop of good beer.

In drinking of rum, the maggots will come, And soon bald pates will appear; I never goes out, but I carries about, My little pint noggin of beer.

My wife and I, feel always dry, At market on Saturday night, Then a noggin of beer, I never need fear, For my wife always says it is right.

In harvest field, there’s nothing can yield, The labouring man such good cheer, To reap and sow, and make barley grow, And to give them a skinfull of beer.

The farmer’s board will plenty afford, Let it come from far, or from near, And at harvest home, the jug will foam, If he gives his men plenty of beer.

Long may Queen Victoria reign, And be to her subjects dear, And we’ll wallop her foes, wherever we goes, Only give us a skinfull of beer.

_THE SNOB AND THE BOTTLE._