Coom, wenches, git to work!
Now, Keziah, theer’s thy fork,
    And the waggin’s in the corn!
When the craws tum-poäke that waäy
And are yawlin’ soä, they saäy
    It ’ull change befoor the morn.

Howr Betsey got a plaäce,
But she pulled an awkward faäce—
    Nivver ’lowed howt to the Fair—
And they’ve silver laäid fur dinner,
And sez graäce! If she graws thinner
    Work weänt hurt—she’s flesh to spare.

But Jemima—she’s at home;
We was foorced to let her come,
    She was dithery of her ’ead.
Poor lass! she hed a stroäke—
Let the tea-things down—they broäke—
    Wasn’t saäfe i’ hand, they sed.

And they meant kind when they sacked her,—
Gev the gell a good character,—
    Quoite content, they told our Ben;
But when squoire’s wife coomed by
And axed questions—mebbe I
    Was’nt saáfe i’ hand mysen.

Fur she saäys, sez she, “I hear
Your Jemima’s head is queer,
    And Jemima she hes fits.”
And I pulls mysen oop straight,
Reight i’ front of my oarn grate,
    Fit to teear her into bits.

“Marm,” I sez, “It is a shaame
Fur to naame the very naame!
    Howr Jemima maay be weeak,
And when silver cooms to taable,
Not honwillin but honhaable—
    Unheppen, soä to speak.

“If the gell weänt wesh a plaäte,
If she ligs till hoäver laäte,
    Can’t sarve pigs nor milk a cow—
Why, then, marm, I’ve nowt to saäy
When you taäke her naäme awaäy
    By the things you’ve menshuned now.

“No, marm, noä! we maäy be poor,
And my maister sez, what’s moor,
    We are poor as rats, and wuss!
And he sez theer’s noä disgraäce—
He would tell it to your faäce—
    In bein’ poor like hus.

“But howr famly nivver hed
Fits! it nivver shall be sed
    Fits howr gell from sarvice sent.
Noä, Jemima in ’er wits
Maäy be weeäk—she doänt hev fits!
    And the squoire’s wife she went.”

(Poems, Ballads, and Bucolics, p. 190)

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 Owr parson ’e called one daäy, he wur straängen fond o’
    the breeäd,
Kep’ ’em hissen he did, ’e ’d a deäl of bairns to feeäd:
“Wants to be kilt,” sez he, and ’e dobs his stick at the sty;
“It wudn’t be wuss, my friend, if we wur as fit to die.”

“Parson,” I sez, “you’re reight, I nivver larnt nowt at
    school
An’ doänt tend reglar in choorch, but I maäs it a gineral
    rule
Nivver to gev yon critter it swill wi’out scrattin ’is ’eäd,
And thinkin’ a deäl o’ that vuss about ‘Giv us our daäily
    bread.’
“And he oops wi’ his eye does the critter, quite knawin’ and
    grunts, ‘Amen,’

Just like a clerk he does, and I thinks, thinks I, wi’ mysen,
Theer’s a many as grunts a deäl wi’ a deäl better stuff to
    yeät,
But noän ov ‘em does theer duty by dooin’ so well by theer meät.

“Fur nivver a daäy sin’ I threatened yon critter fur pork in
    the spring,—
Sow laäid upo’ six ov its brothers, the lazy lumberin’
    thing,—
Nivver a daäy nor a meäl but God O’mighty he knaws
It’s done it best by it vittel, and still ’e spreeads and graws.

“Nivver looked back it hesn’t i’ feeädin’ from fust to last—
‘Man’s life,’ so it sez i’ the Psalms, ‘is nobbut a shadder
    that’s past,’
Daävid nivver sed nowt o’ the pigs, they wur cloave footed
    things—but it’s queer,
Pigs to coom oop like a flower, o’moast, and die i’ a year.

“Yees, and theer quoite content is pigs, content to die,
It’s nobbut an owry world and narrer an all, is the sty;
And gentlemen quoite is pigs, they’ll lig i’ the straw till
    they’re fed,
And they weänt coom clatterin’ in like the bairns to clam
    their bread.

“Parson, I’ve offens thowt it wur all along o’ the swine,

That young man coomed to hissen as hed been so gentle-
    man-fine:
Doesn’t thou think when they gethered the hacorns theer i’
    the yard,
He knawed that they nivver complained thoff the husks
    wur terrible hard?

“When you wur a preeäching in choorch tother daäy o’
    the Prodigal son,
I wur back here siver i’ thowt whoäle toime along o’ this ’un;
Thinks I, ’twur the pigs as turned ’im, they gev ’im the
    ring that was gilt,
And took off his clatty owd yanks—I wur glad ’twas a caulf
    as they kilt.

“Kilt! why I’m happen a sinner and rough and tough i’
    the heart,
And I leaves the owd mare to hersen now and then i’ the market cart,
But theer’s one thing I nivver could doä sin’ I hed taäils
    to my cwoät,
I nivver could coax it, and feed it, and then laäy knife to
    it throät.

“To my waäy o’ thinkin’ it’s moast loike killin’ a bairn o’
    your oän—
Pigs cries like a woman can cry, and groäns like a man
    can groän;
Not that they knaws afoorhand, Him as maäde ’em ’ull
    seeä to that,
Cudn’t doä noäways else, sin’ they work so well to git fat.

“I doänt so much mind when they’re deäd, I can scraäpe
    and scald wi’ the best;
Husk ’em, and wesh ’em, and hing ’em, and git ’em reight
    famously drest—
Deäd! we mun all on us die, so I sooän gits reconciled,
Besides, I’m a bit pork-proud, when I’ve browt it oop fro’
    a child.

“But as sewer as the daäy o’ condemnation gits round
    agaäin
Yon’s under sentence o’ death come Monday next to be
    slaäin:—
I’m hoff to the field or market when he’s gotten the last on
    ’is meeäls,
And missus she superintens—for women thinks nowt o’
    their squeeäls.

“But I maäs it a law, poor thing, to soften it hoff at the
    hend,
Scrats his ’eäd a bit longer, and talks to ’im saäme as a
    friend;
And the last few meeäls ov his life I reckon it’s Christian
    kind
To stir him in extra stuff and sugar ’is swill to ’is mind.

“Fwoäks may talk as they like, but I’ve fun that theer’s
    pigs and pigs,
I’ve larnt a deeäl fro’ that un as theer i’ i’ the crew-yard ligs,
‘Doä your best by your master’s meeät,’ I ’ears him
    saäy,
‘Noä world’s too small fur content, git ready ageän the
    daäy.’” 

 (Poems, Ballads, and Bucolics, p. 197)

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 Dread expectation seals our open lips:
        A hundred hammers fall, their work is done;
Out from the keel the busy craftsmen run,
The tender riband that a child’s hand snips,
Looses the giant down the groaning slips,
And, with a thrill of life through every ton,
It leaves behind a rift of sky and sun,
And plunges seaward, mightiest of ships.
A toy, the ponderous anchor leapt and ploughed,
But ere the smoking of its passage died,
I saw the breakers turn and toss ashore
The flotsam of its cradle-timbers proud,
Prelude of wreck, indignant that it bore
Another burden laid upon the tide.

(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 79)

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GENTLEMEN,—I write to recommend to public sympathy a genuine case of distress, owing to the death by accident of George Bailey on board the Olaf last Monday.  And it will come better from my pen than from another’s, owing to the fact that those for whom I plead are comparative strangers to me.

It appears that between 11 and 12 o’clock on Monday morning, George Bailey, of 2, Caroline Row, Hotwells, a corn-runner, in the temporary employ of Messrs. Stoate, Hosegood, and Co., 42 Welsh Back, was engaged in the hold of the Olaf as “measurer”.  That a sack of corn, some 2 and a half cwt, in weight, which was being hoisted from the hold, fell from the height of some 50 feet upon him, and crushed him terribly.  That he was taken up insensible and died about three o’clock on Tuesday morning in the General Hospital.

It was by pure accident that I met his wife, Mrs. Bailey, as she was returning across the ferry from the Hospital on Tuesday evening.  She was in the bitterest of grief, for, said she, “He was such a true man and in the prime of his life, and now, how to provide for the family, God only knows”.  I saw at a glance that she was a weakly, delicate woman, and the baby at her breast showed what good grounds for fear she had, when in her passionate grief she told a stranger of her trouble.

Yesterday, on inquiring at her address, 2, Caroline Row, Hotwells, I found she had six children, five entirely dependent upon her.  William, aged 14, maintaining himself at sea; Thomas, 13; Henry, 8; Emma, 5; baby, six weeks old.

From her neighbours one obtained independent testimony as to the deceased’s character—for hard work when he could get it, and for bringing home all he earned when he did earn it.  Moreover that he had no relation at all in a position to render assistance.

On returning to the Olaf I found the above facts corroborated.  The fellow working-men at the Olaf will not be behind, they assured me, with their bits of money.

Messrs. Stoate, Hosegood, ad Co. have duly taken up the case, and have opened today a subscription list on the Corn Exchange.  This list they have appended to the letter, and it is hoped that your readers will make material additions to it.  When the list is closed, a committee will meet to consider to what purpose any moneys subscribed can best be put, and your readers shall have due notice of such committee meeting and its results.—Yours truly,

                          H.D. Rawnsley, Mission Curate,
                                    St. Barnabas Vicarage, Ashley Road.

(Western Daily Press, 22 September 1876, p. 3)

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