Part 3

GOOD people, attend to my song, And listen to something that’s witty, It is not too short, or too long, But concerning town, country and city. Advice to all tradesmen I give, Snips, bakers, snobs, grocers and tanners, I’m a lady possessed of three outs,[12] I’ve neither wit, money, nor manners, So pray of the bottle beware.

My old man is a ranting old snob, He looks in the face like a monkey, All night like a goose he does sob, And he’s just as much sense as a donkey. He sold all the old shoes in the shop, And poured the contents down his throttle, All day he sits hugging the pot, And singing success to the bottle.

He has but one shirt to his back, And that is all rent into stitches; He has never a crown to his hat, He has worn out the seat of his breeches. An old sack for an apron he wears, And his nose is as big as a pottle, Last night he fell over the stairs, Singing joy and success to the bottle.

Our bed clothes are all up the spout, And jigs to the lapstone may whistle, He the chairs and the tables took out, His leather, awl, lapstone and bristles. He sold all the lot for a bob, And sent the proceeds down his throttle, Bad luck to the drunken old snob, May the devil take him and the bottle.

My gown the old rogue sold for rags, Though with him I had a good tussle, My nightcap he sold for a mag, And three halfpence my bonnet and bustle. There’s a hump growing out of his back, Just nine times as large as a wattle,[13] Last night he woke up in a fright, And killed the poor cat with the bottle.

There’s the landlord calls three times a day, And the butcher and baker, by jingo, And if the old rogue doesn’t pay, They’ll shove him for twelve months in limbo, But they may as well talk to a post, For the money all goes down his throttle, Bad luck to the ugly old ghost, May the devil fetch him and the bottle.

He says unto me, I am poor, And call me his dear loving doxey, And when he gets out of the door, The boys holloa out after him, “Waxey.” Enough for to drown a bull, Every morning he pours down his throttle, Don’t you think that I’ve got a good pull, With the ranting old snob and the bottle.

The bottle has quite ruined me, Though quiet and easy I take it; The bottle has robbed me of tea, And left me both hungry and naked. The bottle has robbed the old snob, And burnt all his tripes and his throttle And, at length, what an excellent job! Old Nick fetch’d the snob and the bottle.

_RORY O MORE TURNED TEETOTAL._

YOUNG Rory O More who to London had been, The fashions to see, and make love to the Queen, Oft swore by the soul of the shamrock so dear, That he’d bate the young prince, if his father stood near. By the powers, if he once in his clutches should come, He’d give him what Paddy bestowed on his drum: For Rory had leathered his rivals before, Och! a broth of a boy was bold Rory O More. Bad cess to the Queen and the Jarmins says he, I’ve a nice little sheelah across the salt sea, Her looks beam so brightly on Erin’s green shore, I’ll go to sweet Kathleen, cried Rory O More.

Then he took little Shiel, and old Dan by the hand, And wish’d them good bye as he sailed from the land, He twirl’d round his blackthorn when clean out of sight, And knock’d down the captain for fun and delight. But a squall coming on, and a terrible breeze, The sailors cried, Rory, go down on your knees; Cried Rory, I’m safe if the ship should go down, For I paid my Insurance before I left town. Then pull away, haul away, do as you please, Blow rough, or blow smooth, I will sit at my ease, And drink to my friends on the shamrock shore, Success to old Ireland, cried Rory O More.

Being landed once more at the land of his birth, The land of shilalieghs, of whiskey, and mirth, He met Denis Grimes with a face pale and wan, Och Murther! cried Rory, what’s ailing the man? Is it temperance you’re being, och! leave off that same, Come over and take a sly drop of the crame. Arrah! what do I see? sure my eyes are not clear, The sign is removed, and there’s Coffee sold here. Father Mathew[14] himself was passing that way, And unto bold Rory these words he did say, For the sake of Hibernia be tipsy no more, I’ll try my best, father, cried Rory O More.

Of the hurlings and fightings, no more’s to be seen, But the daughters of Erin trip light o’er the green; The gaols are all empty, the judges look blue, The lawyers are starving with nothing to do, And Rory O More, and his beautiful Kate, Wear temperance medals, so dasent and nate. As he looks on his Kathleen, he says with a smile, That she shall be Queen of the Emerald Isle. And the shores of Hibernia with gladness shall sound, And the green hills of Erin once more shall resound, And this is the cry that shall sound from the shore, “God bless the Teetotal,” cried Rory O More.

_HURRAH FOR FATHER MATHEW’S MILL._

TWO jolly old topers once sat at an inn, Discussing the merits of brandy and gin, Said one to the other, I’ll tell you what, Bill, I’ve been hearing, to day, of Father Mathew’s Mill.

You must know that this comical Mill has been built, Of old broken casks, when the liquor’s been spilt, You go up the steps, and when at the door sill, You’ve a paper to sign at Father Mathew’s Mill.

You promise, by signing the paper (I think), That ale, wine and spirits, you never will drink, You’ll give up, as they call it, such rascally swill, And then you go into Father Mathew’s Mill.

There’s a wheel in this Mill that they call “self denial,” They turn it a bit, just to give you a trial; Old clothes are made new ones, and if you’ve been ill, You’re very soon cured in Father Mathew’s Mill.

Bill listened, and wondered, at length he cried out-- “Why, Tom, if it’s true what you’re telling about, What fools we must be, to be here sitting still, Let us go and look in at Father Mathew’s Mill.”

They gazed with amazement, for up came a man, With disease and excesses, his visage was wan, He mounted the steps--signed the pledge with good will, And went for a turn in Father Mathew’s Mill.

He quickly came out quite the picture of health, And walked briskly on in the highway of wealth, And, as onward he pressed, he shouted out still, Success to the wheel of Father Mathew’s Mill!

The next that went in were a man and his wife, For many long years they’d been living in strife, He had beat and abused her, and swore he would kill, But his heart took a turn in Father Mathew’s Mill.

And when he came out, oh how altered was he! His conduct was changed; and how happy was she! They no more contended--no, you shan’t--yes, I will, But together they’re blessing Father Mathew’s Mill.

Then next came a fellow as grim as a Turk, To curse and to swear seemed his principal work, He swore that that morning, his skin he would fill, And, drunk as he was, he reeled into the Mill.

But what he saw there, sure I never could tell, But his Conduct was changed, and his language as well, I saw, when he turned round the brow of the hill, That he knelt and thanked God for Father Mathew’s Mill.

The poor were made rich, the rich were made strong, The shot[15] was made short, and the purse was made long, These miracles puzzled both Thomas and Bill, At length they went in for Father Mathew’s Mill.

A little time after, I heard a great shout, I turned round to see what the noise was about, And a crowd, among which were both Thomas and Bill, Were shouting hurrah for Father Mathew’s Mill.

_HOW FIVE AND TWENTY SHILLINGS WERE EXPENDED IN A WEEK._

IT’S of a tradesman and his wife, I heard the other day, Who did kick up a glorious row; they live across the way; The husband proved himself a fool, when his money all was spent, He asked his wife, upon her life, to say which way it went.

_Chorus._

So she reckon’d up, and told him, and showed him quite complete, How five and twenty shillings were expended in a week.

He says my wages are all gone, and it does me perplex, Indeed, said she, then list to me, my bonny cock of wax. Continually you make a noise, and fill the house with strife, I’ll tell you where your money goes; I will upon my life.

There’s three and twopence house rent; now attend to me she said, There’s four shillings goes for meat, and three and ninepence, bread, To wash your nasty dirty shirt, there’s half a pound of soap, There’s eightpence goes for Coals, old boy, and sixpence wood and Coke.

There’s fourpence for milk and cream, and one and fourpence malt, Three halfpence goes for vinegar, one halfpenny for salt; A penny goes for mustard, a halfpenny for thread, And you gave threepence the other night, for a piece of pig’s head.

A red herring every morning is sevenpence a week, Sometimes you send me out for fish, you say you can’t eat meat, Last Monday night you got so drunk, amongst your dirty crew, It cost two pence next morning for a basin of hot stew. There’s a penny goes for pepper too, as you shall understand, Twopence soda, starch and blue, and a halfpenny for sand, Sevenpence for Candles, a halfpenny for matches, And a penny worth of Corduroy, I bought to mend your breeches.

A shilling potatoes and greens, with tenpence butter, you see, Sixpence Coffee, ninepence Sugar, and sevenpence for tea, There’s a penny goes for this thing, and twopence that and t’other, Last week you broke a water jug, and I had to buy another.

There’s sixpence for tobacco, and a halfpenny for pipes, Seven farthings goes for snuff, and twopence halfpenny swipes; A penny you owed for shaving, over at the Barber’s shop, And you know last Sunday morning, you’d a bottle of ginger pop.

There’s a penny goes for blacking, and eight pence halfpenny cheese, A three farthing rushlight every night, to catch the bugs and fleas; And when you go to the public house, and sit to drink and sing, I pop into the liquor vaults, to have a drop of gin.

THE only reason why the subjoined is given, is to show the numerous small industries by which people could manage to eke out a living in the first half of the century.

_THE WAY TO LIVE._

_Chorus._

_A man and a woman got married one day, And thus unto each other did say, As we the world must now begin, We will deal in every following thing._

_She._ We will deal in apples, plums and pears, _He._ We will mend old bellows and bottom old chairs, _She._ We will buy old metal, rope and bags, _He._ Yes, and I’ll go out a gathering rags.

_She._ We will sell red herrings and ginger pop, _He._ Hot baked sheep’s head and taters hot, _She._ We’ll keep a school of high degree, _He._ And learn the children A. B. C, _She._ We’ll salt fat bacon, butter and lard, _He._ And great long songs for a penny a yard, _She._ I’ll sell potash, starch and blues, _He._ And I’ll go sweeping the chimney flues. _She._ I’ll make bustles and lady’s frills, _He._ And I’ll sell mussels and pickled eels, _She._ We’ll deal in razors, strops and hones, _He._ And I’ll go out a picking up bones, _She._ We’ll deal in paper, take in the news, _He._ And I’ll go a cobbling ladies’ shoes, _Both._ {And we’ll learn the ladies all complete, {To dance the Polka at threepence a week.

_She._ We’ll deal in lollipops, sugar and figs, _He._ We’ll buy a donkey, ducks hens and pigs, _She._ We’ll have a mangle, and buy old clothes, _He._ And I’ll make salve for the ladies’ toes. _She._ We’ll deal in pickled cabbage and eggs, _He._ And make tin dishes and wooden legs. _She._ We’ll deal in sausages, tripe and lard, _He._ And if we can’t live, ’twill be devilish hard.

_She._ We’ll deal in Oils, sperm, train and neat, _He._ And I’ll make stockings for children’s feet, _She._ We will sell hot muffins and home baked bread, _He._ Pins and needles, cotton and thread. _She._ We’ll grind old razors, scissors and knives, _He._ And keep lodgings for single men and their wives, _She._ We’ll deal in lobsters, shrimps and sprats, _He._ And I’ll sell meat for the ladies’ cats.

_She._ We’ll deal in fish, fresh, boiled, and fried, _He._ And let out donkeys a penny a ride, _She._ I will the ladies fortune tell, _He._ And I’ll cry, Old umbrellas to sell, _She._ We will take in the blooming ladies bright, _He._ And sleep in the garret at threepence a night, _She._ I’ll sing, Come buy my Crockery ware, _He._ And I’ll go dressing the ladies hair.

_She._ We’ll sell ripe Cherries, pea soup and milk, _He._ Oranges, lemons and pickled wilks, _She._ Wooden rolling-pins at the Royal Exchange, _He._ And if we can’t get on we may think it strange,

(The chorus make up the last four lines of this verse.)

_THE CRIES OF LONDON._

OH! what fun is to be seen in town every day, There is something to pass dull care away, Some sort of a cry you are sure for to meet, In winter and summer as the time of year flies, You will find in London a melody of cries.[16]

_Chorus._

It’s fun for to hear, as you walk up and down, The fashionable cries of great London town.

A strong deal table to be sold to night, Penny a lot oysters, come run, fetch a light, Here’s good eating apples, a penny the lot, Now who’ll buy a cap or a bonnet box; Clothes pegs, or lines, buy a clothes prop, Here’s fine Cauliflowers, who’ll buy a Mop?

Live fleas with a gold chain round their neck, Here’s fine young peas sixpence a peck, Songs three yards a penny, Oh! what a lie! For half of them are not there, what they do cry. Fine pickled salmon, warranted sound, And good salt cod, a penny a pound.

Here’s the last dying speech, I forgot to tell, Fine Cabbage plants, young lambs to sell, Do you want any matches, ma’m, to day, Buy a pit ticket, or a bill of the play, Good strong laces, a halfpenny each, Two bunches a penny, spring watercress.

Clothes, sale clothes the Jews do cry, Mutton, Apple, Beef, all hot, toss or buy, Dust O, dust, and sweep soot O, Fine pickled eels feet, now here’s a go, Buy a bird cage, fine summer cabbage, Walk up now, and see the Indian savage.

Here’s lily white mussels, a penny a quart, Fine ripe plums, now the blooming sort, Penny a head celery, a good woman’s cap, Buy a brush, a hair broom, or a door mat, Here are mild red herrings, a halfpenny each, Come move on there, says the New Police.

Wood three bundles a penny, all dry deal, Now who’ll buy a good flint and steel, Buy a walking stick, a good ash stump, Hearth stones, pretty maids, a penny a lump, Fine mackerel, penny a plateful, sprats, Dog’s meat, ma’am, for to feed your cats.

Twelve a penny walnuts, crack and try em, Fine barcelonies, now who’ll buy em? Here are good mealy potatoes from Paddy’s land, Good burning turf and lily white sand, I think, good friends, I have kept you too long, The next cry is, now who’ll buy my song.

THE Modern Police is the outcome of the old Watch, which, always inefficient, had become so much so, as to necessitate its abolition, and, under the auspices of Sir Robert Peel[17] the “New Police,” as they were called, were formed, and they commenced their duties on September 29, 1829. Until a very recent time they wore swallow-tailed coats and tall hats, and were the subjects of good-humoured witticisms from all. There is no doubt but that the change of costume to the tunic and helmet has induced a better class of men to join the force, and has raised its standard of efficiency immensely. Whitaker for 1888 gives the number of the Metropolitan Police as 13,855.

_THE HONEST POLICEMAN OF MITCHAM._

SOME Policemen are right honest men, And some we know are gluttons, Some cookey darling courting goes, To taste her roasted mutton:

Some can twirl the rolling-pin If girls should them draw nigh, sir, Some are fond of rabbit skins, And some of rabbit pie, sir.

A house the Sergeant had to keep, At least for to look after, He was a guardian of the peace, And had a wife and daughter.

The Sergeant in the parlour lived, And his lady in the kitchen, And such a game they carried on, Good lack a day, at Mitcham.

Such a lot of property was there, Belonging to Captain Higging, And so it seems the Sergeant and His lady went a prigging.

They took the sofas and the beds, The blankets and the cradles, The silver plate, the chamber mug, Chairs and mahogany tables.

Two hundred sovereigns worth of goods, Pianoforte and shawls, sir, And then for safety placed them in The hands of Uncle Balls, Sir.

The neighbours say they had as much As they could well desire, And then to hide the wicked deed, They set the place on fire.

The Captain of his rights, They did so nicely fleece him, But great suspicion fell upon The Sergeant of Policemen.

The Sergeant thought to cut his stick, And bolt across the water, But Justice the Policeman caught, His honest wife and daughter.

Alas! poor Bob has gone to quod, And that I know won’t suit him, They know him well at Mitcham, and In Merton, and in Tooting.

For soon he will his trial take, And hard bull beef be munching, He’ll lose his lantern, coat and cape, And curse his wooden truncheon.

To steal another’s goods his hands, And fingers were a itching And he will run and look so blue, About the job at Mitcham.

Poor Sergeant Bob has gone to quod A place that does not suit him, They know him well at Merton round, In Mitcham and in Tooting.

WHEN the present Police force was first organized it was composed of men decidedly inferior in physique, intelligence, and education, to those constables whose protection we now enjoy. They were made the butt of every kind of coarse witticism, and were generally addressed by some slang name. Above all they were chaffed for their supposed partiality for the society of Cooks, and I reproduce one ballad bearing on this subject, a parody of the song of “Katty Darling.”

_COOKEY DARLING._

_I’m waiting at the airey, Cookey, darling, Your fire brims brightly, I can see: Then hasten to your peeler, Cookey, darling, For you know, my love, I’m waiting for thee._[18] You know that ’twas last night you gave me Only half a leg of mutton and a goose, Then hasten to your peeler, Cookey darling, Or on Sunday I shan’t be of any use. Cookey, stunning Cookey!

I’m waiting at the airey, Cookey, darling, Then bring me up something good to eat, Some lush for my stomach to be warming, And the grub I’ll put away on my beat. I can see wine, too, on the table, Sent down because it was not bright, To drink it, Cookey, you know I am able, My love, you know, to put it out of sight. Cookey, stunning Cookey!

I can see pies and puddings, Cookey darling, Veal, ham, and every thing so nice, I’m sure I shall go mad, Cookey darling, If off that beef I haven’t a two pound slice. But I hear the sergeant coming, Full well I know his power, Then get the grub ready, Cookey darling, And I’ll be back in half an hour. Cookey, stunning Cookey!

_I SHOULD LIKE TO BE A POLICEMAN._

SOME folks may talk about a trade, And the joys that from it spring, Sirs, And after you my words have weighed, You’ll say it’s no such thing, Sirs. Though at me you may jeer and laugh, My joys think to decrease, man, But I mean to say, (and I do not chaff,) I should like to be a policeman.

_Chorus._

Taking up and knocking down, Your noise and bother cease, man, O, won’t I come it jolly brown, When I’m a new Policeman.

Of the boys, I’d be the terror, mind, The fruit stalls, too, I’d sell ’em, And disturbance of every kind, I with my staff would quell ’em, A “charge” would be as good as pelf, My pleasures ’twould increase, man, For I’d make the “charges” up myself, When I’m a new Policeman.

To the kitchen maids like wax I’d stick, And tho’ I’m not a glutton, (The thoughts on’t makes me my chops lick) Oh, I likes a bit of mutton. When in my toggery I’m arrayed, From me there’s no release, man, The boldest of men would be afraid, If I was a new Policeman.

A drunken man’s a chance I’d hail, It would my ear delight, Sir, To search him well I would not fail, For right is naught to might, Sir. I’d turn his pockets inside out, And quickly would him flay, man, And who would dare to harbour doubt, Against a new Policeman.

The cracksmen too, should tip to me, Or else I would soon lag ’em, But if they did, I should not see, That is I should not “stag” ’em. And, if amusement I should lack, Tho’ I’m one that likes the peace, man, A pate or two, I’d surely crack, I should like to be a Policeman.

The prospect does me much delight, I mount on wings of joy, Sir, It does to wealth and fame invite, And pleasure without alloy, Sir, When I’m established in the force, I’ll have a bob a piece, man, From lushy swells, or I’ll lock ’em up, I should like to be a Policeman.

THIS was a famous fight between these two redoubtable heroes, famous even in the bad old times of the Ring. Caunt was a man of gigantic height who kept a somewhat disreputable public-house in St. Martin’s Lane, into which, in my young days, it was hardly safe to enter. A fire occurred there, and some of his children were burnt. William Thompson, _alias_ Bendigo, was a native of Nottingham, and was a professional pugilist from his twenty-first year of age.

_BENDIGO, CHAMPION OF ENGLAND._

(_A New Song on the Great Fight between Bendigo and Caunt, for the Belt and £400, which took place at Witchwood, on Tuesday September 9th 1845._)

YE ranting lads, and sporting blades, come listen to my song, I’m sure that it will please you well, and will not keep you long. Concerning the great milling match that lately has been fought, Between great Caunt and Bendigo, two lads of the right sort.

_Chorus._

So we’ll drink success to Bendigo, who showed such gallant play, For by his skill, he won the mill, and bore the prize away.

On the ninth day of September, eighteen hundred, forty five, To Witchwood for to see the fight, the sporting coves did drive, While some did laugh, and some did chaff, and of their man did vaunt, Some bet their ten on Bendigo, and some on giant Caunt.

And when the ground was ready, both those champions quickly peeled, Two braver men on England’s ground did never take the field, The fancy swore they were top mark,--an honour to the ring, Two stouter hearts had never met, since Langan and Tom Spring.