Part 8

The old Widow Warmpurse, she wanted a spouse, No children had she, but she had a large house, Six children had Duggins, though not very small, So, thinks he, the large house will just hold them all.

So to court the widow, old Duggins began, Says she, I’ve been told you’re a sad naughty man, He replied, it ain’t true, and the widow knew not That he’d one piccaninny, much less a whole lot.

When he’d married the widow, my dear, says he, No doubt we shall have a large family, I hope we shall, she then to him did say, So the six little Duggins came home the next day.

The three Master Duggins, they made her a bow, The three little Misses, they curtsied, How! Says she, what means this? Why, said he, my old lass, It’s only my little ones come home from grass.

You wicked deceiver, quoth she, I am dish’d; Says he, for a great many children you wish’d, And, as no one is certain their wishes to have, I thought you might fancy a few ready made.

IT is the privilege of the aged to carp at modern doings, and to contrast them with things as they were in their youth. Farming, as it used to be carried out, could never pay now. In war time the farmers did well; in January, 1801, wheat was 137s. per quarter, and rose higher. But according to the Earl of Warwick, in a speech in Parliament (November 14, 1800), they did not benefit much by it--it was _light come, light go_, with them. “He wondered not at the extravagant style of living of some of the farmers, who could afford to play guinea whist, and were not contented with drinking wine, but even mixed brandy with it.” The small farms, with their little fields, cut even smaller by the huge hedges and ditches, soil undrained, no machinery, the earth merely scratched by the plough, could never grow wheat to sell at 32_s._ or 34_s._ per quarter, or to rear beef and mutton, to compete against imported meat.

_THE HONEST PLOUGHMAN, OR 90 YEARS AGO._

COME all you jolly husbandmen, and listen to my song, I’ll relate the life of a ploughman, and not detain you long, My father was a farmer, who banished grief and woe, My mother was a dairy maid--that’s 90 years ago.

My father had a little farm, a harrow and a plough, My mother had some pigs and fowls, a pony and a cow, They didn’t hire a servant, but they both their work did do, As I have heard my parents say, just 90 years ago.

The rent that time was not so high by far, as I will pen, For now one family’s nearly twice as big as then were ten, When I was born, my father used to harrow, plough and sow, I think I’ve heard my mother say, ’twas 90 years ago.

To drive the plough my father did a boy engage, Until that I had just arrived to seven years of age, So then he did no servant want, my mother milk’d the cow, And with the lark, I rose each morn, to go and drive the plough.

The farmer’s wives in every way themselves the cows did milk, They did not wear the dandy veils, and gowns made out of silk, They did not ride blood horses, like the farmer’s wives do now, The daughters went a milking and the sons went to the plough.

When I was fifteen years of age, I used to thrash and sow, Harrowed, ploughed, and in harvest time I used to reap and mow, When I was 20 years of age, I could manage well the farm, Could hedge and ditch, or plough, and sow, or thrash within the barn.

At length when I was 25, I took myself a wife, Compelled to leave my father’s house as I had changed my life, The younger children, in my place, my father’s work would do, Then daily, as an husbandman, to labour I did go.

My wife and me, though very poor, could keep a pig and cow, She could sit and spin and knit, and I the land could plough. There nothing was upon a farm, at all, but I could do, I find things very different now,--that’s many years ago.

We lived along contented, and banished pain and grief, We had not occasion then to ask for parish relief, But now my hairs are grown quite grey, I cannot well engage, To work as I had used to do, I’m 90 years of age.

But now that I am feeble grown, and poverty do feel, If, for relief I go, they shove me into a Whig Bastile,[38] Where I may hang my hoary head, and pine in grief and woe, My father did not see the like, just 90 years ago.

When a man has laboured all his life to do his country good, He’s respected just as much when old, as a donkey in a wood, His days are gone and past, and he may weep in grief and woe, The times are very different now to 90 years ago.

Now I am 90 years of age, if for relief I do apply, I must go into a Whig Bastile to end my days and die, I can no longer labour, as I no longer have, Then, at the last, just like a dog, they lay me in my grave.

_THE NEW FASHIONED FARMER._

GOOD people all, attend awhile, Whilst I relate a story, How the farmers in old England, Did once support their glory. When masters liv’d as masters ought, And happy in their station, Until at length, their stinking pride, Has ruined all the Nation.

_Chorus._

Let’s pray that hungry bellies may Be fill’d when they are empty, And where a servant gets ten pounds, I wish he may get twenty.

A good old fashioned long grey coat, The farmers us’d to wear, Sir, And on old Dobbin they would ride, To market or to fair, Sir, But now fine geldings they must mount, To join all in the chace, Sir, Dressed up like any lord or ’squire, Before their landlord’s face, Sir.

In former times, both plain and neat, They’d go to Church on Sunday, And then to harrow, plow, or sow, They’d go upon a Monday. But now, instead of the plough tail, O’er hedges they are jumping, And instead of sowing of their corn, Their delight is in fox hunting.

The good old dames, God bless their names, Were seldom in a passion, But strove to keep a right good house, And never thought on fashion. With fine brown beer their hearts to cheer, But now they must drink swipes, Sir, It’s enough to make a strong man weak, And give him the dry gripes, Sir.

The farmer’s daughters used to work All at the spinning wheel, Sir, But, now, such furniture as that, Is thought quite ungenteel, Sir. Their fingers they’re afraid to spoil, With any such kind of sport, Sir, Sooner than handle mop or broom, They’d handle a piano-forte, Sir.

Their dress was always plain and warm, When in their holiday clothes, Sir, Besides, they had such handsome cheeks, As red as any rose, Sir. But now, they’re frilled and furbelowed, Just like a dancing monkey, Their bonnets and their great black veils, Would almost fright a donkey.

When wheat it was a guinea a strike,[39] The farmers bore the sway, Sir, Now with their landlords they will ride, Upon each hunting day, Sir. Besides, their daughters they must join The ladies at the Ball, Sir, The landlords say, we’ll double their rents, And then their pride must fall, Sir,

I hope no one will think amiss, At what has here been penned, Sir, But let us hope that these hard times May speedily amend, Sir. It’s all through such confounded pride, Has brought them to reflection, It makes poor servants’ wages low, And keeps them in subjection.

_PRESENT TIMES, OR EIGHT SHILLINGS A WEEK._[40]

COME all you bold Britons, where’er you may be, I pray give attention, and listen to me, There once was good times, but they’re gone by complete, For a poor man lives now on Eight Shillings a week.

Such times in old England there never was seen, As the present ones now; but much better have been, A poor man’s condemned, and looked on as a thief, And compelled to work hard on Eight Shillings a week.

Our venerable fathers remember the year, When a man earned three shillings a day, and his beer. He then could live well, keep his family neat, But now he must work for Eight Shillings a week.

The Nobs of “Old England,” of shameful renown, Are striving to crush a poor man to the ground, They’ll beat down their wages and starve them complete, And make them work hard for Eight Shillings a week.

A poor man to labour (believe me ’tis so), To maintain his family is willing to go Either hedging, or ditching, to plough, or to reap, But how does he live on Eight Shillings a week.

In the reign of old George, as you all understand, Here then was contentment throughout the whole land, Each poor man could live, and get plenty to eat, But now he must pine on Eight Shillings a week.

So now to conclude and finish my song, May the times be much better, before it is long, May every labourer be able to keep His children and wife on Twelve Shillings a week.

THERE are very few Statute, or hiring, fairs now in existence, and perhaps it is as well, as a great deal of drunkenness and immorality used to occur at these meetings. The servants stood in groups according to their callings, each bearing some token of their employment; for instance, the carters carried a piece of whipcord. Employers of labour came and personally interviewed them, wages were agreed upon, and the hiring was for a year certain.

_JIG, JIG, TO THE HIRINGS._

YOU Farmers, Servants, far and near, Who do reside in ---- land Unto my song attend a while, These verses will cause you to smile. Now ---- land hirings are come again, The lasses gay and smart young men, Drest in their best, all jig away To see the fun on the hiring day.

When at the hirings they do arrive, Like bees a swarming in a hive, The servants they come flocking in, Until the hirings do begin. There’s pretty Sally, and pug nosed Poll, There’s slender Kate and dumpy Doll, With farmer’s daughters short and long, To ---- land hirings jig, jig along.

They now roll in, both thick and thin, Jack, Bob, Harry, Tom, and Jim, Waggoner Dick with his white smock, He swears he’ll smash his Sally’s clock. Ploughboy Jim, with whip so long, Among the lasses soon does throng, He finds his dear, and makes her sup, And afterwards the dance keeps up.

Masters and Mistresses enquire. Of Servants, if they want to hire, And when good servants they have found, They try and run the wages down. They offer such small wages, oh dear! Will scarce serve you throughout the year, They want servants, the greedy elves, To work for nought, and find themselves.

Says John, I ask twenty pound a year, I’ll take no less I do declare, There is plenty of work, they say, For years to come, on the Railway. So let each servant lad, and man, Stand up for wages when you can, For wages they must rise I’m told, Or else they’ll go to the Railroad.

Then John and Moll walk to and fro, They take a peep into the show, John buys her nuts, and cakes, and wine, With a few yards of ribbon fine. Then off they go to the Dancing room, The fiddler he strikes up a tune, And then, good Lord, what noise and rout, With John and Molly’s jigging about.

With fiddling, dancing, rum and beer, Both John and Moll feel rather queer, John squeezes her hand and looks so sly, Whilst Molly winks her funny eye. Then towards home they cross the hill, They soon forget the Poor Law Bill, And love plays up a rattling, While John and Molly jig it again.

So Maids, don’t jig, jig, lest you rue, Lads, to the lasses be kind and true, And when jig, jig you wish to play, To the Hirings jig, jig away. There, if you give the Parson his fee, You’ll find quite ready he will be, To hire you both so neat and trig, Then send you home to jig, jig.

_COUNTRY STATUTES._

COME all you lads of high renown, and listen to my story, For now the time is coming on, that is to all your glory, For Jumping Nan is coming here, the Statutes to admire, To see the lads and lasses standing all, a-waiting for their hire.

_Chorus._

Lo, to Hiring we have come, all for to look for places, If the master and we can agree, and he will give good wages.

The master that a servant wants, will stand now in a wonder, You all must ask ten pounds a year, and none of you go under, It’s you then, must do all the work, and what they do require, So now, stand up for wages, lads, before that you do hire.

There’s Rolling Jane the hemp will spin, and Sal will mind the dairy, And John will kiss his mistress when his master is a-weary, There’s Tom will reap and mow, they’ll thrash, and never tire, They’ll load the cart, and do their part, so they’re the lads to hire.

There’s Carter John, with whip so long, rises early in the morning, He’s always ready at his work, before the day is dawning, Hey up, gee wo, the plough must go, till he is almost weary, But a jug of ale, both stout and stale, it will soon make him merry.

There’s Poll so red, will made the bread, likewise good cheese and butter, And Bet so thick, will tread the rick, she’s never in a flutter: She’ll feed the sows and milk the cows, and do what she is able, Although she’s mean, she’s neat and clean, when waiting at the table.

There’s black eyed Fan, with the frying pan, will cook your eggs and bacon, With beef and mutton, roast and boiled, if I am not mistaken, She’ll made the puddings fat and good, all ready for your dinner, But, if you grumble when she’s done, she’ll cure you with the skimmer.

The farmer’s wife so full of pride, must have a lady’s maid, Sir, All for to dress and curl her hair, and powder it beside, Sir, But the girl of heart, to dress so smart, they call her charming Nancy, She can wink and blink in such a style, she’s all the young men’s fancy.

And when the mop it is all o’er, you that are young and hearty, Must take your girl all in your hand, and join a drinking party. But, when you are returning home, enjoying sweet embraces, With love and honour spend the night, at statutes, fairs, or races.

So all you pretty lasses gay, I do not wish to shame you, Nor yet do I intend at all, by any means to blame you; But I doubt next year you’ll want no places, If you care for yourselves going home from the races.

_THE BOLD POACHER._

WHEN I was bound ’prentice in fair Lincolnshire, I served my master for nearly seven year, Till I got up to poaching, as quickly you shall hear, It was my delight in a shiny night, in the season of the year.

As I and my bold comrades were setting of a snare, The game keeper was watching us, for him we did not care, For I could wrestle, or fight, my boys, or jump over any where, It was my delight in a shiny night, in the season of the year.

As I and my bold comrades were setting four or five, And going to take them up again, we found a hare alive, I have her in the bag, my boys, and through the woods we steer, It was my delight in a shiny night, in the season of the year.

I hung her over my shoulder, and rambled into the town, I callèd at a neighbour’s house, and sold her for a crown, I sold her for a crown my boys, but I’ll not tell you where, It was my delight, in a shiny night, in the season of the year.

Here’s to every poacher that lives in Lincolnshire, And here’s to every gamekeeper, that wants to buy a hare, But not every keeper that wants to keep his deer, It was my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.

THIS ballad shows that there are two sides to a poacher’s life.

_DEATH OF POOR BILL BROWN._

YE Gentlemen both great and small, Game keepers, poachers, sportsmen, all, Pray listen to my simple clown,[41] I’ll sing you the death of poor Bill Brown, I’ll sing you the death of poor Bill Brown.

One stormy night as you shall hear, (It was in the season of the year,) We went to the woods to catch a fat buck, But ah! that night we had bad luck, Bill Brown was shot and his dog was stuck.

When we got to the wood our sport begun, I saw the Game keeper present his gun, I call’d on Bill to climb the gate, To fetch the fat buck, but it was too late, For there he met his untimely fate.

Then, dying he lay upon the ground, And in that state poor Bill I found, And when he saw me, he did cry, “Revenge my death,” I will, said I, For many a hare we’ve caught hard by.

I knew the man that shot Bill Brown, I knew him well and could tell his clown, And to describe it in my song, Black jacket he had, and red waistcoat on, I knew him well, and they called him Tom.

I dressed myself up, next night in time, I got to the wood and the clock struck nine, The reason was, and I’ll tell you why, To find the game keeper I’ll go try, Who shot my friend, and he shall die.

I ranged the wood all over and then I looked at my watch, and it was just ten, I heard a footstep upon the green, And I laid down for fear of being seen, For I plainly saw that it was Tom Green.

Then I took my piece fast in my hand, Resolved to fire if Tom did stand; Tom heard the noise, and turn’d him round, I fired, and brought him down to the ground, My hand gave him his deep death wound.

Now, revenge, you see, my hopes have crown’d, I’ve shot the man that shot Bill Brown, Poor Bill no more these eyes will see, Farewell, dear friend, farewell to thee, For I’ve crowned his hopes and his memory.

_THE JOLLY ANGLER._

O, THE jolly angler’s life is the best of any, It is a fancy void of strife, and will be lov’d of many, It is no crime at any time, but a harmless pleasure, It is a bliss of lawfulness; it is a joy, ’tis not a toy; It is a skill that breeds no ill; it is sweet and complete; Adornation to our mind; it’s witty, pretty, decent, pleasant; Pastime we shall sweetly find, if the weather prove but kind, We will have our pleasure.

In the morning up we start, as soon as daylight’s peeping, We take a cup to cheer the heart, and leave the sluggard sleeping, Forth we walk, with merry talk to some pleasant river, Near the Thames’ silver streams; there we stand, rod in hand, Fixing right, for a bite; but if the bait the fish allure, They come bobbing, nipping, biting, skipping, Dangling on our hooks secure; with such a pastime sweet and pure. We could fish for ever.

Various objects to be seen, O, what pleasure there is, Can there be a purer joy--if so--tell me, where is? Birds they sing, and flowers spring; full of delectation, A whistling breeze runs through the trees, there we meet meadows sweet; Flowers sweet, the mind unbent; here is scent, of sweet content. Living, giving, easing, pleasing; by those sweet refreshing bowers, Vitals from those herbs and flowers, rais’d up by those falling showers, For man’s recreation.

As thro’ the shady forest, where echo there is sounding, Hounds and huntsmen roving there, in their sports abounding; Hideous noise, in all their joys, not to be admired; Whilst we fish, to gain a dish; with a hook, in the brook, Watch our float, spare our throat, while they’re sult’ring to and fro; Twivy, Twivy, Twivy, hark the horn does sweetly blow, Hounds and huntsmen all in a row, With their pastime tired.

We have gentles in our horns, we have worms and paste, too; Landing net and floats we have, with hooks of all sizes; We have line and choice of twine, fitting for the angle; If they don’t show, away we’ll go, seeking out chub or trout, Eel or pike, or the like, dace or bleak, these we seek, Barbel, jack, and many more, gudgeons, perches, tenches, roaches; Here’s the jolly angler’s store; we have choice of fish galore, We will have our angle.

If the sun’s excessive heat, should our bodies sulter, To some house or hedge retreat, for some friendly shelter: But, if we spy a shower nigh, or the day uncertain, Then we flee beneath a tree; then we eat our victuals sweet, Take a coke, smoke and soak; then again, to the same, But, if we can no longer stay, we come laughing, joking, quaffing, smoking, So delightful all the way; thus we do conclude the day, With a cup at parting.

_THE HUMOURS OF THE RACES._

GOOD people all draw near, and listen to my ditty, A song to you I’ll sing, that is both short and pretty, There’s countrymen and maids, with their sweet and ruddy faces, Link’d in each other’s arms,--they’re coming to the races.

Here’s Coaches and Tandems, there’s Gigs and Carts likewise, Sir, And ladies grandly dress’d, with dandy cap beside, Sir, They have a cabbage net to cover o’er their faces With a footman at their heels, they’re coming to the races. Now look at the Grand Stand, where the gentlemen are sitting, Whilst the horses run the course, hundreds of them are betting, Some win a handsome sum, and others pull wry faces,

As they are going home, wish they’d never seen the races. The time it being arrived, the bell it is rung loudly, The horses are well bred, they walk the course so proudly, The gentlemen in red, so gallant in their places, The course for to keep clear always at the races.

The horses then do start, O! what a row and pother, They push and shove away, one tumbling o’er another, Here’s girls upon the course, with their fine rings and lockets, But while the horses run, I’d have you mind your pockets.

There’s spruce Eliza Long, and Polly, Kate, and Sukey, Besides, there’s Molly Ruff, remarkable for beauty; There’s pretty lasses gay, who are fond of men’s embraces, But if you don’t take care, they’ll make you curse the races.

And when the heat is o’er, into the booth they’ll toddle, They drink of gin and ale, till it affects their noddle: While your money lasts, they’ll use you very civil, But when your blunt is gone, they’ll kick you like the devil.

The next unto the shows, the people are advancing, The show folks on the stage like puppets are a dancing, The showman bawls aloud, “Come in and take your places, I’ll show you Punch and Nan, now you’ve come to the Races.”

Here’s wheelbarrows with nuts, here’s pies and tarts likewise, Sir, All for to please your taste, if you’re inclin’d to buy, Sir; Here’s the best of beef and ham, and muffins too, and crumpets, Lark whistles, rattles, drums, and also wooden trumpets.

When the races they are o’er, and money growing short, Sir, There’s many a luckless wight may with reason curse the sport, Sir, The finest race you’ll see, when the horse races are over, Will be unto the house where three balls the door hangs over.

_THE BONNY GREY._

COME, you cock Merchants, far and near, Did you hear of a cock battle happened near, Those Liverpool lads, I’ve heard them say, The Charcoal Black, and the Bonny Grey.

We went to Jim Ward’s and call’d for a pot, Where this cock battle was fought; Twenty guineas a side these cocks did play, The Charcoal Black, and the Bonny Grey.

Then Lord Derby came swaggering down, Bet ten guineas to a crown, If this Charcoal Black it gets fair play, He will rip the wings of your Bonny Grey.