Chapter I: CAM from ole Kentucky,

A long time ago,
Where I first larn to wheel about,
And jump Jim Crow.

_Chorus._

Wheel about and turn about,
And do jis so,
Ebry time I wheel about
I jump Jim Crow.

I us’d to take him fiddle,
Ebry morn and afternoon,
And charm the sole Buzzard,
And dance to the Racoon.

I landed fust at Liverpool,
Dat place of ships and docks,
I strutted down Lord Street,
And ask’d de price of Stocks.

I paid my fare den up to town,
On de coach to cut a dash,
De axletree soon gave way,
And spilt us wid a smash.

I lighted den upon my head,
All in de nassy dirt,
Dey all thought dat I war dead,
But I laughed and wasn’t hurt.

Dis head you know, am pretty tick,
Cause dere it make a hole,
On de dam macadmis road,
Much bigger dan a bowl.

When I got into Lunnon,
Dey took me for a savage,
But I war pretty well behaved,
So I ’gaged with Mr. Davidge.

Dem young Jim Crows bout de streets
More like a Raven rader,
Pray good people, don’t mistake,
Indeed, I’m not dare fader.

Dem urchin’s what sing my song,
Had better mind dar books.
For any how dey can’t be Crows,
You see d’ar only Rooks.

I have purposely refrained from giving any Nigger songs, although
they belong to Street melody, except in the case of “Jim Crow,”
which was the first of the flood which has been let loose upon us.
There were many versions, but I have here given the copyright
words, as sung by the author, and original “Jim Crow,” Thomas D.
Rice, or, as he was better known, “Adelphi Rice.” He introduced it,
in 1836, into a play called “A Flight to America,” and it so
tickled the ears of the groundlings that it became the most popular
of all modern street ballads. We may wonder what merit our
grandfathers and fathers found in it, but it created an absolute
furore.

_THE WORKHOUSE BOY._

THE cloth was laid in the Vorkhouse hall,
The great-coats hung on the white-wash’d wall;
The paupers all were blithe and gay,
Keeping their Christmas holiday,
When the Master he cried with a roguish leer,
“You’ll all get fat on your Christmas cheer!”
When one by his looks did seem to say,
“I’ll have some more soup on this Christmas-day.”
Oh the poor Vorkhouse Boy, etc.

At length, all on us to bed vos sent,
The boy vos missing--in search ve vent:
Ve sought him above, ve sought him below,
Ve sought him vith faces of grief and woe;
Ve sought him that hour, ve sought him that night;
Ve sought him in fear, and ve sought him in fright,
Ven a young pauper cried “I knows ve shall
Get jolly vell vopt for losing our pal.”
Oh the Poor Vorkhouse Boy, etc.

Ve sought in each corner, each crevice ve knew;
Ve sought down the yard, ve sought up the flue;
Ve sought in each kettle, each saucepan, each pot,
In the water-butt look’d, but found him not.
And veeks roll’d on;--ve vere all of us told,
That somebody said, he’d been burk’d and sold;
Ven our master goes out, the Parishioners vild,
Cry “There goes the cove that burk’d the poor child.”
Oh the Poor Vorkhouse Boy, etc.

At length the soup copper repairs did need,
The Coppersmith came, and there he seed,
A dollop of bones lay a grizzling there,
In the leg of the breeches the poor boy did year!
To gain his fill the boy did stoop,
And, dreadful to tell, he was boil’d in the soup!
And ve all of us say, and ve say it sincere,
That he was push’d in there by an overseer.
Oh the Poor Vorkhouse Boy, etc.

_THE WILD ROVER._

I’ve been a wild rover these seven long years,
I’ve spent all my money in ale and strong beers,
But the time has come my boys, to take better care,
Unless poverty happens to fall to my share.

_Chorus._

So therefore I’ll lay up my money in store,
And I never will play the wild rover any more;
Wild rover, wild rover, wild rover, any more,
And then I will play the wild rover no more.

I went to an ale house where I used to resort,
I began for to tell them my money got short;
I asked them to trust me, but their answer was nay,
Such customers as you we may have every day.

Then my hands from my pockets I pulled out straightway,
Pulled a handful of gold out to hear what they’d say,
O! here’s ale, wine, and brandy, here’s enough of the best,
It was only to try you, I was but in jest.

Begone you proud landlord, I bid you adieu,
For the devil of one penny will I spend with you;
For the money I’ve got boys, I’ll take better care,
And I never will play the wild rover any more.

So now I’ll go home to my sweet loving wife,
In hopes to live happy all the days of my life;
From rambling and roving, I’ll take better care,
Unless poverty happens to fall to my share.

_THE DIGGINS, O!_[66]

I’VE come back all skin and bone
From the diggins, O!
And I wish I’d never gone
To the diggins, O!
Believe me, ’tis no fun,
I once weighed fifteen stone,
But they brought me down to one,
At the diggins, O!

I thought a good home could be found
At the diggins, O!
But soon I found I got aground
At the diggins, O!
The natives came one day,
Burnt my cottage down like hay,
With my wife they ran away
To the diggins, O!

I built a hut with mud,
At the diggins, O!
That got wash’d away by flood,
At the diggins, O!
I used to dig, and cry
It wouldn’t do to die,
Undertakers charge too high
At the diggins, O!

I paid for victuals with a frown,
At the diggins, O!
Three potatoes half a crown,
At the diggins, O!
Sprats five shillings a dish,
If for Dutch Plaice you wish,
Two dollars buys that fish,
At the diggins, O!

A Crown a pound for Steaks,
At the diggins, O!
Ditto Chops, and no great shakes,
At the diggins, O!
Five “hog”[67] a small pig’s cheek,
If a herring red you’d seek,
One will keep you dry a week,
At the diggins, O!

Table beer two bob a quart,
At the diggins, O!
Get your eyes gouged out for nought,
At the diggins, O!
Five shillings a four pound brick,[68]
Butter a shilling a lick,
They never gives no tick,
At the diggins, O!

They tied me to a tree,
At the diggins, O!
With my nuggets they made free,
At the diggins, O!
I escaped from bodily hurt,
Tho’ they stole my very shirt,
I had to paint myself with dirt,
At the diggins, O!

I felt quite a ruined man
At the diggins, O!
Thinks I, I’ll get home, if I can,
From the diggins, O!
I was always catching cold,
And I’ve been both bought and sold,
Like many more, for gold,
At the diggins, O!

But now I’m safe returned
From the diggins, O!
Never more I mean to roam
To the diggins, O!
It some people’s fortune mends,
Much on the man depends--
I’d sooner be here with my friends,
Than at the diggins, O!

_BOTANY BAY._

COME all you men of learning,
And a warning take by me,
I would have you quit night walking,
And shun bad company.
I would have you quit night walking,
Or else you’ll rue the day,
You’ll rue your transportation, lads,
When you’re bound for Botany Bay.

I was brought up in London town
And a place I know full well,
Brought up by honest parents
For the truth to you, I’ll tell.
Brought up by honest parents,
And rear’d most tenderly,
Till I became a roving blade,
Which proved my destiny.

My character soon taken was,
And I was sent to jail,
My friends they tried to clear me,
But nothing could prevail.
At the Old Bailey Sessions,
The Judge to me did say,
“The Jury’s found you guilty, lad,
So you must go to Botany Bay.”

To see my aged father dear,
As he stood near the bar,
Likewise my tender mother,
Her old grey locks to tear;
In tearing of her old grey locks,
These words to me did say,
“O, Son! O, Son! what have you done,
That you’re going to Botany Bay?”

It was on the twenty eighth of May,
From England we did steer,
And, all things being safe on board,
We sail’d down the river, clear.
And every ship that we pass’d by,
We heard the sailors say,
“There goes a ship of clever hands,
And they’re bound for Botany Bay.”

There is a girl in Manchester,
A girl I know full well,
And if ever I get my liberty,
Along with her I’ll dwell.
O, then I mean to marry her,
And no more to go astray;
I’ll shun all evil company,
Bid adieu to Botany Bay.

_VAN DIEMAN’S LAND._

COME all you gallant poachers, that ramble free from care,
That walk out on moonlight nights, with your dog, gun and snare,
The jolly hares and pheasants, you have at your command,
Not thinking that your last career is to Van Dieman’s Land.

Poor Tom Brown from Nottingham, Jack Williams, and poor Joe,
We are three daring poachers, the country does well know,
At night we are trepanned, by the keepers hid in sand,
Who for 14 years transported us unto Van Dieman’s Land.

The first day that we landed upon this fatal shore,
The planters they came round us, full twenty score or more,
They rank’d us up like horses, and sold us out of hand,
And yok’d us up to ploughs, my boys, to plough Van Dieman’s Land.

Our cottages that we live in, are built of brick and clay,
And rotten straw for bedding, and we dare not say nay,
Our cots are fenc’d with fire, we slumber when we can,
To drive away wolves and tigers (?) upon Van Dieman’s Land.

It’s often when in slumber I have a pleasant dream,
With my sweet girl a-sitting down, all by a purling stream,
Through England I’ve been roaming, with her at command,
Now I awake broken hearted upon Van Dieman’s Land.

God bless our wives and families, likewise that happy shore,
That isle of great contentment, which we shall see no more,
As for our wretched females, see them, we seldom can,
There’s twenty, to one woman, upon Van Dieman’s land.

There was a girl from Birmingham, Susan Summers was her name,
For fourteen years transported, we all well know the same,
Our planter bought her freedom, and married her out of hand,
She gave to us good usage upon Van Dieman’s Land.

So all you gallant poachers, give ear unto my song,
It is a bit of good advice, although it is not long,
Throw by your dogs and snares, for to you I speak plain,
For if you knew our hardships, you would never poach again.

_FAREWELL TO JUDGES AND JURIES._

HERE’S bad luck to you, Mr. Justice Paley,
And also to you, Gentlemen of the Jury,
For seven years, you’ve sent me from my true love,
Seven years, I’m transported, you know.

To go to a strange country don’t grieve me,
Nor leaving old England behind,
It is all for the sake of my Polly,
And leaving my parents behind.

There’s the Captain that is our commander,
The Boatswain, and all the ship’s Crew,
There is married men, too, and there’s single,
Who knows what we transports do.

Dear Polly, I’m going to leave you
For seven long years, love, and more,
But that time will appear but a moment,
When return’d to the girl I adore.

If ever I return from the Ocean,
Stores of riches I’ll bring for my dear,
It’s all for the sake of my Polly,
I’ll cross the salt seas for my dear.

How hard is the place of confinement,
That keeps me from my heart’s delight,
Cold chains and irons surround me,
And a plank for my pillow at night.

How often I wish that the eagle
Would lend me her wings, I would fly,
Then I’d fly to the arms of my Polly,
And on her soft bosom, I’d lie.

_MY BONNY BLACK BESS._

DICK TURPIN bold! Dick, hie away,
Was the cry of my pals, who were startled, I guess,
For the pistols were levelled, the bullets whizzed by,
As I leapt on the back of Black Bess.
Three Officers mounted, led forward the chase,
Resolv’d in the capture to share;
But I smil’d on their efforts, tho’ swift was their pace,
As I urg’d on my bonny Black Mare.
So when I’ve a bumper, what can I do less,
Than the memory drink of my bonny Black Bess?

Hark away, hark away! still onward they press,
As we saw by the glimmer of morn,
Tho’ many a mile on the back of Black Bess,
That night I was gallantly borne;
Hie over, my, pet, the fatigue I must bear
Well clear’d! never falter for breath,
Hark forward, my girl, my bonny Black Mare,
We speed it for life or for death.
But when I’ve a bumper, what can I do less,
Than the memory drink of my bonny Black Bess?

The spires of York now burst on my view,
But the chimes, they were ringing her knell,
Halt! Halt! my brave mare, they no longer pursue,
She halted, she staggered, she fell!
Her breathing was o’er, all was hushed as the grave,
Alas! poor Black Bess, once my pride,
Her heart she had burst, her rider to save,
For Dick Turpin, she lived, and she died.
Then the memory drink of my bonny Black Bess,
Hurrah for poor bonny Black Bess!

_LIFE OF THE MANNINGS._

EXECUTED AT HORSEMONGER LANE GAOL ON TUESDAY, 13 NOV., 1849.

SEE the scaffold it is mounted,
And the doomed ones do appear,
Seemingly borne wan with sorrow,
Grief and anguish, pain and care.
They cried, the moment is approaching,
When we, together, must leave this life,
And no one has the least compassion
On Frederick Manning and his wife.

Maria Manning came from Sweden,
Brought up respectably, we hear,
And Frederick Manning came from Taunton,
In the county of Somersetshire.
Maria lived with noble ladies,
In ease and splendour and delight,
But on one sad and fatal morning,
She was made Frederick Manning’s wife.

She first was courted by O’Connor,
Who was a lover most sincere,
He was possessed of wealth and riches,
And loved Maria Roux most dear.
But she preferred her present husband.
As it appeared, and with delight,
Slighted sore Patrick O’Connor,
And was made Frederick Manning’s wife.

And when O’Connor knew the story,
Down his cheeks rolled floods of tears,
He beat his breast and wept in sorrow,
Wrung his hands and tore his hair;
Maria, dear, how could you leave me?
Wretched you have made my life,
Tell me why you did deceive me,
For to be Fred Manning’s wife?

At length they all were reconciled,
And met together night and day,
Maria, by O’Connor’s riches,
Dressed in splendour fine and gay.
Though married, yet she corresponded,
With O’Connor, all was right,
And oft he went to see Maria,
Frederick Manning’s lawful wife.

At length they plann’d their friend to murder,
And for his company did crave,
The dreadful weapons they prepared,
And in the kitchen dug his grave.
And, as they fondly did caress him,
They slew him--what a dreadful sight,
First they mangled, after robbed him,
Frederick Manning and his wife.

They absconded but were apprehended,
And for the cruel deed were tried,
When placed at the Bar of Newgate,
They both the crime strongly denied.
At length the Jury them convicted,
And doomed them for to leave this life,
The Judge pronounced the awful sentence,
On Frederick Manning, and his wife.

Return, he said, to whence they brought you,
From thence unto the fatal tree,
And there together be suspended,
Where multitudes your fate may see.
Your hours, recollect, are numbered,
You betrayed a friend, and took his life,
For such there’s not one spark of pity,
For Frederick Manning and his wife.

See what numbers are approaching,
To Horse Monger’s fatal tree,
Full of blooming health and vigour,
What a dreadful sight to see.
Old and young, pray take a warning,
Females, lead a virtuous life,
Think upon that fatal morning,
Frederick Manning and his wife.

_THE LIFE AND TRIAL OF PALMER._[69]

OH listen unto William Palmer,
Who does in anguish sore bewail,
Now guilty they at last have found me,
And sent me back to Stafford Jail.
Every one appears against me,
Every person does me hate,
What excitement is impending,
On guilty William Palmer’s fate.

_Chorus._

My trial causes great excitement,
In town and country everywhere,
Now guilty found is William Palmer,
Of Rugeley town in Stafford Shire.

Many years I was a sportsman,
Many wondrous deeds I’ve done,
Many a race I have attended,
Many a thousand, lost and won.
They say I poisoned my wife’s mother,
And took away her precious life,
And slew poor Cook and my own brother,
And poisoned my own lawful wife.

Everything looks black against me,
That I really must confess,
The very thoughts that do oppress me,
Causes me pain and distress,
Now the jury did convict me,
And prove I did commit the deed,
And, sentence passed on William Palmer,
To Stafford I was sent with speed.

In Rugeley I was once respected,
A gentleman, lived at my ease,
With noblemen I was connected,
And sporting men of all degrees.
Although a Doctor no one knew me
To do anything amiss,
Now each one strives to undo me,
I never thought I’d come to this.

My poor old mother now at Rugeley,
My awful end must now bewail,
To know her son must die with scorn,
A felon’s death in Stafford Jail.
Every charge alleged against me,
I have strongly it denied,
Twelve long days my trial lasted,
And now I am condemned to die.

Dreadful is my situation,
Before the awful bar I stand,
I might have filled a noble station,
Unfortunate, unhappy man.
Infants yet unborn will mention,
When to manhood they appear,
The name of Doctor William Palmer,
Of Rugeley town, in Staffordshire.

Will no one sympathize with Palmer,
Who every charge did strong deny,
You are all aware I am found guilty,
For by a Jury I’ve been tried.
My situation makes me tremble,
I am borne down with grief and care,
All conversation is of Palmer,
Of Rugeley town, in Staffordshire.

A COPY OF VERSES ON

_MARY ARNOLD, THE FEMALE MONSTER_.

OF all the tales was ever told,
I now will you impart,
That cannot fail to terror strike,
To every human heart.
The deeds of Mary Arnold,
Who does in a jail deplore,
Oh! such a dreadful tale as this,
Was never told before.

_Chorus._

This wretched woman’s dreadful deed,
Does every one affright.
With black beetles in walnut shells,
She deprived her child of sight.

Now think you tender parents,
What must this monster feel,
The heart within her breast must ten
Times harder be than steel.
The dreadful crime she did commit,
Does all the world surprise,
Black beetles placed in walnut shells,
Bound round her infant’s eyes.

The beetles in a walnut shell,
This monster she did place,
This dreadful deed, as you may read,
All history does disgrace,
The walnut shell, and beetles,
With a bandage she bound tight,
Around her infant’s tender eyes,
To take away it’s sight.

A lady saw this monster,
In the street when passing by,
And she was struck with terror,
For to hear the infant cry.
The infant’s face she swore to see,
Which filled her with surprise,
To see the fatal bandage,
Tied round the infant’s eyes.

With speed she called an officer,
Oh! shocking to relate,
Who beheld the deed, and took the wretch,
Before the Magistrate.
Who committed her for trial,
Which did the wretch displease,
And she’s now transported ten long years,
Across the briny seas.

Is there another in the world,
Could plan such wicked deed,
No one upon this earth before,
Of such did ever see.
To take away her infant’s sight,
’Tis horrible to tell,
Binding black beetles round it’s eyes,
Placed in walnut shells.

THE UNDERTAKER’S CLUB.

ONE night, being pressed by his old friend Chubb,
To go to an Undertaker’s Club,
I’ll furnish you all, if that I dare.
With a mournful account of this grave affair.

_Chorus._

For such a black looking lot is this Club of
Undertakers, such a black looking set
You never did see.

This selfsame Club, and House of Call,
Was held at Blackheath, or else Blackwall,
The landlord’s name it was Blackmore,
And an African Chief hung over the door.

The Undertakers had all met.
They were dress’d in black a dingey set,
The picture frames black, and so were the walls,
And the window curtains were made of palls.

The stove black leaded not long had been,
On the table was laid Blackwood’s magazine,
The carpet was black and so was each chair,
The chairman’d black whiskers and raven hair.

The supper was laid, there were lots of black game,
With polonies in mourning to match with the same,
There were blackbird pies, and nothing but good ’uns,
And a quantity of good black puddings.

The knives were black, and so were the forks,
Black strap in black bottles, with black sealed corks,
The rules of the club, were done in black figures,
And the waiters and cooks were all of them niggers.

The dessert was black grapes, and black heart cherries.
Blackcurrants, and mulberries, and blackberries.
Prunes and elder wine were there,
Which just made up this black bill affair.

Mr. Sable sang first, and what should he choose on,
But the favourite ballad of black eyéd Susan,
The coal black steed, Mr. Hatband choose,
And Mr. Merryhall sang coal black rose.

The best that was sung and that all did confess,
Was the favourite song of My bonny Black Bess,
The Chairman then whistled, when his throat was clear,
The fav’rite grand march that is played in Black Beard.

_A TIDY SUIT FOR ALL THAT._