Poets and Poems of Droylsden

The Working Men Of The World

By James Burgess

THE working men of all the world,
Wherever they may be,
Engaged upon the solid land,
Or on the deep, wide sea;
Success attend their skill and toil,
Supporting their degree,
And may they all, the world around,
Be dignified and free!

What though their cares are manifold,
Their perils not a few,
They feel a pleasure in their toil
When duty they pursue:
In every clime, in every land,
With active hand and brain,
They labour on with willing heart
Their living to obtain.

But while they toil to earn their bread,
And for their young provide,
All needful things the world requires
Their labour gives beside:
Hence men grow rich, and cities rise,
And luxuries abound;
While commerce sends her treasure ships
The spacious globe around.

Witb them are genius, talent, worth,
As labour's annals tell,
And daily do the sons of toil
The ranks of science swell.
Let not their rulers, then, withold
The rights that workmen claim;
Each power, by granting these, will add
New lustre to its name.

Their civil and religious wrongs,
Their every wrong redress,
The toiler's claim to equal rights
With honesty confess :

Then harmony will soon prevail
Where discord now is heard,
And God's rich blessings, sent for all,
By loving hearts be shared.

From "Pictures of Social Life"

Th' Mill Whistle

By Alfred Henry Pearce

Ay, deawn wi' th' mill whistle! That meitherin'(1) nuisance,
An deawn wi'its ditherin'(2) din!
Aw'n reight in agrement wi' them as 'ud stop it-
Aw think it a shawm an' a sin.
It wakkens the birds fro' the'r feathery slumbers
It startles the rabbits on th' lea,
But th' wo'st of its horrible, hair-raisin' din is-
It's allus a-wakkenin' me!

Ay, deawn wi' th' mill whistle! Aw hate it, aw do!
When aw'm dreomin' it gies me the nark,
For just when aw'm kissen' th' rich emperor's dowter,
It screeches eawt: "Get to thi wark!"
An' mon, t'other neet as aw dreamt aw wur weddin'
A lassie all di'monds an' fur,
That dal whistle skriked eawt, an' eawr Bet sheawted, "Tum!
Tha'll be gated agen, doesta yer?"

Ay deawn wi' th' mill whistle- an' th' mill whistle only-
Aw'm noan agen whistles as sich;
Aw love to yer t' whistle o' th' saeside trip engines,
An' the' whistle o' throstles is rich;
The whistle o' wheels as they grind eawt mi money
Aw'm never despisin yo bet,
An' to show aw'm broad-minded, aw'm willin' to tell yo'
Aw like mi own whistle to wet!

But deawn wi' th' mill whistle! Hawve-five in the mornin'
Aw hate it reight through an' complete.
Yet mi paddy(3) fer that durn't last a' through the day, fer
Aw love it the same time at neet!
Ay, ay! An'aw tell yo' 'at's friends o' the seawnd
Yo ' con tek it for gospel fro' me,
If aw'd nobbut a theawsand a year comin' in,
It might whistle for ever for me!

(1) meitherin' = bothering; confusing

(2) ditherin' = shaking; tremulous.

(3) paddy = temper.

Alfred Henry Pearce

CLAYTON HALL

BY ELIJAH RIDINGS

CLAYTON HALL is an old moated edifice, in the township of Droylsden, once the residence of the baronial Byrons, and afterwards a favourite home of Humphrey Chetham. It is a quaint, half-timbered house, with bell-turret and bell, and in the olden time was duly provided, like most old halls of Lancashire, with its ghost, which was so regular in its visitations that it gave rise to the proverbial saying, "Here aw come agen, loike Clayton Ho Boggart."

Clayton Hall home of the Byron's and Chetham's

The bell doth call, in Clayton Hall ,
The labourer from his bed ;
The day hath dawn'd, blithe Hodge hath yawn'd
And from his cot hath sped ;
With pick and spade on shoulder laid ,
With rustic smockfrock gray ,
With hardy face and homely grace ,
To work he hics away .

Hath sentinel of old Cromwell
E'er watch'd thine ancient hall ?
Thine olden bower hath seen the hour
Of royal Charles's fall ;
O'er thy threshhold hath warrior bold
E'er pass'd with manly tread ?
Have drums e'er beat around thy seat ,
Or martial banners spread ?

Let fancy float around thy moat ,
Whiich since his day hath been ;
Thy looks are gray, to time a prey ,
A melancholy scene ;
Thy ruin'd tower, thy lonely bower ,
To thoughtful minds recall
The Civil wars, rebellion's jars ,
O venerable Hall !

Those days are gone, but their dread tone
Reviveth at my call ,
And doth mingle in the dingle
That blooms around the Hall ,
With the loud songs of feather'd throngs ,
Whose varied wonders fall
In all their powers o'er my lone hours ,
O ancient Clayton Hall !

With grateful grace may I retrace
The merchant prince,* whose name
And pious, charitable face ,
Are dedicate to fame ;
While there is either book or stone
To tell that he hath been ,
His venerable name alone
Shall consecrate this scene .

Clayton Hall showing the bell tower

*Humphrey Chetham Esq., founder of the Hospital, School and Library in Manchester which bear his name. He resided at Clayton Hall about three miles east of Manchester, and closed his useful life there in 1653.

The Village Festival

By Elijah Ridings (Abridged)

In that sweet season of the year,
When August's golden crops appear;
When harvest cheers the hall and cot,
And poor men may not be forgot;
The rye and oats their skill require,
And heavy wheat-sheaves strong arms tire:
When fruits in plentiousness abound,
And the old gard'ner goes his round,
And nought his gathering hand escapes,
Peras, peaches, apricots nor grapes;
When polyanthus, mignonette,
And some choice flowers are smiling yet:
When wastes, and marshes, or wild heaths,
O'er which the scented zephyr breathes,
Display gorse-flowersand long fern leaves,
Which the observant eye perceives,
In richest purple, green, and gold,
Its own light sparkling to behold
Their beauty to the orb of day,
"Pay gold for gold"(1) and ray for ray;
When birds resume their song of spring,
Their lovely music lingering:
And wood and barn-owls loudly shout,
As if it were near some rabble rout:
And beech-trees drop the yellow leaf,
A type of human hope and grief;
And tiny wild-flowers leave the sun,
Their pretty love-tasks being done;
And Nature, with exhaustless charms,
Lets summer die in Autumn's arms;
There is a merry, happy time,
To grace withal this simple ryhme:
There is jovial, joyous hour,
Of mirth and jollitty in store:
The wakes-the wakes-the jocund wakes!
My wand'ring memory now forsakes
The present busy scene of things,
Erratic, upon fancy's wing,
For olden times, with garlands crown'd,
And rush-carts green on many a mound
In hamlets bearing a great name,
The first in astronomic fame.(2)

Behold the rush-cart, and the throng
Of lads and lasses pass along:
Now, view the nimble morris-dancers,
The blithe, fantastic, antic prancers,
Bedeck'd in gaudiest profusion,
With ribbons in a sweet confusion
Of brilliant colours, richest dyes,
Like wings of moths and butterflies-
Waving white kerchiefs in the air,
And crossing here, re-crossing there,
And up and down, and everwhwere:
Springing, bounding, gaily skipping,
Deftly, briskly, no one tripping:
All young fellows, blithe and hearty,
Thirty couples in the party;
And on the foot-paths may be seen
Their sweethearts from each lane and green,
And cottage-home, all fain to see
The festival of rural glee:
The love betroth'd, the fond heart plighted,
And with the witching scene delighted:
In modest guise, in simple graces,
The rose blushing on their faces.
Behold the strong-limb'd horses stand,
The pride and boast of English land:
Fitted to move in shafts or chains,
With plaited, glossy tails and manes:
Their proud heads each a garland bears
Of quaint devices-suns and stars,
And roses, ribbon-wrought abound,
The silver-plate, one hundred pound,
With green oak boughs the cart is crown'd,(3)
The strong, gaunt horses shake the ground.
Now see the welcome host appears,
And thirsty mouths the ale-draught cheers;
Draught after draught is quickly gone-
Come, here's a health to everyone;
Away with care, and doleful thinking,
The cup goes round- what hearty drinking!
While many a youth his lips is smacking,
And the two drivers' whips are cracking;
Now, strike up music, the old tune,
And louder, quicker, old Bassoon;
Come , bustle lads, for one dance more,
And then cross morris three times o'er.

Come, join once more the country dance,
And see beneath the evening's shade,
Each village lad and village maid
Skip hand in hand, and cheek by cheek,
Blushing much more than words may speak,
Striving to gain the ribbon-prize,
Attentive to the censor's eyes;
What is your graceless polka, now,
An ugly gallopade, I trow;
Worse than old Bruin's rigadoon,
Compar'd with one sweet dance and tune
In that sweet play, "The Honeymoon."(4)
O! scenes of passionate delight
Sweet visions of a summer night,
To song and dance, and joy resign'd,
That bind in willing chains the mind:
Who would not cheerful company keep
To gain a long, refreshing slep,
While Nature, with kind bounties rife,
Retrims the darkened lamp of life.

And now, the merry wakes are o'er
The rushes on the chapel-floor
Are spread in time for winter's cold,
To warm the feet of young and old,
When simple hearts the sacred lays
Chaunt to our great Creator's praise.
Praise, praise, much more, much more than pray,
Ye Children, on each sabbath-day:
Let voices sweet as woodland birds
Pour forth a flood of grateful words,
In rapturous delight and love,
Unto the awful spheres above:
And let the solemn organs voice,
Bid every ingrate heart rejoice,
Tat one great God, one Father reigns
O'er Nature's infinite domains;
And though, with human sences dim,
We may not penetrate to Him,
Goodness and mercy may reveal,
What mortal hearts can never feel,
In spiritual liberty:
When thron'd in a supernal light,
They gain a purer, clearer sight;
Number'd among the heavenly blest
There to enjoy eternal rest.

(1) months.

(2) Newton. The townships of Newton, Moston, Failsworth,and Droylsden, constituted the 'Chapelry of Newton'. Each township had a wakes and rush-cart tradition.

(3) In the days when Wakes rush-carts were built, it was thought a great honour to have the most lavishly decorated sheet on the front of the cart. Frequently the gentry and the yeoman of the town or village, lent their family silver plate to hang upon the sheet, hunting trophies, silver drinking tankards, and other ancestral relics were also added. Often between towns and villages there were heated discussions over the merits of each others carts. It was thought a poor rush-cart, that had not five or six lads ready to fight for its honour.

(4) The dance in Tobins play, "The Honeymoon."

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