Oh, take your time Miss Lind,
You’re only to raise your voice,
John Bull, will raise the wind.
Says Alfred in the public eye,
My name you shan’t degrade,
So birds that can and won’t sing
Why in course they must be made
This put Miss Jenny’s pipe out,
Says Bunn your tricks I see,
Altho’ you are a Nightingale,
You shan’t play larks with me.
The Poet said he’d seek the law,
No chance away he’d throw;
Says Jenny if you think I’ll come,
You’ll find it is no go!
When a bird-catcher named ‘Lummy’
With independence big,
Pounced down upon the Nightingale,
And with her hopp’d the twig!”
I am inclined to think--though I know it to be an unusual case--that
in this theatrical ballad the street poet was what is tenderly called
a “plagiarist.” I was assured by a chaunter that it was written by
a street author,--but probably the chaunter was himself in error or
forgetfulness.
Next, there is the Ballad on a Civic Subject. In the old times the Lord
Mayor had his laureate. This writer, known as “poet to the City of
London,” eulogised all lord mayors, and glorified all civic pageants.
That of the 9th November, especially, “lived in Settle’s numbers, one
day more,”--but Elkanah Settle was the last of such scribes. After his
death, the city eschewed a poet. The office has now descended to the
street bard, who annually celebrates the great ceremony. I cite two
stanzas and the chorus from the latest of these civic Odes:
“Now Farncombe’s out and Musgrove’s in,
And grand is his position,
Because he will be made a king,
At the Hyde Park Exhibition;
A feast he’ll order at Guildhall,
For hypocrites and sinners,
And he has sent Jack Forester to Rome,
To invite the Pope to dinner!
A day like this we never saw,
The truth I am confessing,
Batty’s astonishing menagerie,
Is in the great procession;
There’s lions, tigers, bears and wolves,
To please each smiling feature,
And elephants in harness drawing
Drury Lane Theatre!
CHORUS.
“It is not as it used to be,
Cut on so gay and thrifty,
The funny Lord Mayor’s Show to see,
In eighteen hundred and fifty.”
There is, beside the descriptions of ballads above cited, the Ballad
Local. One of these is headed the “Queer Doings in Leather-lane,” and
is on a subject concerning which street-sellers generally express
themselves strongly--Sunday trading. The endeavour to stop street
trading (generally) in Leather-lane, with its injurious results to
the shopkeepers, has been already mentioned. The ballad on this local
subject presents a personality now, happily, almost confined to the
street writers:
“A rummy saintly lot is there,
A domineering crew,
A Butcher, and a Baker,
And an Undertaker too,
Besides a cove who deals in wood,
And makes his bundles small,
And looks as black on Sunday
As the Undertaker’s pall.
CHORUS.
You must not buy, you must not sell,
Oh! is it not a shame?
It is a shocking place to dwell,
About sweet Leather Lane.
The Butcher does not like to hear
His neighbours holloa, buy!
Although he on the Sunday
Sells a little on the sly;
And the Coffin Maker struts along
Just like the great Lord Mayor,
To bury folks on Sundays,
Instead of going to prayers.”
There are yet three themes of these street songs, of which, though they
have been alluded to, no specimens have been given. I now supply them.
The first is the election ballad. I quote two stanzas from “Middlesex
and Victory! or, Grosvenor and Osborne for ever!”
“Now Osborne is the man
To struggle for your rights,
He will vote against the Bishops,
You know, both day and night,
He will strive to crush the Poor Law Bill,
And that with all his might,
And he will never give his vote
To part a man from his wife.
CHORUS.
Then cheer Osborne and Lord Grosvenor,
Cheer them with three times three,
For they beat the soldier, Tommy Wood,
And gained the victory.
I have not forgot Lord Grosvenor,
Who nobly stood the test,
For the electors of great Middlesex
I know he’ll do his best;
He will pull old Nosey o’er the coals,
And lay him on his back,
And he swears that little Bob’s head
He will shove into a rat trap.”
Then come the “elegies.” Of three of these I cite the opening stanza.
That on the “Death of Queen Adelaide” has for an illustration a figure
of Britannia leaning on her shield, with the “Muse of History,” (as I
presume from her attributes,) at Britannia’s feet. In the distance is
the setting sun:
“Old England may weep, her bright hopes are fled,
The friend of the poor is no more;
For Adelaide now is numbered with the dead,
And her loss we shall sadly deplore.
For though noble her birth, and high was her station
The poor of this nation will miss her,
For their wants she relieved without ostentation,
But now she is gone, God bless her!
God bless her! God bless her!
But now she is gone, God bless her!”
The elegy on the “Death of the Right Honourable Sir Robert Peel, Bart.
M.P.,” is set off with a very fair portrait of that statesman.
“Britannia! Britannia! what makes thee complain,
O why so in sorrow relenting,
Old England is lost, we are borne down in pain,
And the nation in grief is lamenting,
That excellent man--the pride of the land,
Whom every virtue possessed him,
Is gone to that Home, from whence no one returns,
Our dear friend, Sir Robert, God rest him.”
The verses which bewail the “Death of H. R. H. the Duke of Cambridge,”
and which are adorned with the same illustration as those upon Queen
Adelaide, begin
“Oh! death, thou art severe, and never seems contented,
Prince Adolphus Frederick is summoned away,
The death of Royal Cambridge in sorrow lamented,
Like the good Sir Robert Peel, he no longer could stay;
His virtues were good, and noble was his actions,
His presence at all places caused much attraction,
Britannia for her loss is driven to distraction,
Royal Cambridge, we’ll behold thee no more!”
The third class of street-ballads relates to “fires.” The one I quote,
“On the Awful Fire at B. Caunt’s, in St. Martin’s-lane,” is preceded by
an engraving of a lady and a cavalier, the lady pointing to a column
surmounted by an urn. I again give the first stanza:
“I will unfold a tale of sorrow,
List, you tender parents dear,
It will thrill each breast with horror,
When the dreadful tale you hear.
Early on last Wednesday morning,
A raging fire as we may see,
Did occur, most sad and awful,
Between the hours of two and three.”
In a subsequent stanza are four lines, not without some rough pathos,
and adapted to move the feelings of a street audience. The writer is
alluding to the grief of the parents who had lost two children by a
terrible death:
“No more their smiles they’ll be beholding,
No more their pretty faces see,
No more to their bosoms will they fold them,
Oh! what must their feelings be.”
I find no difference in style between the ballads on a subject of
to-day, and the oldest which I could obtain a sight of, which were sung
in the present generation--except that these poems now begin far less
frequently with what at one time was as common as an invocation to the
Muse--the invitation to good Christians to attend to the singer. One on
the Sloanes, however, opens in the old fashion:
“Come all good Christians and give attention,
Unto these lines I will unfold,
With heartfelt feelings to you I’ll mention,
I’m sure ’twill make your blood run cold.”
I now conclude this account of street-ballads on a subject with
two verses from one on the subject of “The Glorious Fight for the
Championship of England.” The celebration of these once-popular
encounters is, as I have already stated, one of the points in which the
modern ballad-man emulates his ancient brother minstrel:
“On the ninth day of September,
Eighteen hundred and forty five,
From London down to Nottingham
The roads were all alive;
Oh! such a sight was never seen,
Believe me it is so,
Tens of thousands went to see the fight,
With Caunt and Bendigo.
And near to Newport Pagnell,
Those men did strip so fine,
Ben Caunt stood six feet two and a half,
And Bendigo five foot nine;
Ben Caunt, a giant did appear,
And made the claret flow,
And he seemed fully determined
Soon to conquer Bendigo.
CHORUS.
With their hit away and slash away,
So manfully you see,
Ben Caunt has lost and Bendigo
Has gained the victory.”
OF THE STREET POETS AND AUTHORS.
_Authorship_, for street sale, is chiefly confined to the production
of verse, which, whatever be its nature, is known through the trade
as “ballads.” Two distinctions, indeed, are recognised--“Ballads” and
“Ballads on a Subject.” The last-mentioned is, as I have said and
shown, the publication which relates to any specific event; national or
local, criminal or merely extraordinary, true or false. Under the head
“Ballads,” the street-sellers class all that does not come under the
description of “Ballads on a Subject.”
The same street authors--now six in number--compose indiscriminately
any description of ballad, including the copy of verses I have
shown to be required as a necessary part of all histories or trials
of criminals. When the printer has determined upon a “Sorrowful
Lamentation,” he sends to a poet for a copy of verses, which is
promptly supplied. The payment I have already mentioned--1_s._; but
sometimes, if the printer (and publisher) like the verses, he “throws a
penny or two over;” and sometimes also, in case of a great sale, there
is the same over-sum.
Fewer ballads, I was assured, than was the case ten or twelve years
ago, are now written expressly for street sale or street minstrelsy.
“They come to the printer, for nothing, from the concert-room. He has
only to buy a ‘Ross’ or a ‘Sharp’” [song-books] “for 1_d._, and there’s
a lot of ’em; so, in course, a publisher ain’t a-going to give a bob,
if he can be served for a farthing, just by buying a song-book.”
Another man, himself not a “regular poet,” but a little concerned in
street productions, said to me, with great earnestness: “Now look at
this, sir, and I hope you’ll just say, sir, as I tell you. You’ve
given the public a deal of information about men like me, and some of
our chaps abuses you for it like mad; but I say it’s all right, for
it’s all true. Now you’ll have learned, sir, or, any way, you will
learn, that there’s songs sung in the streets, and sometimes in some
tap-rooms, that isn’t decent, and relates to nothing but wickedness.
There wasn’t a few of those songs once written for the streets,
straight away, and a great sale they had, I know--but far better at
country fairs and races than in town. Since the singing-houses--I
don’t mean where you pay to go to a concert, no! but such as your
Cyder-cellars, and your night-houses, where there’s lords, and
gentlemen, and city swells, and young men up from the colleges--since
these places has been up so flourishing, there hasn’t, I do believe,
been _one_ such song written by one of our poets. They all come from
the places where the lords, and genelmen, and collegians is capital
customers; and they never was a worse sort of ballads than now. In
course those houses is licensed, and perticler respectable, or it
wouldn’t be allowed; and if I was to go to the foot of the bridge, sir
(Westminster-bridge), and chaunt any such songs, and my mate should
sell them, why we should very soon be taking reg’lar exercise on
Colonel Chesterton’s everlasting staircase. We has a great respect for
the law--O, certainly!”
Parodies on any very popular song, which used to be prepared expressly
for street trade, are now, in like manner, derived from the night-house
or the concert-room; but not entirely so. The parody “Cab, cab,
cab!” which was heard in almost every street, was originated in a
concert-room.
The ballads which have lately been written, and published expressly for
the street sale, and have proved the most successful, are parodies or
imitations of “The Gay Cavalier.” One street ballad, commencing in the
following words, was, I am told, greatly admired, both in the streets
and the public-houses.
“’Twas a dark foggy night,
And the moon gave no light,
And the stars were all put in the shade:
When leary Joe Scott,
Dealt in ‘Donovan’s hot’
Said he’d go to court his fair maid.”
I now give three stanzas of “The Way to Live Happy Together,”--a ballad
said to have been written expressly for street sale. Its popularity is
anything but discreditable to the street-buyers:
“From the time of this world’s first formation
You will find it has been the plan,
In every country and nation,
That woman was formed to please man;
And man for to love and protect them,
And shield them from the frowns of the world,
Through the smooth paths of life to direct them,
And he who would do less is a churl.
Then listen to me!
If you would live happy together,
As you steer through the troubles of life,
Depend that this world’s greatest treasure,
Is a kind and a good-tempered wife.
Some men will ill-use a good woman,
And say all they do turns out wrong,
But as I mean to offend no one,
You’ll find faults to both sides belong;
But if both were to look at the bright side,
And each other’s minds cease to pain,
They would find they have looked at the right side,
For all would be summer again.
Then listen to me!
If you would live happy together, &c.
Married women, don’t gossip or tattle,
Remember it oft stirs up strife,
But attend to your soft children’s soft prattle,
And the duties of mother and wife.
And men, if you need recreation,
With selfish companions don’t roam,
Who might lead you to sad degradation,
But think of your comforts at home.
Then listen to me!
If you would live happy together, &c.”
“It’s all as one, sir,” was the answer of a man whom I questioned on
the subject; “it’s the same poet; and the same tip for any ballad. No
more nor a bob for nothing.”
[Illustration: ILLUSTRATIONS OF STREET-ART--No. III.
MR. PATRICK CONNOR.[13]]
[13] This is evidently a rude copy of Lawrence’s picture of George the
Fourth.
[Illustration: ILLUSTRATIONS TO STREET-BALLADS.
THE
AMOROUS WATERMAN.
=Of St. JOhn’s Wood.=
]
[Illustration: ILLUSTRATIONS OF STREET-ART--No. IV.
THE QUEEN’S GLORIOUS SPEECH.
GENERAL HAYNAU.[14]
THE POACHERS.
The Miller’s Ditty.
=The Heart that can feel for Another.=
ROSIN THE BEAU.
Broken Hearted Gardener.]
[14] This originally was an illustration to “Thump em the Drummer,” in
one of Fairburn’s Song-books.
A large number of ballads which I procured, and all sold and sung in
the street, though not written expressly for the purpose, presented
a curious study enough. They were of every class. I specify a few,
to show the nature of the collection (not including ballads on a
subject): “Ye Banks and Braes o’ Bonnie Doun,” with (on the same sheet)
“The Merry Fiddler,” (an indecent song)--“There’s a good Time coming,
Boys,” “Nix, my Dolly,” “The Girls of ----shire,” (which of course is
available for any county)--“Widow Mahoney,” “Remember the Glories of
Brian the Brave,” “Clementina Clemmins,” “Lucy Long,” “Erin Go Bragh,”
“Christmas in 1850,” “The Death of Nelson,” “The Life and Adventures of
Jemmy Sweet,” “The Young May Moon,” “Hail to the Tyrol,” “He was sich a
Lushy Cove,” &c. &c.
I may here mention--but a fuller notice may be necessary when I treat
of street art--that some of these ballads have an “illustration” always
at the top of the column. “The Heart that can Feel for Another” is
illustrated by a gaunt and savage-looking lion. “The Amorous Waterman
of St. John’s Wood,” presents a very short, obese, and bow-legged
grocer, in top-boots, standing at his door, while a lady in a huge
bonnet is “taking a sight at him,” to the evident satisfaction of a
“baked ’tater” man. “Rosin the Beau” is heralded by the rising sun.
“The Poachers” has a cut of the Royal Exchange above the title. “The
Miller’s Ditty” is illustrated by a perfect dandy, of the slimmest
and straightest fashion; and “When I was first Breeched,” by an
engraving of a Highlander. Many of the ballads, however have engravings
appropriate enough.
OF THE EXPERIENCE OF A STREET AUTHOR, OR POET.
I have already mentioned the present number of street authors, as I
most frequently heard them styled, though they write only verses. I
called upon one on the recommendation of a neighbouring tradesman, of
whom I made some inquiries. He could not tell me the number of the
house in the court where the man lived, but said I had only to inquire
for the Tinker, or the Poet, and any one would tell me.
I found the poor poet, who bears a good character, on a sick bed; he
was suffering, and had long been suffering, from abscesses. He was
apparently about forty-five, with the sunken eyes, hollow cheeks,
and, not pale but thick and rather sallow complexion, which indicate
ill-health and scant food. He spoke quietly, and expressed resignation.
His room was not very small, and was furnished in the way usual among
the very poor, but there were a few old pictures over the mantel-piece.
His eldest boy, a lad of thirteen or fourteen, was making dog-chains;
at which he earned a shilling or two, sometimes 2_s._ 6_d._, by sale in
the streets.
“I was born at Newcastle-under-Lyne,” the man said, “but was brought to
London when, I believe, I was only three months old. I was very fond
of reading poems, in my youth, as soon as I could read and understand
almost. Yes, very likely, sir; perhaps it was that put it into my head
to write them afterwards. I was taught wire-working, and jobbing,
and was brought up to hawking wire-work in the streets, and all over
England and Wales. It was never a very good trade--just a living.
Many and many a weary mile we’ve travelled together,--I mean, my wife
and I have: and we’ve sometimes been benighted, and had to wander or
rest about until morning. It wasn’t that we hadn’t money to pay for a
lodging, but we couldn’t get one. We lost count of the days sometimes
in wild parts; but if we did lose count, or thought we had, I could
always tell when it was Sunday morning by the look of nature; there
was a mystery and a beauty about it as told me. I was very fond of
Goldsmith’s poetry always. I can repeat ‘Edwin and Emma’ now. No, sir;
I never read the ‘Vicar of Wakefield.’ I found ‘Edwin and Emma’ in a
book called the ‘Speaker.’ I often thought of it in travelling through
some parts of the country.
“Above fourteen years ago I tried to make a shilling or two by selling
my verses. I’d written plenty before, but made nothing by them. Indeed
I never tried. The first song I ever sold was to a concert-room
manager. The next I sold had great success. It was called the ‘Demon of
the Sea,’ and was to the tune of ‘The Brave Old Oak.’ Do I remember how
it began? Yes, sir, I remember every word of it. It began:
Unfurl the sails,
We’ve easy gales;
And helmsman steer aright.
Hoist the grim death’s head--
The Pirate’s head--
For a vessel heaves in sight!
That song was written for a concert-room, but it was soon in the
streets, and ran a whole winter. I got only 1_s._ for it. Then I
wrote the ‘Pirate of the Isles,’ and other ballads of that sort. The
concert-rooms pay no better than the printers for the streets.
“Perhaps the best thing I ever wrote was the ‘Husband’s Dream.’ I’m
very sorry indeed that I can’t offer you copies of some of my ballads,
but I haven’t a single copy myself of any of them, not one, and I dare
say I’ve written a thousand in my time, and most of them were printed.
I believe 10,000 were sold of the ‘Husband’s Dream.’ It begins:
O Dermot, you look healthy now,
Your dress is neat and clean;
I never see you drunk about,
Then tell me where you’ve been.
Your wife and family--are they well?
You once did use them strange:
O, are you kinder to them grown,
How came this happy change?
“Then Dermot tells how he dreamed of his wife’s sudden death, and his
childrens’ misery as they cried about her dead body, while he was drunk
in bed, and as he calls out in his misery, he wakes, and finds his wife
by his side. The ballad ends:
‘I pressed her to my throbbing heart,
Whilst joyous tears did stream;
And ever since, I’ve heaven blest,
For sending me that dream.’
“Dermot turned teetotaller. The teetotallers were very much pleased
with that song. The printer once sent me 5_s._ on account of it.
“I have written all sorts of things--ballads on a subject, and copies
of verses, and anything ordered of me, or on anything I thought would
be accepted, but now I can’t get about. I’ve been asked to write
indecent songs, but I refused. One man offered me 5_s._ for six such
songs.--‘Why, that’s less than the common price,’ said I, ‘instead of
something over to pay for the wickedness.’--All those sort of songs
come now to the streets, I believe all do, from the concert-rooms.
I can imitate any poetry. I don’t recollect any poet I’ve imitated.
No, sir, not Scott or Moore, that I know of, but if they’ve written
popular songs, then I dare say I have imitated them. Writing poetry
is no comfort to me in my sickness. It might if I could write just
what I please. The printers like hanging subjects best, and I don’t.
But when any of them sends to order a copy of verses for a ‘Sorrowful
Lamentation’ of course I must supply them. I don’t think much of what
I’ve done that way. If I’d my own fancy, I’d keep writing acrostics,
such as one I wrote on our rector.” “God bless him,” interrupted the
wife, “he’s a good man.” “That he is,” said the poet, “but he’s never
seen what I wrote about him, and perhaps never will.” He then desired
his wife to reach him his big Bible, and out of it he handed me a piece
of paper, with the following lines written on it, in a small neat hand
enough:
“C elestial blessings hover round his head,
H undreds of poor, by his kindness were fed,
A nd precepts taught which he himself obeyed.
M an, erring man, brought to the fold of God,
P reaching pardon through a Saviour’s blood.
N o lukewarm priest, but firm to Heaven’s cause;
E xamples showed how much he loved its laws.
Y outh and age, he to their wants attends,
S teward of Christ--the poor man’s sterling friend.”
“There would be some comfort, sir,” he continued, “if one could go on
writing at will like that. As it is, I sometimes write verses all over
a slate, and rub them out again. Live hard! yes, indeed, we do live
hard. I hardly know the taste of meat. We live on bread and butter, and
tea; no, not any fish. As you see, sir, I work at tinning. I put new
bottoms into old tin tea-pots, and such like. Here’s my sort of bench,
by my poor bit of a bed. In the best weeks I earn 4_s._ by tinning,
never higher. In bad weeks I earn only 1_s._ by it, and sometimes not
that,--and there are more shilling than four shilling weeks by three
to one. As to my poetry, a good week is 3_s._, and a poor week is
1_s._--and sometimes I make nothing at all that way. So I leave you
to judge, sir, whether we live hard; for the comings in, and what we
have from the parish, must keep six of us--myself, my wife, and four
children. It’s a long, hard struggle.” “Yes, indeed,” said the wife,
“it’s just as you’ve heard my husband tell, sir. We’ve 2_s._ a week and
four loaves of bread from the parish, and the rent’s 2_s._ 6_d._, and
the landlord every week has 2_s._,--and 6_d._ he has done for him in
tinning work. Oh, we do live hard, indeed.”
As I was taking my leave, the poor man expressed a desire that I would
take a copy of an epitaph which he had written for himself. “If ever,”
he said, “I am rich enough to provide for a tomb-stone, or my family is
rich enough to give me one, this shall be my epitaph” [I copied it from
a blank page in his Bible:]
“Stranger, pause, a moment stay,
Tread lightly o’er this mound of clay.
Here lies J---- H----, in hopes to rise,
And meet his Saviour in the skies.
Christ his refuge, Heaven his home,
Where pain and sorrow never come.
His journey’s done, his trouble’s past,
With God he sleeps in peace at last.”
OF THE STREET-SELLERS OF BROAD-SHEETS.
The broad-sheet known in street-sale is an unfolded sheet, varying in
size, and printed on one side. The word is frequently used to signify
an account of a murder or execution, but it may contain an account
of a fire, an “awful accident and great loss of life,” a series of
conundrums, as in those called “Nuts to Crack,” a comic or intended
comic engraving, with a speech or some verses, as recently in satire
of the Pope and Cardinal Wiseman (these are sometimes called “comic
exhibitions”), or a “bill of the play.” The “cocks” are more frequently
a smaller size than the broad-sheet.