Chapter I: Should Like to Be a Policeman 64 (1)

BENDIGO, CHAMPION OF ENGLAND 67

THE BOLD IRISH YANKEY BENICIA BOY 71

I’M A GENT 75

JULLIEN’S GRAND POLKA 77

MARGATE HOY 80

CRYSTAL PALACE 82

HUMOROUS.

SHEEP’S EYES FOR EVER 85

CAB, CAB, CAB 88

THE RUSH LIGHT 91

IF I HAD A DONKEY WOT WOULDN’T GO 94

SHOVEL AND BROOM 96

VILIKINS AND HIS DINAH 98

THE EXCISEMAN OUTWITTED 101

GILES SCROGGIN’S GHOST 103

THE STRANGE MAN 105

A SIGHT FOR A FATHER 108

HUMOURS OF BARTLEMY FAIR 111

GEORGY BARNWELL 116

JONATHAN BROWN 119

WERY PEKOOLIAR, OR THE LISPING LOVERS 121

THE BABES IN THE WOOD 124

KATE’S YOUNG MAN 128

HE WAS SUCH A NICE YOUNG MAN 131

MRS. MONDAY 135

ALL TO ASTONISH THE BROWNS 138

THE RATCATCHER’S DAUGHTER 142

HOT CODLINGS 145

THE WONDERFUL CROCODILE 147

THE THIEF’S ARM 150

CORK LEG 153

THE ONE HORSE CHAY 156

THE LITERARY DUSTMAN 160

THE BILL STICKER 164

THINGS I DON’T LIKE TO SEE 167

THE BARREL OF PORK 170

ALL ROUND MY HAT 173

HERE’S THE MAN A-COMING! 175

THE NOBBY HEAD OF HAIR 177

MISS BAILEY’S GHOST 180

HUMPHREY DUGGINS 182

COUNTRY.

THE HONEST PLOUGHMAN, OR 90 YEARS AGO 184

THE NEW FASHIONED FARMER 188

PRESENT TIMES, OR EIGHT SHILLINGS A WEEK 192

JIG, JIG, TO THE HIRINGS 195

COUNTRY STATUTES 199

THE BOLD POACHER 202

DEATH OF POOR BILL BROWN 204

THE JOLLY ANGLER 206

THE HUMOURS OF THE RACES 209

THE BONNY GREY 212

THE KING AND WEST COUNTRYMAN 213

HODGE IN LONDON 215

SEA.

DEATH OF PARKER 218

THE BATTLE OF BOULOGNE 221

VICTORY 223

THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO 225

DUKE WILLIAM’S FROLIC 228

THE KING AND THE SAILOR 232

JACK BINNACLE AND QUEEN VICTORIA 234

SWEET WILLIAM 238

THE POOR SMUGGLER’S BOY 240

THE SMUGGLER’S BRIDE 242

THE FEMALE SMUGGLER 245

JACK RETURNED FROM SEA 248

THE JOLLY ROVING TAR 251

YOUNG HENRY OF THE RAGING MAIN 253

JACK ROBINSON 256

BOLD WILLIAM TAYLOR 259

RATCLIFFE HIGHWAY IN 1842 262

THE GREENLAND WHALE FISHERY 265

THE NEW YORK TRADER 268

THE QUEEN.

VIVA VICTORIA 271

QUEEN VICTORIA 273

THE QUEEN’S MARRIAGE 276

A NEW SONG ON THE BIRTH OF THE PRINCE OF WALES 279

THE QUEEN AND THE COAL EXCHANGE 281

CRYSTAL PALACE 284

QUEEN’S VISIT TO FRANCE 287

THE QUEEN’S DREAM 290

LOVELY ALBERT 294

HISTORICAL.

BRAVE NELSON 298

LORD NELSON 300

BATTLE OF WATERLOO 303

KING GEORGE IV.’S WELCOME TO SCOTLAND 305

THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR ROBERT PEEL, BART., M.P. 308

DEATH OF WELLINGTON 311

POLITICAL.

THE CHRONICLES OF THE POPE 313

THE HAPPY REFORM 318

THE OPERATIVES’ MARCH 321

A NEW ALPHABETICAL SONG ON THE CORN LAW BILL 322

A NEW SONG ON THE CORN BILL 327

THE CRISIS 331

CHARTISTS ARE COMING 335

THE SONG OF THE LOWER CLASSES 338

A NEW HUNTING SONG 340

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE WONDERFUL WONDERS OF TOWN 343

LAW 346

JIM CROW 349

THE WORKHOUSE BOY 351

THE WILD ROVER 353

THE DIGGINS, O! 355

BOTANY BAY 359

VAN DIEMAN’S LAND 361

FAREWELL TO JUDGES AND JURIES 364

MY BONNY BLACK BESS 366

LIFE OF THE MANNINGS 368

THE LIFE AND TRIAL OF PALMER 371

MARY ARNOLD, THE FEMALE MONSTER 374

THE UNDERTAKER’S CLUB 377

A TIDY SUIT FOR ALL THAT 379

THE RAGGED COAT 382

THE COLLIER SWELL 385

THE LONDON MERCHANT 388

RILEY’S FAREWELL 390

YOUNG WILLIAM 392

THE BROKEN HEARTED GARDENER 394

BOXING DAY IN 1847 396

ST. JAMES’S AND ST. GILES’S 399

THE THREE BUTCHERS 403

_SALE OF A WIFE._

Whenever a foreigner used to write that Englishmen sold their wives
in open market, with halters round their necks, they were not
believed in England; but it was nevertheless a fact, and even as
lately as last year a man sold his wife. In two of my books (“Old
Times” and “The Dawn of the Nineteenth Century”) I have given
numerous instances. The halter round the neck was used when the
wife was sold at market, it being considered that, being thus
accoutred, she was on a level with the cattle, and thus could
legally be sold.

ATTEND to my ditty, you frolicsome folk,
I’ll tell you a story--a comical joke;
’Tis a positive fact, what I’m going to unfold,
Concerning a woman, who by auction was sold.

_Chorus._

Then long may he flourish, and prosper through life,
The Sailor that purchased the Carpenter’s wife.

A carpenter lived not a mile off from here,
Being a little, or rather too, fond of his beer;
Being hard up for brass--it is true, on my life,
For ten shillings, by auction, he sold off his wife.

The husband and wife they could never agree,
For he was too fond of going out on the spree;
They settled the matter, without more delay,
So, tied in a halter, he took her away.

He sent round the bellman announcing the sale,
All in the hay-market, and that without fail;
The auctioneer came, with his hammer, so smart,
And the Carpenter’s wife stood up in a Cart.

Now she was put up without grumble or frown,
The first bid was a tailor, that bid half a crown;
Says he, I will make her a lady so spruce,
And fatten her well upon Cabbage and goose.[2]

Five and sixpence three farthings, a butcher then said,
Six and ten said a barber, with his curly head;
Then up jump’d a cobbler, said he, in three cracks,
I’ll give you nine shillings, and two balls of wax.

Just look at her beauty, the auctioneer cries,
She’s mighty good-tempered, and sober likewise;
Damme, said a sailor, she’s three out of four,
Ten shillings I bid for her, not a screw more.

Thank you, sir, thank you, said the bold auctioneer,
Going for ten--is there nobody here
Will bid any more? Is not this a bad job?
Going! Going! I say--she is gone for ten bob.

The hammer was struck--that concluded the sale,
The sailor he paid down the brass on the nail;
He shook hands with Betsy, and gave her a smack,
And she jump’d straddle-legs on to his back.

The people all relished the joke, it appears,
And gave the young Sailor three hearty good cheers;
He never cried stop, with his darling so sweet,
Until he was landed in Denison Street.

They sent for a fiddler, and piper to play,
They danced and they sung, untill the break of day,
Then Jack to his hammock with Betsy did go,
While the fiddler and the piper played “Rosin, the beau.”

* * * * * *

Wives at the market did not fetch good prices; the highest I know
of, is recorded in _The Times_, September 19, 1797: “An hostler’s
wife, in the country, lately fetched twenty-five guineas.” But this
was extravagance, as, with the exception of a man who exchanged his
wife for an ox, which he sold for six guineas, the next highest
quotation is three and a half guineas; but this rapidly dwindled
down to shillings, and even pence. In 1881, a wife was sold at
Sheffield for a quart of beer; in 1862, another was purchased at
Selby Market Cross for a pint; and the _South Wales Daily News_,
May 2, 1882, tells us that one was parted with for a glass of ale.
Sometimes they were unsaleable, as we learn by the following ballad:--

JOHN HOBBS.

A jolly shoemaker, John Hobbs, John Hobbs;
A jolly shoemaker, John Hobbs!
He married Jane Carter,
No damsel look’d smarter;
But he caught a tartar,
John Hobbs, John Hobbs;
Yes, he caught a tartar, John Hobbs.

He tied a rope to her, John Hobbs, John Hobbs;
He tied a rope to her, John Hobbs!
To ’scape from hot water,
To Smithfield he brought her;
But nobody bought her,
Jane Hobbs, Jane Hobbs,
They all were afraid of Jane Hobbs.

Oh, who’ll buy a wife? says Hobbs, John Hobbs;
A sweet pretty wife, says Hobbs.
But, somehow, they tell us
The wife-dealing fellows
Were all of them sellers,
John Hobbs, John Hobbs.
And none of them wanted Jane Hobbs.

The rope it was ready, John Hobbs, John Hobbs.
Come, give me the rope, says Hobbs;
I won’t stand to wrangle,
Myself I will strangle,
And hang dingle dangle,
John Hobbs, John Hobbs;
He hung dingle dangle, John Hobbs.

But down his wife cut him, John Hobbs, John Hobbs;
But down his wife cut him, John Hobbs;
With a few hubble-bubbles,
They settled their troubles,
Like most married couples,
John Hobbs, John Hobbs,
Oh, happy shoemaker, John Hobbs!

_A WOMAN NEVER KNOWS WHEN HER DAY’S WORK’S DONE._

NOW just attend to me,
Married men of all degree,
While I tell you the vicissitudes of life,
There’s nothing, understand,
Half so pleasing to a man,
As a good temper’d, kind, and loving wife.
She is always at her work,
Tho’ sometimes used like a Turk;
Here and everywhere compelled she has to run;
While a man can banish care,
Drown sorrow and dull care,
A woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

_Chorus._

Then just attend to me,
To your wives be kind and free,
And never mind the clatter of her tongue,
If you the truth will speak,
You know the live-long week,
A woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

That man must be a fool,
Who will strive his wife to rule,
Or drive her, like an elephant, about,
You will find ’ere you begin,
You may knock nine devils in,
But never can you knock one devil out.
We nothing ought to hear,
But “my darling” and “my dear,”
And to please his wife a man should miles run,
Her all indulgence give,
Then happy will he live,
For a woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

Every married man should know
They now have made a law,
That if any man should dare ill-use his wife,
Six months he will bewail
In a dark and dismal jail,
With heavy irons on him day and night.
Men, be advised by me,
Use the women tenderly,
And to please her you must always cheerful run,
For you all must know full well,
If the truth you will but tell,
That a woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

Married women take advice,
Get you every thing that’s nice,
A little drop of brandy, rum, or gin,
And if your husband should complain,
Give the compliment again,
And whack him with the wooden rolling-pin.
When some women well behaves,
They’re oft used worse than slaves,
And must not dare to use their pretty tongue,
Let the world say what it will,
I will say, and prove it still,
That a woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

They must wash and iron on,
They must mangle, starch, and blue,
They must get your victuals ready in a crack,
They must get you tea and toast,
They must frizzle, fry, and roast,
And wash the dirty shirt upon your back.
They must clean the quilt and rugs,
They must hunt the fleas and bugs,
They must nurse your little daughter and your son,
And, like a poor goose,
Get nothing but abuse,
A woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

_Chorus._

Men, to your wives be kind,
Thus pleasure you will find,
And happy through the world you will run,
You must surely tell a lie,
If this statement you deny,
A woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.

_THE TREATS OF LONDON._[3]

GOOD folks I will try at a song,
So I hope you will make no wry faces,
Believe me, I’ll not keep you long,
With my budget of public places:
To what I’m about to rehearse,
If you’ll but please to attend,
You will learn from my play-bill in verse,
Where to go, if you’ve money to spend.

Covent Garden Garden of O.P.[4] renown,
The contest you all may remember;
Old Drury that was burnt down,
And Bartlemy Fair in September.
With the Tower of London so grand,
Where a huge pocket-pistol you see,
And Salmon’s Wax Work in the Strand,
With the Sans Pareil after your tea.

There’s the Opera House at the West,
A Chalk Farm and a famous Jew’s Harp,
Where, pay well, you may feed on the best,
Then walk in the Regency Park.
A Lord’s Cricket Ground that is new,
With a Tottenham Playhouse so gay,
Hyde Park and the Serpentine too,
For Men Milliners on a Sunday.

There’s Wigley’s promenade too, I ween,
And Bond Street parade in addition,
With Kensington Gardens when clean,
And the Somerset House Exhibition.
There’s the Wells, and Grimaldi so rum, Sirs,
With Westminster Abbey to range,
A walk in the Temple for Lawyers,
And “All alive in Exeter ’Change.”

The British Museum’s a treat,
Vauxhall with its fireworks pretty,
Where belles and their sparks you will meet,
And “the Royalty” too, in the City.
A Surrey Theatre there’s too, Sirs,
Where the bow-wow performers so grand,
Played with eclat, and where you may view,
The fine bridge ’twixt Bankside and the Strand.

A forum there is for debate,
A Fives Court for milling in fun, Sirs,
A Parliament House for the great,
With a cock-pit for cruelty’s sport, Sirs,
With balls, concerts, and masquerades,
And spouting rooms, too, half a score,
With prime song-clubs in the “Shades,”
Knock ’em down with a Bravo! Encore!

Gas lights too flare in your eyes,
Indian Jugglers deceive in Pall Mall,
Guildhall for a lottery prize,
Astley’s horses, too, still bear the bell.
The Monument, too, a tall post,
And also, without any raillery,
The Londoners’ principal boast,
St. Paul’s and its Whispering Gallery.

_THE INCOME TAX._

OH! poor old Johnny Bull has his Cup of sorrow full,
And what with underfeeding him, and leeching him, and bleeding him,
Though over-drained before, he must lose a little more,
He’ll now be bled again by the Income Tax.
And _Peel_[5] the state physician, has studied his condition,
And daily, and hourly his own brain racks,
He’s come to the conclusion, that John Bull’s constitution
Is only to be saved by the Income tax.

_Chorus._

Sevenpence in the pound, is the sum that must be found,
Useless is our grumbling, our grizzling, or mumbling,
Still, had we to our aid, our former roaring trade,
We’d laugh at Bobby Peel and his Income Tax.

The manufacturers say that they ought not to pay,
Assert ’tis not a fib, but they really can’t contribute.
The manufacturing bands are discharging all their hands,
’Tis the farmers that should, and ought to pay the Income Tax.
The farmers all declare, that for them to pay be’ant fair,
The cesses, rates, and tithes nearly breaks their backs.
While all the parsons say, their business is to pray,
So, pray, why should they pay the Income Tax?

The Lawyers all declare it really is unfair,
The Law’s great alteration has brought them ruination,
And if they make compliance, they all must rob their Clients,
By swelling Bills of Costs for the Income Tax.
The Doctors, full of ills, must increase their price of pills,
They are already ruined by Infirmaries and Quacks,
So they’ll all adopt Peel’s plan, of bleeding all they can,
Their patients, (when they get ’em) for the Income Tax.

The shopkeeper, once gay, who kept his one horse shay,
To drive out on a Sunday, and sometimes on a Monday,
Must now his shay put down, and stick to trade and town,
Because he must so pay to the Income Tax.
His daughters and his wife, obliged to hear his strife,
Stay at home and snivel, and in snarls go snacks,
Their bonnets--those old blue ones--instead of having new ones,
Are turned--and ’tis all through the Income Tax.

Those folk of middling rank, who have money in the Bank,
And make by pocket’s clearance, a respectable appearance,
And managing complete, to just make both ends meet,
Must cut a bit off one end for the Income Tax.
Oh, then, without a doubt, was their washing all put out,
Now, laundresses are ruined--and these are facts--
For, wherever you may roam, all the washing’s done at home,
So our wives are always cross through the Income Tax.

The Bishops, rich and great, and the Ministers of State,
The gayest, the demurest, the Placeman, Sinecurist,
And grumblers, or not, they must all pay their shot,
In their rota, as their quota, of the Income Tax.
And, as a tip-top sample, our Queen’s a high example,
Her Majesty,[6] I wish of rupees had lacs.
The Collector he sallies, to great Buckingham Palace,
Your Majesty, I’ve come for the Income Tax.

The Lords, and all their train, must do without Champagne,
The Squires--will they bear it? must give up Hock and Claret--
Tradesmen, no longer merry, think not of or port sherry,
They all are out of spirits through the Income Tax.
So, all ranks through the Nation, must put up with privation,
One foregoes his Brandy--another his Max[7]
The porter can’t regale, he’s obliged to leave off Ale,
And a Teetotaller turn through the Income Tax.

Just like the tale of old, of the soldier we were told,
Who, while the drummer[8] flogg’d him, writh’d about and jogg’d him,
With torment all on fire, he cried aloud, “Strike higher,”
Sir Robert Peel’s the drummer, with his Income Tax.
The Tax with its fine tales, is like the cat o’ nine tails,
It lashes our bodies--cuts into our backs.--
Sir Robert Peel he strikes, and cuts us where he likes,
Nobody likes the cuts of the Income Tax.

In every civilized society there is an antagonism between employer
and employed, between capital and labour. The men do not often take
thought of the losses their employers have sustained, in order to
keep their factories going and their hands employed; they do not
think that England has to compete with the whole world, and that,
on the Continent, wages are cheaper, and the men are more contented
with their lot, so that when a depression in trade occurs, it is
only fair that they should bear a portion of the burden. There are
plenty of demagogues, who, for pay, will fan the flame of
discontent, and the result is a _strike_, injurious to all parties.
On the other hand, a man has a right to sell his labour as dearly
as he can, or to refuse to sell it at all, if he so pleases, and a
strike is very often the means of his getting an advance of wages
which might not have been otherwise conceded, or at all events
tardily granted.

Naturally there are many street ballads on this vital subject to
the ballad-singer’s listeners, but I have only selected one, which
appears to me to be fairly typical. As an antidote to the
discontent and privation consequent on bad trade, Henry Russell
wrote, “There’s a good time coming, boys,” which enjoyed immense
popularity, and did much to banish the black spirit of discontent.

_STRIKING TIMES._

CHEER up, cheer up, you sons of toil, and listen to my song,
While I try to amuse you, and I will not take you long.
The working men of England, at length begin to see,
They’ve made a bold strike for their rights in 1853.

_Chorus._

_It’s high time that working men should have it their own way,
And for a fair day’s labour, receive a fair day’s pay._

This is the time for striking, at least, it strikes me so,
Monopoly has had some knocks, but this must be the blow,
The working men, by thousands, complain their fate is hard,
May order mark their conduct, and success be their reward.

Some of our London Printers, this glorious work begun,
And surely they’ve done something, for they’ve upset the Sun.
Employers must be made to see they can’t do what they like,
It is the master’s greediness causes the men to strike.

The labouring men of London, on both sides of the Thames,
They made a strike last Monday, which adds much to their names.
Their masters did not relish it, but they made them, understand,
Before the next day’s sun had set, they gave them their demand.

The unflinching men of Stockport, with Kidderminster in their train,
Three hundred honest weavers have struck, their ends to gain.
Though the masters find they lose a deal, the tide must soon be turning,
They find the men won’t, quietly, be robbed of half their earning.

Our London Weavers mean to show their masters, and the trade,
That they will either cease to work, or else be better paid.
In Spitalfields the Weavers worked with joy, in former ages,
But they’re tired out of asking for a better scale of wages.

The monied men have had their way, large fortunes they have made,
For things could not be otherwise, with labour badly paid;
They roll along in splendour, and with a saucy tone,
As Cobbett says, they eat the meat, the workman gnaws the bone.

In Liverpool the Postmen struck, and sent word to their betters,
Begging them to recollect that they were men of letters,
They asked for three bob more a week, and got it in a crack,
And though each man has got his bag, they have not got the sack.

The Cabmen, and their masters, made up their minds last week,
To stop the Cabs from running, now is not that a treat,
The Hackney Carriage Act[9] has proved a very bitter pill,
It’s no use to call out, Cab, Cab,[10] drive off and show your skill.

The Coopers and the Dockyard Men are all a going to strike.
And soon there’ll be the devil to pay, without a little Mike,
The farming men of Suffolk have lately called a go,
And swear they’ll have their wages rose, before they reap or sow.

WE are all familiar with the carefully got up mendicants who infest the streets of London, with their mournful howls--how that they are “Frozen-out gardeners,” or “Have got no work to do,” etc., etc.; and in the early part of the century they were more numerous than now, as the police were not so efficient. One sample of this style of ballad must suffice.

_THE MECHANIC’S APPEAL TO THE PUBLIC._

GIVE attention awhile to my rhymes,
Good people of every degree,
I assure you these critical times
Have reduced me to great poverty.
I’m a tradesman reduced to distress,
Dame Fortune on me long has frown’d,
And that is the cause, I confess,
Which compels me to roam up and down.

_Chorus._

_Then good people attend to my rhymes,
And pity a tradesman reduced;
For appealing to you in these times,
I submissively hope you’ll excuse._

I once did in happiness dwell,
With my family around me, at home;
And little, (the truth I will tell)
Did I think I’d have cause for to roam.
But misfortune, she owed me a grudge,
And entered in my Cottage door,
And caused me in sorrow to mourn,
And my misery long to deplore.

Mechanics are now at a stand,
And trade, in all quarters, is bad,
They’re complaining all over the land,
And their children are hungry and sad.
Travel Britain wherever you will,
You may behold everything dead,
The tradesmen are all standing still,
And their children are crying for bread.

My family now weep in distress,
With cold and with hunger they cry,
Which grieves me to see, I confess,
No food, nor employment have I.
The Weather is cold and severe,
And I do in sorrow lament;
I have no food for my Children dear,
And my goods are all taken for rent.

For a tradesman reduced, heave a sigh,
Who in sorrow and agony grieve,
And, good Christians, as you pass him by,
With a little, pray, do him relieve.
A little you never will miss,
To one who in sorrow complain,
And our heavenly Father above,
The same will repay you again.

Oh, you that distress never knew,
May your breast such affliction ne’er feel,
The sufferings that I do endure,
I cannot to you half reveal.
For subsistence my clothes I have sold,
I wander to look for a friend,
So now my sad troubles are told,
And my tale I am going to end.

THERE is a great deal of superstition, and folk-lore, contained in

_WOMEN’S SAYINGS_.

DRAW near, and give attention,
And you shall hear my rhyme,
The old women’s sayings, in the olden times
High and low, rich and poor,
By daylight or dark,
Are sure to make
Some curious remark;
With some foolish idea
Your brains they will bother,
For some believe one thing,
And some believe another.

_Chorus._

_These are odds and ends
Of superstitious ways,
The signs and the tokens,
Of my grandmother’s days._

The first thing you will see,
At the house of rich or poor,
To keep the witches out,
A horse shoe’s o’er the door.
Bellows on the table,
Cause a row both day and night,
If there’s two knives across,
You are sure to have a fight.
There’s a stranger[11] in the grate,
Or, if the cat should sneeze,
Or lay before the fire,
It will rain or freeze.

A cinder with a hole
In the middle is a purse,
But a long one, from the fire,
Is a coffin, which is worse:
A spider, ticking in the wall,
Is the death watch at night,
A spark in a candle,
Is a letter sure as life.
If your right eye itches,
You’ll cry till out of breath,
A winding sheet in the candle
Is a sure sign of death.

If your left eye itches,
You will laugh outright,
But the left or the right,
Is very good at night,
If your elbow itch,
A strange bed fellow found,
If the bottom of your foot itch,
You’ll tread on fresh ground:
If your knee itch, you’ll kneel.
In a church, that’s a good’un,
And if your belly itch,
You’ll get a lot of pudden.

If your back should itch,
I do declare,
Butter will be cheap,
When the grass grows there:
If the dog howl at night,
Or mournfully cry,
Or if the cock should crow,
Some one will die.
If you stumble upstairs,
Indeed, I’m no railer,
You’ll be married to a snob,
Or else to a tailor.

A speck on your finger nail,
Is a gift that’s funny,
If your hand itch in the middle,
You will get some money.
Spilling of the salt
Is anger outright,
You’ll see a ghost, if the door
Should rattle in the night.
If your sweetheart
Dreams of bacon and eggs,
She’ll have a little boy
That has got three legs.

The cat washing her face,
The wind will blow,
If the cat licks her foot
It is sure for to snow.
Put your gown, or your jacket
On inside out,
You will change your luck,
And be put to the rout.
If your nose itches,
You’ll get vexed till you jump;
If your great toe itches,
You’ll get kicked on the rump.

If a girl snaps one finger,
She’ll have a child it deems,
And if she snaps two,
She’s sure to have twins;
And if she snaps eight,
Nine, ten, or eleven,
It’s a chance if she don’t
Have twenty and seven.
If you lay with your head
Underneath the clothes,
You’ll have an ugly old man,
What has got no nose.

If you see a star shoot,
You’ll get what you wish,
If a hair get’s in your mouth,
You’ll get as drunk as a fish.
If your little toe itch,
You’ll be lost in a wave,
If you shiver, there’s somebody
Going over your grave.
If you go under a ladder,
You’ll have bad luck and fall,
And some say that bad luck
Is better than none at all.
So to please all outright,
I have told you in rhyme,
The great superstitions
Of the olden time.

BALLADS exemplifying the first half of the present Century would be
incomplete without some mention of coaching. It was essentially a
horsey age, for railways were not, at least during the first
quarter, the first (Stockton and Darlington) being opened September
27, 1825, so that people were obliged to rely on horses for their
means of locomotion to any distance. Great improvement had been
made in the construction of the stagecoaches, and they were very
well horsed; in fact, with the exception of their being larger,
they were very much like those which now run to Brighton,
Guildford, etc.

Bob Logic, who is supposed to have written the subjoined ballad,
was the companion of Corinthian Tom and Jerry Hawthorn, whose
pranks were so graphically described by Pierce Egan in his “Life in
London.” The George Shillibeer who is sung in the last verse was a
large coach proprietor, even letting out hearses and
mourning-coaches.--Nay, almost everything on wheels. To him is due
the introduction of the Omnibus, the first of which ran from the
Yorkshire Stingo, Marylebone Road, to the Bank of England, on July
4, 1829.

BOB LOGIC’S DESCRIPTION OF THE NEW BRIGHTON DILIGENCE FOR INSIDE
PASSENGERS ONLY.

BOB LOGIC’S my name, to Brighton I’ve been,
I don’t mean to tell you of all I have seen,
But the _New Diligence_ is so much to my mind,
That to sing in its praise I am fully inclined.

_Tippy Jack_, whom we all knew, a trump in his day,
Once set off to Brighton, to figure away,
But his gig was upset, so let persons of sense,
Book for Brighton their place in the _New Diligence_.

There’s nothing so sure, as that pleasure they’ll find,
Secure at all seasons from weather and wind,
And each _Goodman_ will see, when the blasts bitter blow,
The passengers all are secured from the _Snow_.

For they’re all inside places--no drenching with wet,
In safety and comfort the company set;
As in six hours time they at Brighton arrive,
I am sure that no pleasure can equal the drive.

The Coupé the first in description must be,
This, in English, means Chariot, and will just hold three;
Here a lord, with his lady, and daughter may ride,
As in their own carriage, in splendour and pride.

The next is the Coach, this is fitted for six,
And here is the place where Bob Logic would fix.
In company such as he wishes to be,
Obliging and civil, good-natured and free.

And then comes the Omnibus, four on each side,
Hold you secure in all weathers they ride,
And if it were possible once to upset,
I cannot imagine what harm they could get.

How different the time, when on the outside,
You held fast by the rail, if you went for a ride,
And the loss of a lynch pin, or crack of a spoke,
Was the too certain signal to have your neck broke.

As economy now is the rage of the day,
One Guinea a seat is the price of Coupé,
Sixteen shillings the fare in the Coach large and fine,
And the price in the Omni, twelve namesakes of mine.

’Tis my fate to suggest, so I’ll just give a hint,
As I mean that my song should be put into print,
The new diligence--_Constitution_ to name,
And King, Lords, and Commons each part of the same.

Should their majesties then wish to come up to town,
In prime style they’d be at St. James’s set down,
If they take the Coupé, and Lords take the coach,
With the Commons I would in the Omni approach.

_PAPER’D-UP HAIR._

OF all the gay fashions that are come in vogue,
Since wearing the mantle, or bonny red brogue,
There’s none so praiseworthy--you’ll find--I declare,
As the elegant fashion of papering the hair.

The modern dames, both abroad and at home,
Have got such a fashion of wearing the comb;
To church or to market, they cannot repair,
But must take an hour to paper their hair.

When in the evening they chance for to walk,
To see their sweethearts, and with them to talk,
An hour or two they must certainly spare,
To fit in their combs, and to paper their hair.

From walking at evening these ladies retire,
They draw up their seats, and chat by the fire,
The tongs then to warm, they ready prepare,
To squeeze up the papers quite tight in their hair.

And when that these ladies give over their talk,
Then up to the looking-glass straight they will walk,
They’ll dance, and they’ll caper, their arms they will square,
To see if the papers look tight in their hair.

It’s the cheapest of curling that ever was found,
You may do it with pipes, white, black, or brown;
For colour of hair, I suppose they don’t care,
For they tear up the Bible to paper their hair.

All you young lads that are frisky and trig,
Pray shun the old females that wear a false wig;
To toy with a young one, still make it your care,
Whose delight is to trim up, and paper her hair.

Should you meet with a female, whose hair is cut
short,
Among other fair ones she is but a sport;
She looks very shabby and out of repair,
When she’s wanting the comb, and the paper’d-up
hair.

But when they are married, it’s just the reverse,
The paper and combs they quickly disperse;
For nursing and cooking is then their whole care,
They may then bid adieu to the paper’d-up hair.

_I LIKES A DROP OF GOOD BEER._

COME one and all, both great and small,
With voices loud and clear,
And let us sing, bless Billy the King,
Who bated the tax upon beer.

_Chorus._

_For I likes a drop of good beer, I does,
I’se pertickler fond of my beer, I is,
And ---- his eyes, whoever he tries
To rob a poor man of his beer._

Let Ministers shape the Duty on Cape,
And cause Port wine to be dear,
So that they keep, the bread and meat cheap,
And gie us a drop of good beer.

In drinking of rum, the maggots will come,
And soon bald pates will appear;
I never goes out, but I carries about,
My little pint noggin of beer.

My wife and I, feel always dry,
At market on Saturday night,
Then a noggin of beer, I never need fear,
For my wife always says it is right.

In harvest field, there’s nothing can yield,
The labouring man such good cheer,
To reap and sow, and make barley grow,
And to give them a skinfull of beer.

The farmer’s board will plenty afford,
Let it come from far, or from near,
And at harvest home, the jug will foam,
If he gives his men plenty of beer.

Long may Queen Victoria reign,
And be to her subjects dear,
And we’ll wallop her foes, wherever we goes,
Only give us a skinfull of beer.

_THE SNOB AND THE BOTTLE._

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.