Songs of Distress

Home life of the Lancashire Factory Folk during the Cotton Famine

By Edwin Waugh 1862 (Contents)

Chiefly Written During the Cotton Famine

Stanzas to my starving kin in the North

By Eliza Cook

Sad are the sounds that are breaking forth
From the women and men of the brave old North!
Sad are the sights for human eyes,
In fireless homes, ‘neath wintry skies;
Where wrinkles gather on childhood’s skin,
And youth’s “clemm’d” cheek is pallid and thin;
Where the good, the honest – unclothed, unfed,
Child, mother, and father, are craving for bread!
But faint not, fear not – still have trust;
Your voices are heard, and your claims are just.
England to England’s self is true,
And “God and the People” will help you through.

Brothers and sisters! full well ye have stood,
While the gripe of gaunt Famine has curdled your blood!
No murmur, no threat on your lips have place,
Though ye look on the Hunger-fiend face to face;
But haggard and worn ye silently bear,
Dragging your death-chains with patience and prayer;
With your hearts as loyal, your deeds as right,
As when Plenty and Sleep blest your day and your night,
Brothers and sisters! oh! do not believe
It is Charity’s GOLD ALONE ye receive.
Ah, no! It is Sympathy, Feeling, and Hope,
That pull out in the Life-boat to fling ye a rope.

Fondly I’ve lauded your wealth-winning hands,
Planting Commerce and Fame throughout measureless lands;
And my patriot-love, and my patriot-song,
To the children of Labour will ever belong.
Women and men of this brave old soil!
I weep that starvation should guerdon your toil;
But I glory to see ye – proudly mute
Showing souls like the hero, not fangs like the brute.
Oh! keep courage within; be the Britons ye are;
HE, who driveth the storm hath His hand on the star!
England to England’s sons shall be true,
And “God and the People” will carry ye through!

The Smokeless Chimney

By a Lancashire Lady* (E.J.B.)

STRANGER! who to buy art willing,
Seek not here for talent rare;
Mine’s no song of love or beauty,
But a tale of want and care.

Traveller on the Northern Railway!
Look and learn, as on you speed;
See the hundred smokeless chimneys,
Learn their tale of cheerless need.

Ah! perchance the landscape fairer
Charms your taste, your artist-eye;
Little do you guess how dearly
Costs that now unclouded sky.

• These stanzas are extracted, by permission, from the second volume of “Lancashire Lyrics,” edited by John Harland, Esq., F.S.A. “They were written by a lady in aid of the Relief Fund. They were printed on a card, and sold, principally at the railway stations. Their sale there, and elsewhere, is known to have realised the sum of £160. Their authoress is the wife of Mr Serjeant Bellasis, and the only daughter of the late William Garnett, Esq. of Quernmore Park and Bleasdale, Lancashire.” Notes in “Lancashire Lyrics.”

“How much prettier is this county!”
Says the careless passer-by;
“Clouds of smoke we see no longer,
What’s the reason? – Tell me why.

“Better far it were, most surely,
Never more such clouds to see,
Bringing taint o’er nature’s beauty,
With their foul obscurity.”

Thoughtless fair one! from yon chimney
Floats the golden breath of life;
Stop that current at your pleasure!
Stop! and starve the child – the wife.

Ah! to them each smokeless chimney
Is a signal of despair;
They see hunger, sickness, ruin,
Written in that pure, bright air.

“Mother! mother! see! ‘twas truly
Said last week the mill would stop;
Mark yon chimney, nought is going,
There’s no smoke from ‘out o’th top!’
“Father! father! what’s the reason
That the chimneys smokeless stand?

Is it true that all through strangers,
We must starve in our own land?”

Low upon her chair that mother
Droops, and sighs with tearful eye;
At the hearthstone lags the father,
Musing o’er the days gone by.

Days which saw him glad and hearty,
Punctual at his work of love;
When the week’s end brought him plenty,
And he thanked the Lord above.

When his wages, earned so justly,
Gave him clothing, home, and food;
When his wife, with fond caresses,
Blessed his heart, so kind and good.

Neat and clean each Sunday saw them,
In their place of prayer and praise,
Little dreaming that the morrow
Piteous cries for help would raise.

Weeks roll on, and still yon chimney
Gives of better times no sign;
Men by thousands cry for labour,
Daily cry, and daily pine.

Now the things, so long and dearly
Prized before, are pledged away;
Clock and Bible, marriage-presents,
Both must go – how sad to say!

Charley trots to school no longer,
Nelly grows more pale each day;
Nay, the baby’s shoes, so tiny,
Must be sold, for bread to pay.

They who loathe to be dependent
Now for alms are forced to ask
Hard is mill-work, but, believe me,
Begging is the bitterest task.

Soon will come the doom most dreaded,
With a horror that appals;
Lo! before their downcast faces
Grimly stare the workhouse walls.

Stranger, if these sorrows touch you,
Widely bid your bounty flow;
And assist my poor endeavours
To relieve this load of woe.

Let no more the smokeless chimneys
Draw from you one word of praise;

Think, oh, think upon the thousands
Who are moaning out their days.

Rather pray that peace, soon bringing
Work and plenty in her train,
We may see these smokeless chimneys
Blackening all the land again.
1862.

The Mill-Hand’s Petition

The following verses are copied from “Lancashire Lyrics,” edited by John Harland, Esq., F.S.A. They are extracted from a song “by some ‘W.C.,’ printed as a street broadside, at Ashton-under-Lyne, and sung in most towns of South Lancashire.”

We have come to ask for assistance;
At home we’ve been starving too long;
An’ our children are wanting subsistence;
Kindly aid us to help them along.

CHORUS.

For humanity is calling;
Don’t let the call be in vain;
But help us; we’re needy and falling;
And God will return it again.

War’s clamour and civil commotion
Has stagnation brought in its train;
And stoppage bring with it starvation,
So help us some bread to obtain.

For humanity is calling.

The American war is still lasting;
Like a terrible nightmare it leans
On the breast of a country, now fasting
For cotton, for work, and for means.

And humanity is calling.

Cheer up a bit longer*

By Sameul Laycock

Cheer up a bit longer, mi brothers i’ want,
There’s breeter days for us i’ store;
There’ll be plenty o’ tommy an’ wark for us o’
When this ‘Merica bother gets o’er.
Yo’n struggled reet nobly, an’ battled reet hard,
While things han bin lookin’ so feaw;
Yo’n borne wi’ yo’re troubles and trials so long,
It’s no use o’ givin’ up neaw.

Feight on, as yo’ han done, an’ victory’s sure,
For th’ battle seems very nee won,
Be firm i’ yo’re sufferin’, an’ dunno give way;
They’re nowt nobbut ceawards’at run.
Yo’ know heaw they’n praised us for stondin’ so firm,
An’ shall we neaw stagger an’ fo?
Nowt o’th soart; – iv we nobbut brace up an’ be hard,
We can stond a bit longer, aw know.

It’s hard to keep clemmin’ an’ starvin’ so long;
An’ one’s hurt to see th’ little things fret,

• From “Lancashire Lyrics,” edited by John Harland, Esq., F.S.A.

Becose there’s no buttercakes for ‘em to eat;
But we’n allus kept pooin’ thro’ yet.
As bad as toimes are, an’ as feaw as things look,
We’re certain they met ha’ bin worse;
We’n had tommy to eat, an’ clooas to put on;
They’n only bin roughish, aw know.

Aw’ve begged on yo’ to keep up yo’re courage afore,
An’ neaw let me ax yo’ once moor;
Let’s noan get disheartened, there’s hope for us yet,
We needn’t dispair tho’ we’re poor.
We cannot expect it’ll allus be foine;
It’s dark for a while, an’ then clear;
We’n mirth mixed wi’ sadness, an’ pleasure wi’ pain,
An’ shall have as long as we’re here.

This world’s full o’ changes for better an’ wur,
An’ this is one change among th’ ruck;
We’n a toime o’ prosperity, – toime o’ success,
An’ then we’n a reawnd o’ bad luck.
We’re baskin’ i’ sunshine, at one toime o’th day,
At other toimes ceawerin’ i’th dark;
We’re sometoimes as hearty an’ busy as owt,
At other toimes ill, an’ beawt wark.

Good bless yo’! mi brothers, we’re nobbut on th’ tramp,
We never stay long at one spot;

An’ while we keep knockin’ abeawt i’ this world,
Disappointments will fall to eawer lot:
So th’ best thing we can do, iv we meon to get thro’,
Is to wrastle wi’ cares as they come;
We shall feel rayther tired,
But let’s never heed that,
We can rest us weel when we get whoam.

Cheer up, then, aw say, an’ keep hopin’ for th’ best,
An’ things ‘ll soon awter, yo’ll see;
There’ll be oceans o’ butties for Tommy an’ Fred,
An’ th’ little un perched on yo’re knee.
Bide on a bit longer, tak’ heart once ogen,
An’ do give o’er lookin’ so feaw;
As we’n battled, an’ struggled, an’ suffered so long,
It’s no use o’ givin’ up neaw.

Frettin’

(From “Phases of Distress – Lancashire Rhymes.”)

By Joseph Ramsbottom

Fro’ heawrs to days – a dhreary length –
Fro’ days to weeks one idle stons,
An’ slowly sinks fro’ pride an’ strength
To weeny heart an’ wakely honds;
An’ still one hopes, an’ ever tries
To think ‘at better days mun come;
Bo’ th’ sun may set, an’ th’ sun may rise,
No sthreak o’ leet one finds a-whoam.

Aw want to see thoose days again,
When folk can win whate’er they need;
O God! to think ‘at wortchin’ men
Should be poor things to pet an’ feed!
There’s some to th’ Bastile han to goo,
To live o’th rates they’n help’d to pay;
An’ some get dow* to help ‘em through;
An’ some are taen or sent away.

• Dole; relief from charity.

What is there here, ‘at one should live,
Or wish to live, weigh’d deawn wi’ grief,
Through weary weeks an’ months, ‘at give
Not one short heawr o’ sweet relief?
A sudden plunge, a little blow,
Would end at once mi’ care an’ pain!
An’ why noa do’t? – for weel aw know
Aw’s lose bo’ ills, if nowt aw gain.

An’ why noa do’t? It ill ‘ud tell
O’ thoose wur laft beheend, aw fear;
It’s wring, at fust, to kill mysel’,
It’s wring to lyev mi childer here.
One’s like to tak’ some thowt for them
Some sort o’ comfort one should give;
So one mun bide, an’ starve, an’ clem,
An’ pine, an’ mope, an’ fret, an’ live.

Th’ Shurat Weaver’s Song*

By Samuel Laycock

TUNE – “Rory O’More.”

Confound it! aw ne’er wur so woven afore;
My back’s welly brocken, mi fingers are sore;
Aw’ve been starin’ an’ rootin’ amung this Shurat,
Till aw’m very near getten as bloint as a bat.

Aw wish aw wur fur enough off, eawt o’th road,
For o’ weavin’ this rubbitch aw’m getten reet sto’d;
Aw’ve nowt i’ this world to lie deawn on but straw,
For aw’ve nobbut eight shillin’ this fortnit to draw.

Neaw, aw haven’t mi family under mi hat;
Aw’ve a woife and six childer to keep eawt o’ that;
So aw’m rayther amung it just neaw, yo may see
Iv ever a fellow wur puzzle’t, it’s me!

Iv aw turn eawt to steal, folk’ll co’ me a thief;
An’ aw conno’ put th’ cheek on to ax for relief;
As aw said i’ eawr heawse t’other neet to mi wife,
Aw never did nowt o’ this mak’ i’ my life.

O dear! iv yon Yankees could nobbut just see,
Heaw they’re clemmin’ an’ starvin’ poor weavers loike me,
Aw think they’d soon sattle their bother, an’ strive
To send us some cotton to keep us alive.

There’s theawsan’s o’ folk, just i’th best o’ their days,
Wi’ traces o’ want plainly sin i’ their faze;
An’ a futur afore ‘em as dreary an’ dark;
For, when th’ cotton gets done, we’s be o’ eawt o’ wark.

We’n bin patient an’ quiet as lung as we con;
Th’ bits o’ things we had by us are welly o’ gone;
Mi clogs an’ mi shoon are both gettin’ worn eawt,
An’ my halliday clooas are o’ gone “up th’ speawt!”

Mony a time i’ my days aw’ve sin things lookin’ feaw,
But never as awkard as what they are neaw;
Iv there isn’t some help for us factory folk soon,
Aw’m sure ‘at we’s o’ be knock’d reet eawt o’ tune.

• “During what has been well named ‘The Cotton Famine,’ amongst the imports of cotton from India, perhaps the worst was that denominated ‘Surat,’ from the city of that name in the province of Guzerat, a great cotton district. Short in staple, and often rotten, bad in quality, and dirty in condition, (the result too often of dishonest packers,) it was found to be exceedingly difficult to work up; and from its various defects, it involved considerable deductions, or ‘batings,’ for bad work, from the spinners’ and weavers’ wages. This naturally led to a general dislike of the Surat cotton, and to the application of the word ‘Surat’ to designate any inferior article. One action was tried at the assizes, the offence being the applying to the beverage of a particular brewer the term of ‘Surat beer.’ Besides the song given above, several others were written on the subject. One called ‘Surat Warps,’ and said to be the production of a Rossendale rhymester, (T. N., of Bacup,) appeared in Notes and Queries of June 3, 1865, (third series, vol. vii., p. 432,) and is there stated to be a great favourite amongst the old ‘Deyghn Layrocks,’ (Anglice, the ‘Larks of Dean,’ in the forest of Rossendale,) ‘who sing it to one of the easy-going psalm-tunes with much gusto.’ One verse runs thus:-

‘I look at th’ yealds, and there they stick;
I ne’er seen the like sin’ I wur wick!
What pity could befall a heart,
To think about these hard-sized warps!’

Another song, called ‘The Surat Weyver,’ was written by William Billington of Blackburn. It is in the form of a lament by a body of Lancashire weavers, who declare that they had

‘Borne what mortal man could bear,
Affoore they’d weave Surat.’

But they had been compelled to weave it, though

‘Stransportashun’s not as ill
As weyvin rotten Su’.

The song concludes with the emphatic execration,
‘To hell wi’ o’ Surat!’”

Note in “Lancashire Lyrics,” vol. ii., edited by John Harland, Esq., F.S.A.

God Help the Poor*

By Samuel Bamford

God help the poor, who in this wintry morn,
Come forth of alleys dim and courts obscure;
God help yon poor, pale girl, who droops forlorn,
And meekly her affliction doth endure!

God help the outcast lamb! she trembling stands,
All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands;
Her mournful eyes are modestly down cast,
Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast;
Her bosom, passing fair, is half reveal’d,
And oh! so cold the snow lies there congeal’d;
Her feet benumb’d, her shoes all rent and worn;
God help thee, outcast lamb, who stand’st forlorn!
God help the poor!

• These beautiful lines, by the veteran Samuel Bamford, of Harperhey, near Manchester, author of “Passages in the Life of a Radical,” &c., are copied from the new and complete edition of his poems, entitled “Homely Rhymes, Poems, and Reminiscences,” published by Alexander Ireland & Co., Examiner and Times Office, Pall Mall, Manchester. Price 3s. 6d., with a portrait of the author.

God help the poor! an infant’s feeble wail
Comes from yon narrow gate-way! and behold
A female crouching there, so deathly pale,
Huddling her child, to screen it from the cold!
Her vesture scant, her bonnet crush’d and torn;
A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold.
And there she bides the ruthless gale of morn,
Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold!
And now she sudden darts a ravening look,
As one with new hot bread comes past the nook;
And, as the tempting load is onward borne,
She weeps. God help thee, hapless one forlorn!
God help the poor!

God help the poor! Behold yon famish’d lad
No shoes, no hose, his wounded feet protect;
With limping gait, and looks so dreamy-sad,
He wanders onward, stopping to inspect
Each window, stored with articles of food;
He yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal.
Oh! to his hungry palate, viands rude
Would yield a zest the famish’d only feel!
He now devours a crust of mouldy bread
With teeth and hands the precious boon is torn,
Unmindful of the storm which round his head
Impetuous sweeps. God help thee, child forlorn
God help the poor!

God help the poor! Another have I found
A bow’d and venerable man is he;
His slouched hat with faded crape is bound,
His coat is gray, and threadbare, too, I see;
“The rude winds” seem to “mock his hoary hair;”
His shirtless bosom to the blast is bare.
Anon he turns, and casts a wistful eye,
And with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray;
And looks again, as if he fain would spy
Friends he hath feasted in his better day
Ah! some are dead, and some have long forborne
To know the poor; and he is left forlorn!
God help the poor!

God help the poor who in lone valleys dwell,
Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow
Theirs is a story sad indeed to tell!
Yet little cares the world, nor seeks to know
The toil and want poor weavers undergo.
The irksome loom must have them up at morn;
They work till worn-out nature will have sleep;
They taste, but are not fed. Cold snow drifts deep
Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door;
The night-storm howls a dirge o’er moss and moor!
And shall they perish thus, oppress’d and lorn?
Shall toil and famine hopeless still be borne! –
No! GOD will yet arise, and HELP THE POOR!

Tickle Times

By Edwin Waugh

Neaw times are so tickle, no wonder
One’s heart should be deawn i’ his shoon,
But, dang it, we munnot knock under
To th’ freawn o’ misfortin to soon;
Though Robin looks fearfully gloomy,
An’ Jamie keeps starin’ at th’ greawnd,
An’ thinkin’ o’th table ‘at’s empty,
An’ th’ little things yammerin’ reawnd.

Iv a mon be both honest an’ willin’,
An’ never a stroke to be had,
An’ clemmin’ for want ov a shillin’,
It’s likely to make him feel sad;
It troubles his heart to keep seein’
His little brids feedin’ o’th air;
An’ it feels very hard to be deein’,
An’ never a mortal to care.

But life’s sich a quare bit o’ travel,
A warlock wi’ sun an’ wi’ shade,
An’ then, on a bowster o’ gravel,
They lay’n us i’ bed wi’ a spade;
It’s no use o’ peawtin’ an’ fratchin’;
As th’ whirligig’s twirlin’ areawn’d,
Have at it again; an’ keep scratehin’,
As lung as your yed’s upo’ greawnd.

Iv one could but feel i’th inside on’t,
There’s trouble i’ every heart;
An’ thoose that’n th’ biggest o’th pride on’t,
Oft leeten o’th keenest o’th smart.
Whatever may chance to come to us,
Let’s patiently hondle er share,
For there’s mony a fine suit o’ clooas
That covers a murderin’ care.

There’s danger i’ every station,
I’th palace, as weel as i’th cot;
There’s hanker i’ every condition,
An’ canker i’ every lot;
There’s folk that are weary o’ livin’,
That never fear’t hunger nor cowd;
An’ there’s mony a miserly crayter
‘At’s deed ov a surfeit o’ gowd.

One feels, neaw ‘at times are so nippin’,
A mon’s at a troublesome schoo’,
That slaves like a horse for a livin’,
An, flings it away like a foo;
But, as pleasur’s sometimes a misfortin,
An’ trouble sometimes a good thing,
Though we liv’n o’th floor, same as layrocks,
We’n go up, like layrocks, to sing.

THE END

JOHN HEYWOOD, PRINTER, MANCHESTER.

278 (Blank page)

279

WAUGH’S POEMS AND LANCASHIRE SONGS. 5s.

CONTENTS

POEMS

The Moorland Flower – To the Rose-Tree on my Window Sill – Keen Blows the North Wind – Now Summer’s Sunlight Glowing – The Moorland Witch – The Church Clock – God Bless Thee, Old England – All on a Rosy Morn of June – Glad Welcome to Morn’s Dewy Hours – Alas, how Hard it is to Smile – Ye Gallant Men of England – Here’s to my Native Land – What Makes your Leaves Fall Down – Oh, had she been a Lowly Maid – The Old Bard’s Welcome Home – Oh, Come Across the Fields – Oh, Weave a Garland for my Brow – The Wanderer’s Hymn – Alone upon the Flowery Plain – Life’s Twilight – Time is Flying – The Moorlands – The Captain’s Friends – The World – To a Married Lady – Cultivate your Men – Old Man’s Song – Bide on – Christmas Song – Love and Gold – When Drowsy Daylight – Mary – To the Spring Wind – Nightfall – To a Young Lady – Poor Travellers all – The Dying Rose – Lines – The Man of the Time – Christmas Morning.

Songs in the Dialect

Come Whoam to thi Childer an’ Me – What ails Thee, my Son Robin – God Bless these Poor Folk – Come, Mary, Link thi Arm i Mine – Chirrup – The Dule’s i’ this Bonnet o’ Mine – Tickle Times – Jamie’s Frolic – Owd Pinder – Come, Jamie, let’s Undo thi Shoon – The Goblin Parson – While Takin’ a Wift o’ my Pipe – God Bless thi Silver Yure – Margit’s Coming.

Waugh’s Lancashire Songs

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CONTENTS.

Come Whoam to thi Childer an’ Me – What ails Thee, my Son Robin – God Bless these Poor Folk – Come, Mary, Link thi Arm i’ Mine – The Dule’s i’ this Bonnet o’ Mine – Come, Jamie, let’s Undo thi Shoon – Aw’ve Worn my Bits o’ Shoon Away – Chirrup – Bonny Nan – Tum Rindle – Tickle Times – Jamie’s Frolic – Owd Pinder – The Goblin Parson – While Takin’ a Wift o’ my Pipe – Yesterneet – God Bless thi Silver Yure – Margit’s Coming – Eawr Folk – Th’ Sweetheart Gate – Gentle Jone – Neet Fo’ – A Lift on th’ Way.

Waugh’s Lancashire Songs

In sheets, 1d. each.

CONTENTS.

Come Whoam to thi Childer an’ Me – What ails Thee, my Son Robin – God Bless these Poor Folk – Come, Mary, Link thi Arm i’ Mine – The Dule’s i’ this Bonnet o’ Mine – Come, Jamie, let’s Undo Thi Shoon – While Takin’ a Wift o’ my Pipe – God Bless thi Silver Yure – Aw’ve Worn my Bits o’ Shoon Away – Yesterneet – Owd Enoch – Chirrup – Tickle Times – Jamie’s Frolic – Owd Pinder – Th’ Goblin Parson – Margit’s Coming – Eawr Folk – Th’ Sweetheart Gate – Gentle Jone – Neet Fo’ – Bonnie Nan – A Lift on th’ Way – Tum Rindle – Buckle to.

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WAUGH’S. The Goblin’s Grave. 3d.
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WAUGH’S. Norbreck: A Sketch on the Lancashire Coast. 1d.
WAUGH’S. Birth-Place of Tim Bobbin. 6d.
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WAUGH’S. Sea-Side Lakes and Mountains of Cumberland. 6d.
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