Lyr Add: The Pitman's Pay

Subject: Lyr Add: THE PITMAN'S PAY
From: *Conrad Bladey Peasant-Inactive
Date: 02 Aug 00 - 09:19 AM

THE PITMAN'S PAY;
Or, A night's Discharge to Care.

I sing not here of warriors bold--
Of battles lost or victories won--
Of cities sack'd, nor nations sold,
Or any deeds by tyrants done.

I sing the Pitman's plagues and cares-
Their labour hard and lowly cot--
Their homely joys and humble fares-
Their pay-night o'er a foaming pot.

Their week's work done, the coally craft--
These horny-handed sons of toil
Require a right gude willie-waught,
The creaking wheels of life to oil.

See hewers, putters, drivers too,
With pleasure hail this happy day--
All celan wash'd up, their way pursue
To drink and crack,and get their pay.

The Buck, the Black Horse, and the Keys,
Have witness'd many a comic scene,
Where's yell to cheer and mirth to please,
And drollery that would cure the spleen.

With parched tongues and gyzen'd throats
They reach the place, where barleycorn
Soon down the dusty cavern floats,
From pewter-pot or homely horn.

The dust wash'd down, then comes the care
To find that all is rightly bill'd;
And each to get his hard-earn'd share
From some one in division skill'd.

The money-matters thus decided,
They push the pot more briskly round;
With hearts elate and hobbies strided,
Their cares are all in nappie drown'd.

Here, lass says Jack, help this agyen,
It's better yell than in the toun;
But then the road's se het it's tyen,
It fizz'd, aw think, as it went doun.

Thus many a foaming pot's requir'd
To quench the dry and dusky spark;
Whe ev'ry tongue, as if inspir'd
Wags on about their wives and wark.

The famous feats done in their youth,
At bowling, ball, and clubby-shaw--
Camp-meetings, Ranters, Gospel-truth,
Religion, politics, and law.

With such variety of matter,
Opinions, too, as various quite,
We need not wonder at the clatter,
When ev'ry tongue wags-wrong or right.

The gifted few in lungs and lair
At length, insensibly,, divide'em;
And from a three-legg'd stool or chare
Each draws his favour'd few beside him.

Now let us ev'ry face survey,
Which seems as big with grave debate,
As if each word they had to say
Was pregnant with impending fate.

Mark those in that secluded place
Set snug around the stool of oak,
Labouring at some knotty case,
Envelop'd in tobacco smoke.

Thes are the pious, faithful few,
Who pierce the dark decrees of fate--
They've read teh Pilgrim's Progress through,
As well as Boston's Four-fold state.

They'll point you out the day and hour
When they experience'd sin forgiven--
Convince you that they're quie secure,
They'll die in peace, and go to heaven.

The moral road's too far abbut,
They like a surer, Shorter cut,
Which frees the end from every doubt,
And saves them many a weary foot.

The first's commensurate with our years,
And must be travell'd day by day;
And to the new-born few appears
A very dull and tedious way.

The other's length solely depends
Upon the time when we begin it;
Get but set out--before life ends--
For all's set right when once we're in it.

They're now debating which is best--
The short-cut votes the others double;
For this good reason, 'mongst the rest,
It really saves a world of trouble.

He that from goodness farthest strays,
Becomes a saint of first degree;
And Ranter Jeremiah says,
Let bad ones only come to me.

Old Earth-worm soon obeys the call,
Conscious, perhaps, he wanted mending,
For some few flaws from Adam's fall,
Gloss'd o'er by cant and sheer pretending.

Still stick to him afield or home,
The methodistic brush defying,
So that the Ranter's curry-comb
Is now the only means worth trying.

In habits form'd since sixty years,
the hopes of change won't weigh a feather--
The power so o'er him domineers,
That they and life must end together.

See on their right a gambling fiew,
Whose every word and look display
A desperate, dark, designing crew,
Intent upon each other's pay.

They're racers, cockers, carders keen,
As ever o'er a tankard met,
Or ever bowl'd a match between
The Popplin Well and Manvin's yett.

On cock-fight, dog-fight, cuddy-race,
Or pitch and tos, trippet and coit,
Or on a soap-tail'd grunter's chase,
They'll risk the last remaining doit.

They're now at cards and Gibby Gripe
Is peeping into Harry's hand;
And ev'ry puff blown from his pipe
His party easily understand.

Some for the odd trick pushing hard--
Some that they lose it pale with fear--
Some betting on the turn-up-card--
Some drawing cuts for pints of beer.

Whilst others brawl about Jack's brock,
That all the Chowden dogs can bang;
Or praise Lang Wilson's piley cock,
Or Dixon's feats upon the swang.

Here Tom the pink of bowlers, gain'd
Himself a never-dying name,
By deeds, wherein an ardour reign'd
Which neither age nor toil could tame.

For labour done, and o'er his dose,
Tom took his place upon the hill;
And at the very evening's close
You faintly saw him bowling still.

All this display of pith and zeal
Was so completely habit grown,
That many an hour from sleep he'd steal
To bowl upon the hill alone.

The night wears late--the wives drop in
To take a peep at what is doing;
For many would not care a pin
To lose at cards a fortnight's hewing.

Poor Will had just his plagues dismiss'd,
And had Begone, dul Care begun,
With face as grave as Methodist,
And voice most sadly out of tune;

But soon as o'er he Nelly saw,
With brows a dreadful storm portending,
He dropt at once his under jaw,
As if his mortal race was ending;--

For had the grim destroyer stood,
In all his ghastliness before him,
It could not more have froze his blood,
Nor thrown a deadlier paleness o'er him.

His better half, all fire and tow,
Call'd him a slush--his comrades raff--
Swore that he could a brewing stow,
And after that sipe all the draff.

Will gather'd up his scatter'd powers--
Drew up his fallen chops again--
Seiz'd Nell, and push'd her out of doors,
Then broke forth in this piteous strain:--

O! Nell, thou's rung me money a peal,
Nyen, but mysel, could bide thy yammer;
Thy tongue runs like wor pully-wheel,
And dirls my lug like wor smith's hammer.

Thou'll drive me daft, aw often dread,
For now aw's nobbet verra silly,
Just like a geuss cut i' the head,
Like Jemmy Muin or Preacher Willy.

Aw thought wor Nell, when Nelly Dale,
The verra thing to myek me happy;
She curl'd ma hair, or tied ma tail,
And clapt and stroakt ma little Cappy.

But suin as e'er the knot was tied
And we were yok'd for life together;
When Nell had laugh'd, and minny cried,
And a' was fairly i' the tether;--

Then fierce as fire she seiz'd the breeks,
And round maw heed flewstuils, and chairs;
Ma tail hung lowse like candle weeks,--
An awd pit ended Cappy's cares.

Just like wor maisters when we're bun,
If men and lads be varra scant,
The wheedle us wi' yell and fun,
And coax us into what they want.

But myek yor mark, then snuffs and sneers
Suin stop yor gob and lay yor braggin;
When yence yor feet are i' the geers,
Ma soul! they'll keep your painches waggin.

Aw toil ma byens, till through ma clay
They peep to please ma dowly cavel;
Aw's at the coal wall a' the day,
And nightly i' the waiter level--

Aw hammer on till afternuin,
Wi' weary, byens and empty wyem;
Nay, varra oft the pit's just duin
Before aw weel get wannel'd hyem.

But this is a' of little use,
For what aw dee is never reet;
She's like a larm-bell i' the house,
Ding-donging at me day and neet.

If aw sud get ma wark owre suin,
She's flaid to deeth aw've left some byet;
And if aw's till the efternuin
Aw's drunk because aw is se lyet.

Feed us and cleed us weel she may,
As she gets a'ways money plenty;
For every day, for mony a pay,
Aw've hew'd and putten twee-and-twenty.

Tis true aw sometimes get a gill--
But then she a'ways gets her grog;
And if aw din't her bottle fill,
Aw's then a skin-flint, smock-drawn dog.

She buys me, te, the warst o' meat,
Bad bullock's liver--houghs and knees--
Tough stinking tripe, and awd cow's feet--
Shanks full o' mawks and half nought cheese.

Of sic she feeds the barins and me,
the tyesty bits she tyeks hersel:
In whik ne share nor lot have we,
Excepting sometimes i' the smell.

The crowdy is wor daily dish,
But varra different is their minny's;
For she gets a' her heart can wish
In strang lyac'd tea and singin' hinnies.

Ma canny barins luik pale and wan,
Their bits and brats are varra scant;
Their mother's feasts rob the o' scran--
For filfu' waste makes woefu' want.

She peels the taties wi' her teeth,
And spreads the buter wi' her thoom;
She blaws the kail wi' stinking breeth,
Where mawks and catepillars soom!

She's just a gannin' heap o' muck,
Where durts of a' description muster;
For dishclout serves her apron nuik
As weel as snotter clout and duster!

She lays out punds in manadge things,
Like mony a thriftless, thoutless bein;
Yet bairns and me, as if we'd wings,
Are a' in rags an' tatters fleein.

Just mark wor dress-a lapless coat,
With byeth the elbows sticking through--
A hat that never cost a groat--
A meekless shirt- a clog and shoe.

She chalks up scores a' the shops
Wherever we've a twelvemonth staid;
And when we flit, the landlord stops
Ma sticks till a' the rent be paid.

Aw's ca'd a hen-pick'd, pluckless calf,
For letting her the breeches wear;
And tell'd aw dinna thrsh her half--
Wi' mony a bitter jibe and jeer.

Aw think, says Dick, 'aw wad her towen,
And verra suin her courage cuil:
Aw'd dook her in wor engine powen,
Then clap her on Repentance stuil.

If that should not her tantrums check,
Aw'd peel her to the varra sark:
Then 'noint her wi' a twig o' yeck,
And efter make her eat the bark.

Enough like this aw've heard thro' life;
For every body has a plan
To guide a rackle ram-stam wife,
Except the poor tormented man.

Will could not now his feelings stay--
The tear roll'd down his care-worn cheek:
He thrimmell'd out what he'd to pay,
And sobbing said, my heart will break!

Here Nanny, modest, mild, and shy,
took Neddy gently by the sleeve;
Aw just luik'd in as aw went by--
Is it not, thinks te, time to leave?

Now, Nan, what myeks th' fash me here,
Gan hyem and get the bairns to bed;
Thou knaws thou promis'd me ma beer
The verra neet before we wed.

Hout, hinny, had th' blabbin jaw,
Thou's full o' nought but fun and lees;
At sic a kittle time, ye knaw,
Yen tells ye ony thing to please.

Besides, thou's had enough o' drink,
And mair wad ony myek th' bad;
Aw see thy een begin to blink--
Gan wi' me, like a canny lad.

O, Nan! thou hez a witching way
O' myekin' me de what thou will;
Thou needs but speak, and aw obey,
Yet there's ne doubt aw's maister still.

But tyest the yell and stop a bit--
Here tyek a seat upon ma knee-
For 'mant the hewers in wor pit
There's nyen hez sic a wife as me.

For if ma top comes badly down,
Or ought else keeps me lang away,
She cheers me wi' the weel-knawn-soun'--
Thou's had a lang and weary day.

If aw be naggy, Nanny's smile
Suin myeks me blithe as ony lark;
And fit to looup a yett or stile--
Ma varra byens forget to wark.

Ma Nan--ma bairns---my happy hyem--
Set ower hard labour's bitter pill--
O Providence! but spare me them--
The warld may then wag as it will.

She waits upon me hand and foot--
Aw want for nought that she can gie me--
She fills ma pipe wi' patten cut--
Leets it, and hands it kindly to me.

She tells me a' heer bits o' news,
Pick'd up the time aw've been away;
And fra ma mouth the cuttie pous
When sleep o'ercomes ma weary clay.

Sae weel she ettles what aw get-
Sae far she a'ways gars it gan--
That nyen can say we are i' debt,
Or want for wother claes or scran.

Then drink about, whe minds a got--
Let's drown wor cares i' barleycorn--
Here, lass, come bring another pot,
The cawler dissent call to morn.

Nay, hinny Ned, ne langer stay--
We mun by hyem to little Neddy--
He's just a twel'munth awd to-day,
And will be crying for his deddy.

Aw'll tyek thee hyem a pot o' beer,
A nice clean pipe and backy te--
Thou knaws aw like to hae thee near--
Come, hinny, come, gan hyem wi' me.

Like music's soft and soothing powers
These honey'd sounds drop on his ear:
Or like the warm and fertile showers
That leave the face of nature clear.

Here was the power of woman shown,
When women use it properly--
He threw his pipe and reck'ning down--
Aw will-aw will gan hyem wi' thee.

At home arriv'd right cheerfully
She set him in his easy chair--
Clapt little Neddy on his knee,
and bid him see his image there.

The mother pleas'd-- the father glad,
Swore Neddy had twe bonny een--
There ne'er was, Ned ,a finer lad;
And, then he's like thee as a bean.

Aw've luck'd for Wilson a' this day,
To cut th' pig down fore it's dark;
But he'll be guzzling at the pay,
And winden on about his wark.

What lengths aw've often heard him gan,
Sweering--and he's not fount of fibbin--
He'll turn his back on ne'er a man
For owther killin pigs or libbin.

Still Jack's an honest, canty cock,
As ever drain'd the juice of barley;
Aw've knawn him sit myest roun' the clock
Swatt'ling and clatt'ring on wi' Charley.

Now, Deddy, let me ease yor arm;
Gi'e me the bairn lay down yor pipe,
And get the supper when it's warm--
It's just a bit o' gissy's tripe.

Then come to me, ma little lammy--
Come thou apple o'ma e'e--
Come ma Neddy, t' the mammy--
Come, ma darlin'- come to me!

Here, see a woman truly blest
Beyond the reach of pomp and pride;
Her infant happy at her breast-
Her husband happy by her side.

Then take a lesson, pamper'd wealth,
And learn how little it requires
To make us happy when we've health--
Content--and moderate desires.

Tha father, Ned, is far frae weel,
He lucks, poor body, varra bad;
A' ower he hez a cawdrife feel,
But thinks it but a waff o' cawd.

Aw've just been ower wi' something warm,
To try to ease the weary coff,
Which baffles byeth the drugs and charm!
And threatens oft to tyek him off.

He says, O Nan, ma life thou's spar'd--
The good it's duin me's past beleevin--
The Lord will richly thee rewaird--
The care o' me will win thee heeven.

Now as his bottles nearly tuim,
Mind think me on, when at the town,
To get the drop black beer and rum,
As little else will now gan down.

We mebby may be awd worsel's
When poverty's cawd blast is blawin';
And want a frien' when nature fyels,
And life her last few threeds is drawin'.

Besides, the bits o' good we dee
The verra happiest moments gie us;
And mun, aw think, still help a wee,
At last, frae awfu' skaith to free us.

Let cant and rant then rave at will
Agyen a'warks-aw here declare it--
We'll still the hungry belly fill,
Se lang as ever we can spare it.

Here, then, we'll leave this happy pair
Their home affairs to con and settle;
Their ways and means with frugal care,
For marketing next day to ettle.

Thomas Wilson In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster.,
W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: THE PITMAN'S PAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
From: *Conrad Bladey Peasant-Inactive
Date: 02 Aug 00 - 09:40 AM

For more consult my newcastle sangs pages http://www.ncf.carleton.ca/~dc920/HomePage.priests.html click here!

Enjoy!

More songs daily as long as my fingers hold out!

Conrad