The Fray Of Stockport. Poem by Samuel Bamford

Ha! han they ta'en our cap and flag?
Whot! han the Dandies ta'en 'em?
An' did Reformers' courage lag,
An' could they not regain 'em?
An.' did the Gentles ride so gay,
Wi' Birch and Loyd afore 'em,
To sweep the 'Gruntin herd' away,
Or bravely gallop o'er 'em?

O! whot could ston' afore the might
O' Yeomanry so loyal?
Who coom to drive the 'herd' aright,
An' would ha' no denial;
Until the stones began to fly,
An' yeds began a crackin',
An' then the Gallant Yeomanry
Wurn fain to find a backin'.

But furst coom Birch, the deputy,
Our cap and flag demandin';
I'faith, afore he'd said his say,
The lubber lost his standin'!
For up there step'd a lusty lad,
An' knock'd his shanks fro' under;
An' laid his shoon into his ribs,
Which made him gasp an' wonder.

An' then came one o' Nadin's cubs,
An' he essay'd to take it;
But Mister Bang y geet his dubs,
Which made him soon forsake it,
For Saxton blun'd his thievin' e'e,
An' gan' his jaw a welter,
Which made 'right about' to flee
As fast as he could skelter.

Then amblin' up the 'Gemmen' came
Towards the front o'th' hustin';
But soon their folly did they blame,
The 'rabblement' for trustin';
For sticks wurn up, an' stones they flew,
Their gentle bodies bruisin',
And in a hurry they withdrew
Fro' sitch unmannert usin'.

Then preawdly let our banner wave,
Wi' freedom's emblem o'er it,
And toasted be the Stopport lads,
The lads who bravely bore it.
An' let the 'war-worn' Yeomanry
Go curse their sad disasters,
An' count, in rueful agony,
Their bruises an' their plasters.