Homely Rhymes On Bad Times. Poem by Samuel Bamford

Erewhile I sang of courtly dame,
With eyes divine and tresses fair,
And look'd, and look'd until there came
Creeping around my heart a snare;
But hitherto we've been aware
In time to shun all sinfulness;
Besides my wife is passing fair,
And doth with true affection bless,
Sufficient then my happiness.

And I have sung about the War
Which swept my countrymen away,
Scattering their mangled bodies far,
From Belgium to Corunna's Bay.
Oh! then the wolf had glorious prey;
Daily he walk'd forth to dine,
And lapp'd the warm blood merrily,
As the blithe tippler takes his wine,
That kings might reign by right divine.

And I awake a fearless strain,
About the rulers of our land;
These limbs have borne their heavy chain,
Their fetters too have galled my hand,
And twice accused did I stand
Of treason 'gainst a hated king;
Lo! falsehood fails, and I demand
Justice for my imprisoning—
Justice! Ah, there was no such thing.

E'en now in prison do I write,
This is the sixth in which I've lain,
Not for infringing any right,
Not life nor property I've ta'en.
Ask you the reason, then; 'tis plain—
I made escape upon that day
When many of my friends were slain,
And many sorely wounded lay
Gasping in their strong agony.

And so the fools have sent me here,
'Tis for my benefit no doubt'
To pass my three and thirtieth year
In study and in sober thought,
And feeling grateful as I ought.
How can I less than sing a lay,
The memorable deeds about,
Of Hulton and of Parson Hay,
And that fam'd corps of yeomanry.

Now the long war was o'er at last,
And there arose a shout of joy;
Napoleon, in his prison fast,
No longer could our peace destroy.
And, whilst on pudding, beef, and pie,
The people pleased did regale,
Monarchs were meeting, snug and sly,
And planning how they might prevail
To keep the human mind in jail.

Ah! little thought our workers then
That dire distress would come so soon,
Nor dream't our merry gentlemen
That night would overtake their noon,
A fearful night without a moon,
Or solitary star to light,
When Canning, orator, buffoon,
Should prophesy of daggers bright
Groping for murder in that night.

But thus it was, the Cotton trade
Was presently thrown all aback,
And some who mighty sums had made
Began to feel their credit slack;
And then there came a thundering crack,
Which made the men of straw to stare,
Whilst 'Church and King' look'd densely black,
Saint Chapel man betook to prayer,
Though sometimes he would almost swear.

For was it not perversely strange,
That in a time of peace profound,
Should come so terrible a change
And press them to the very ground,
The rates were almost pound for pound.
While keen taxation still did fleece,
At length some 'son of Gotham' found
'Twas sudden change from war to peace
That caused our commerce to decrease.

This was indeed a lucky thought,
For though it mended not the case,
A sudden gleam of hope it brought
To cheer that woeful length of face
So gravely worn i'th' market place.
Oh! had but Hogarth lived to see
Those signs of 'penitential grace,'
He would have smil'd as well as me
At such grotesque humility.

Clinging to that fallacious hope,
They sank into a blind repose,
Nor did they once their eyelids ope
To take a peep beyond their nose,
Else they had seen how it arose
That commerce lingered more and more,
That tax on bread did interpose
A barrier at the merchant's store,
Or rudely warn'd him from our shore.

Now will I draw the veil aside
And workman's sad condition show;
Come hither, daughters, sons of pride,
And ponder on this scene of woe.
Behold him through the wintry snow
All faint, and slowly take his way,
Whilst the cold wind doth on him blow,
His mournful eyes stare haggardly,
He hath not tasted food to-day.

And he hath been to yonder town
To try if he could work obtain;
Not work he got, but many a frown,
And word of slight, that gave him pain;
And some there were who did complain
Of losses by their 'stock on hand;'
And some did blame the King of Spain,
The 'well-beloved Ferdinand,'
And some the rulers of the land.

And when again he reaches home,
His little ones around him press;
And some do shout for joy, and some
Climb to his knees with eagerness.
Whilst others their 'dear father' bless,
And ask if he hath brought a cake,
When, starting from forgetfulness,
He looketh upward to the flake,—
No bread, for love or pity's sake!

Where is the partner of his care?
Behold her on a wretched bed;
Up bore she long as she could bear,
Then sank at length all famished.
And now he binds her weary head,
Her throbbing temples pain her so;
And now the children cry for bread,
And parent's bitter tears do flow,
That twain of hearts, how deep their woe!

Another group are sat to dine,
Behold how greedily they eat;
Sure they have got a proud sirloin
Their hunger keen to satiate.
Nay, not one taste of butcher's meat,
That is a dish they seldom see;
Potatoes garnish every plate,
And if a herring there should be,
'Tis tasted as a luxury.

For supper, father, mother, child,
Are often forced to regale
Upon a mess of water boil'd,
And sprinkled with a little meal;
And if this homely pottage fail,
Call'd by the weavers 'Creep o'er stile,'
All silent to their rest they steal,
And slumber until morning's smile
Awakes to further want and toil.

And being pinchèd thus for food,
How doth their winter clothing go?
Why gents and ladies who are good
Will give a cast-off thing or so,
But not to 'Radicals,' oh, no!
'They must not have encouragement,
They want our property, you know,
And to subvert the Government,
Such people never are content.'

Oh! ye who live in wealth and state,
Deem not this colouring too high;
Nothing would I extenuate,
Nor yet attempt to magnify;
Nor is it possible that I
Could half the dire affliction show,
Imagination will supply,
If it with sympathy doth glow,
Omissions in this scene of woe.

Nor would I wound your feelings fine,
Dear ladies, I revere you well;
But ah, those eyes look most divine
When they with tender pity swell,
Then do not the poor soul repel
Who cometh shiv'ring to your hall,
For he will of your goodness tell,
And blessings on your bounty call,
Though his word-loyalty be small.

May He who rules the stormy blast,
That howls amid yon wintry sky,
Protect thee, even to the last,
Wife, sister of mine enemy,
Whom I defied, and still defy,
And though a Radical I be,
Whom they have hunted to destroy,
For all their wrongs to mine and me,
Lady, I would not injure thee.