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17 Jun 04 - 03:08 PM (#1209360) Subject: Lyr Add: Hamlick, Prince of Denton From: *#1 PEASANT* Hamlick, Prince of Denton. Part First Tune-" Merrily Dance the Quaker's Wife." Ov a' the lads o' Denton Burn, Yong Hamlick had ne marrow, He'd put or hew an' take his turn Te drive the rolley-barrow. His feythor kept a corver's shop, His muther teuk in sewin; But, man, they say she liked a drop, An' drunk gin like a new un. Noo, Hamlick had a sweetheart tee,- Oh, Feeley, she was canny! The weddin-day was seun to be, For Feeley lov'd her manny; The furnitary a' was bowt, The chairs wis polished bonny, A German chep the clock had browt; An' the bed wad challinge onny. But iv a suddent a' was stopp'd Misfortin cam se cruiket; The marridge meetin' seun was dropp'd, Aud Ham had kicked the bucket. An' what was queer, afore a week The widdy wed agyen, man; The deed un's brother had the cheek Te coax her, it was plain, man. Noo bonny gam' there was, aw sure, Yung Hamlick swore like Hector: He vow'd he wad his mother cure, If biv hersel he neck'd her. An' Clawdy, tee, might chucky oot, His jaws he'd surely 'plaister; Whei! if he didn't gar him shoot, Then Ham wad own his maister. 'Twixt twelve an' yen, the meun was sma', As Hamlick hyem was gannin'; Just cummin past and Denton Ha', He seed a white thing stannin. tho' reeeten'd sair, says he, "Whe's there?" His kneebyens nack'd thegaither; It answered wiv a groaning blair, "Oh, Hamlick! aw's thaw feyther." "What thou?" says he, "it cannit be! Aw seed thee fairly barried; But, feyther, tell us what te de, For mother to uncle's married." "Then listen, hinny, for the cock Aw's flaid 'ill seun be crawin'! Ye ken it's lang past twelve o' clock, An' yen mun stop maw jawin. :Ye'll mind that neet aw wun the pig, Aw went hyem like a lammie, Tho Gurty sairly run her rig, An' shameful used her Hammy. But warse, me lad-that Uncle Clawde Bowt ars'nic frae thaw cousin, An' mixed it wi' some fat he had, An' aw lick'd up the puzzen. "Ah man, aw cud sum queer things tell, But the deevil's verra jellis; Tho aw've a fairish place I' hell- Aw's heed man at the bellis. But, wheest! the bantyh's craw aw hear, Come, shake hands wi' yor daddie; Thou'll mevies cuik thaw uncle's beer; Ta, ta-ta; ta-maw laddie!" When Hamlick stuck his daddle oot, Te grip his feyther's paw, man, He gav a kind o' croopy shoot, To find the caud styen wa', man. The ghaist was gyen-but sic a smell Was fund like aud shoes burnin, That Hamlick's niver been hissel Since yen o' clock that morning. Part Second Some strowlin' folks to Denton cam', A' ridin on thor donkeys, An' conj'rin cheps wi' nowt but sham, Spie shows was there wi' munkeys. The actors fund young Hamlick oot, An' spun him sic a yarn, sir; Says Ham, "The geltlemen can spoot In Lissy Lambton's barn, sir!> The play was made biv Hamlick's sel, His mother's sowl to press, man, The scene was laid at Barley Fell, The lingo was Bosjesman. "The Blighted Boar, or Puzzen'd Pluck," The folks a' flock'd to see, man; An' Feeley I' the front was stuck, Wiv Hamlick on her knee, man. Up went the cloot-the crood sat mum- A pig-fyeced thing appearin; Upon a' fowers 'tas seed to cum- By gox, it was a queer un! It grunted thrice-thrice wagged its heed, An' hadded up his paw, then; Then myed believe that it was deed, By droppin doon its jaw, then. In popped a wife an' blubbered sair, Aboot her gissy's fate then; "Wise pigs," says she,"takes better care, Thou's lick'd a puzzen'd plate, then; Aw'd seuner loss my man, the Turnk! Aw wish that mine's was taken; Thaw pluck to neet sall de the wark- There's ars'nic in thaw bacon." Ham's mother dother'd like a duck, "Oh dear! oh dear! aw's drop noo! Divent ye hear about the pluck? Howay! aw winnit stop, noo!" An' frae the play like mad she flew, The crowd a' gyept an' won'er'd, "Ho, ho!" shoots Ham, "the ghaist spak true, Play-actors for a hun'er'd!" Next pay, Ham's feyther 'peared agyen, I' th' spot he elways haunted; "Oh, Hamlick, Hamlick! tell us when Aw'll get maw wishes granted? Thaw heart's like withered haws or hips: Revenge thaw feyther's deeth, then; Ta, ta!" Ham's een was I' th' 'clipse, He gyep'd clean oot o' breeth, then. To Feeley's house, wivoot a stop, Throo puils, cross progly ditches, Young Ham ran peltin neck an' crop, His sark ootside his britches. He brak the door an' smashed the glass, Spanghewed poor Feeley's feyther, An' tuik the coal-rake tiv his lass, An' jaw'd a heap o' blether. The police cam wiv a' thor speed, But whe daur Hamlick tyek, then? The crooner sat upon the dded, A verdick clear to myek, then. Noo feeley cam in rantin mand, Wiv a gyus's thropple screamin; She ca'd her Ham, "Her bonny lad That set her daft wi' dreamin. Her heed was dresed wi' docken leeves, Stuck roond wi' cabbage caskets, An' milky thrustles in her neeves, An' rusher caps and baskets. The crooner bad his men gie place Te let her view her feyther: She smack'd the forsman on the face, Then chow'd sum bits o' leather. She leeved on grass an' paddick's stuills, Dry asks and tyeds she chorish'd; An' Tommy-lodgers frae the puils, Iv blackin-d pots she norished. Yen day she plodg'd to catch a duck, A soomin siez'd her heed, there, An' in the slek poor Feeley stuck, And "Cuckoo" fand her heed, there. Part Third The winter efterneun was dark, The winds, like bairns, was cryin, The fun'ral folk had left the kirk, Where Feeley cawd was lyin. Yung Hamlick lop'd oot frae a dyke, Seiz'd fast o' Feeley's bruther, An' Ham was Larty gan te strike, Wheen oot cam' Hammy's muther. "For shem, ye feuls, on sic a neet, Te set yor neeves for boxin, 'Twad sarve thee reet, Ham, varry reet, To stick thaw shanks the stocks in: Thou hes ne chance wi' Latry's fist, Thou kens he was a ring-man; He'll let the day-leet to thaw kist- He is a second Spring, man!" The match cam off at Throckley Fell, Ham's uncle own'd the field, man; His mother, tee, cam' there hersel, Ham's fate she thowt concealed, man. To wark they went, Ham drew first blood, Tho' Larty ken'd the science; But Hamlick like a tarrier stood, An' grinn'd a blue defiance. Hoot, Larty, hinny's fairly blawn, His breeth cums thick and shorter; But what's that stuff Clawde's sleely thrawn, And mixed amang the porter? But larty's deun, the time is ca'd, Ham's mother seems a' queer noo, She grabs the glass and drinks like mad, She's drunk the pussin'd beer, noo. "Oh, hinny, Clawde, what's this, maw lad? Ths porter's queerly fetted!" Clawde blair'd oot, "Lass! put doon that glass." Poor sowl, her hash was settled. Smash at his uncle's jaws struck Ham, Doon went the tyestral sprawlin, Doon went his puzzen'd mistrest flam, The crood for help was bawlin! Up stackered Larty for a blaw, Fair on Ham's jug'lar nibb'd him; But Ham swung roond his iron paw, An' wiv a deeth-thraw fibb'd him. The victims' bodies iv a dray Te their last hyem was sent on: Oh! mourn for Hamlick neet and day, For he was Prince o' Denton. -J.P. Robson, "Evangeline." In these burlesque days, when H.J. Byron flurishes, and nothing seems safe from the pen of he burlesque writer, it is no wonder that this clever travesty, which gives to the melancholy Dane "a local habitation and a name," should be highly populare. "Denton Burn," where the poet locates the prince is a small village just outside Newcastle, on the West road.-Note, 1872 Edition. |