AN ANTHOLOGY OF RADICAL POEMS.

Mainly from Sheffield during the period 1780 to 1850

I

This poem, written by the file-cutters of Sheffield was inspired by the advent of a machine designed to take away the hardship of hand-grinding and to make the process more efficient. However, as with most new machinery inventions it was viewed with great suspicion and scepticism because of its potential for reducing the demand for labour.

It's the wonder of wonders, is this mighty steam hammer,

What folks say it will do, it would make anyone stammer;

Thay say it will cut files as fast as three men and a lad,

But two out of three, it's a fact, they are bad.

They say it will strike 300 strokes a minute,

If this is a fact, there will be something serious in it;

The tooth that is on them looks fine to the eye,

But they're not worth a rush when fairly they're tied.

These Manchester cotton-lords seem mighty keen

To take trade from old Sheffield with this cutting machine:

They've a secret to learn - they know it's a truth -

The machine's naught like flesh and blood to raise up the tooth.

So unite well together, by good moral means,

Don't be intimidated by these infernal machines;

Let them boast as they will - and though the press clamour,

After all, lads, there's nothing like wrist, chisel, and hammer.

Anon.

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II

The following poem appeared in the Sheffield Register, in the same edition that carried an advertisement relating to a meeting which was held at Castle Hill to petition a denial that the House of Commons was not "the real, fair, and independent representative of the whole People of Great Britain."

NO LIBEL TO THINK.

In a state of oppression, we'll sigh our complaints;

It may seal our destruction, to tell out our wants;

Tho' to speak we're forbid, our Hearts shall not sink,

For we've freedom enough, while we've freedom to think.

We may speak (it is true) if we mind what we say;

But to speak all we think, will not suit in our day;

Tho' our tongues be cut out, or chain'd fast with this link,

Who dares we're not free, while we've freedom to think.

They tell us our state is both perfect and pure

The ills we point out, do not want any cure;

To believe such a doctrine, our reason must sink;

So we'll think as we please, while we've freedom to think.

Can a man clothe his back, or eat his own bread?

Can he marry a wife, or bury his dead?

All such matters as these,, will make his coin chink -

We can think of such things while we've freedom to think.

Can a man use his eyes, his hands or his tongue,

But must pay for the service these members have done?

And yet more than all these are just on the brink;

What strange thoughts we have while we've freedom to think.

From the sole of the foot, to the crown of the head,

They stamp us, and tax us, both living and dead;

And yet at such hardshipsthey wish us to wink;

But we cannot do this - while we've freedom to think.

When the sunshine of LIBERTY breaks on our sight

The reform of Abuses we'll claim as our RIGHT;

"The Friends of Reform" is the toast we will drink,

And we'll think of our Rights - while we've freedom to think.

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III

Thomas Muir and the Unitarian Minister Reverend Thomas Fysshe Palmer were both sentenced to transportation. Muir, sentenced to fourteen years, was found guilty for his part in the National Convention held in Edinburgh in December 1792, whilst Palmer was sentenced to seven years transportation for allegedly encouraging the reading of Thomas Paine's works. They were the victims of "show trials" designed to set examples to other would be revolutionaries.

TO MESSRS. MUIR AND PALMER.

Friends of the slighted People - ye whose wrongs

From wounded Freedom many a year shall draw;

As once the mourn'd when mock'd by venal tongues,

Her SIDNEY fell beneath the forms of law.

Oh! had this boson known poetic fire,

Your names, your deed, should Grace my votive song;

For virtue taught the bard's far-sounding lyre,

To lift the PATRIOT from the servile throng.

High o'er the wrecks of time his fame shall live,

While proud Oppression wastes her idle age

His name on history's column shall survive,

And wake the genius of a distant age.

It shines - the dawn of that long promised day

For eager fancy bursts this midnight gloom:

The patriot's praise, the grateful nations pay,

And tear the trophy from the oppressor's tomb.

Yet what the praise far distant times shall sing,

To that calm solace Virtue now bestows:

Round the dire bark the waves her guardian wing,

She guides her exiles o'er the trackless shores:

With joys gay flowers she decks the sultry wild

And sheds the beams of hope where Nature never smiled.

J.T.R. Sheffield Register Jan. 17th 1794.

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IV

Several poems written during 1792 and 1793 by local Sheffield workers feature references to the now famous piece by Edmund Burke in which he refers to the mass of ordinary of as "the swinish multitude". Thomas Paine, of course, wrote his equally famous reply to Burke Rights of Man. Both works were read widely throughout the region, in book form, in pamphlets and in newspaper extracts. This in itself is a testimony to the alertness of many of the working people who were indeed regarded by the middle classes as ignorant and trouble causes. One such person, notwithstanding his anonymity, wrote the following lines:-

THE SWINISH HERD TO EDMUND BURKE.

Be pleas'd, great Sir, to find us work

We make no insolent pretensions

To feast on sinecures and pensions;

We know our food must be the getting

Of our own labour, pains and sweating;

'Twas so they say, in ages past,

And must be so while time shall last.

But, Sir, whilst this is fit and meet,

We cannot quite forget to eat,

Nor miss our usual grains and water,

Without just asking, what's the matter?

You told us, and we hop'd it true,

With folks above we'd nought to do.

We've nought to do, 'tis mighty plain,

With anything our betters gain;

But when they meet with checks and crosses,

We find a partnership of losses,

And must be sconc'd in work and wages,

Because crusading all the rage is.

Now this we think not quite the thing

So please to hint it to the -------

Anon. Sheffield Register. July 12th 1793.

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V

The most significant decade for social and political change in Sheffield during the nineteenth century was the 1830s. From the outset the town was alive with political excitement in anticipation of the already imminent Parliamentary reform. Men and women in the street spoke with authority about freedom and liberty, oppression and tyranny because their lives were so steeped in political rhetoric. This poem, written in 1831, was typical of the pieces that were being printed in the local press during the period.

THE TREE OF LIBERTY.

Proud tree of liberty,

Hail to thee, hail to thee!

By the patriot's heart and hand,

By our birthright - native land,

By the blessed ties of love;

By our faith in heaven above;

By those bright orbs all shining there;

By sacred truth we freely swear,

To worship thee, to worship thee,

Unfading tree of liberty.

British Melodies by T.H. Cornish.

Sheffield Iris. Jan. 18th 1831.

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VI

Only a month after taking over the printing presses of the exiled Joseph Gales, James Montgomery was arrested for allegedly printing a seditious ballad. Apparently "a poor-looking man" came to the door of Montgomery's office carrying a bundle of pamphlets. The man, who according to Montgomery was of "grotesque appearance", asked if the printer would print a particular ballad on his machine and what price would he charge. On discovering that the paper had been originally printed on his machines and that the type had been left set up since Gales had left, Montgomery agreed to do the job of printing six quires (144) for the price of eighteenpence.

However, two months later the man was caught selling the document in the streets and Montgomery was arrested for his part in it. Montgomery, at the age of twenty-three years was tried at York and sent to prison for six-months and fined £20. Usually only the one single offending verse is printed in modern publications, the poem in its entirety is quoted below:-

A Patriotic Song, by a Clergyman of Belfast.

"While tyranny marshals its minions around,

And bids its fierce legions advance,

Fair Freedom! the hopes of thy sons to confound

And restore his old empire to France.

"What friend among men to the rights of mankind,

But is fired with resentment to see

The satraps of pride and oppression combined,

To prevent a great land being free?

"Europe's fate on the contest's decision depends;

Most important its issue will be,

For should France be subdued, Europe's liberty ends,

If she triumphs the world will be free.

"The let every true patriot unite in her cause -

A cause of such moment to man:

Let all whose souls spurn at tyrannical laws,

Lend her all the assistance they can.

"May the spirit of Sparta her armies inspire,

And the star of America guide;

May a Washington's wisdom, a Mirabeau's fire,

In her camps and her councils preside!

"May her son's fatal discord no longer divide;

'Mongst her chiefs no dark traitors be found;

But may they united resist the rough tide,

Till their toils be with victory crowned!

"And at length when sweet peace from her sphere shall descend,

When the friends of oppression have fled,

Immortal renown shall those heroes attend,

Who for freedom fought, conquered, and bled.

"Blazoned high then their deeds shall swell history's page,

And adorn lofty poetry's lays,

While the memory of tyrants, the curse of their age,

In oblivion's dark Bastille decays.

From Memoirs of the Life and Writings of James Montgomery

Vol. 1. p. 192.

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VII

Freedom was the cry from the working people of the 1790s. They were influenced by the works of Thomas Paine and the determined enthusiasm of those who had organized such groups as the Sheffield Society for Constitutional Information and the London Working Man's Association. After the so-called "show trials" of 1794 the more overt activities subsided for the sake of survival but the strong subversive under-currents remained. This poem was printed in the Sheffield Iris towards the back end of 1795:-

FOR FREEDOM.

Rise! gallant Frenchmen! as one man arise,

Firm as the British Oak that braves the skies.

Collected as the tide that foams along,

Unspent, united: - as the whirlwind strong.

In FREEDOM'S cause let every bosom glow,

Each warrior rush resistless on the foe:

On REASON'S basis, and a NATURE'S plan,

Assert and vindicate the sacred RIGHTS OF MAN.

(Addressed to patriotic and gallant Frenchmen, in their present arduous struggles.)

(Sheffield Iris October 15th 1795.)

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VIII

It was Byron, of all the nationally known and famous poets, who had the best opportunity to influence the establishment towards the path of reform. He entered the House of Lords in 1809 and his maiden speech consisted solely of a tirade against the government's attitude to the stocking weavers of Nottingham. However, Lord Byron rapidly grew tired of his role in the House and in 1812 made his last appearance. He did, however, write a few poems that were, on the face of it, in sympathy with the mood of the working people:-

SONG FOR THE LUDDITES.

As the Liberty lads o'er the sea

Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,

So we, boys, we

Will die fighting, or live free,

And down with all kings but King Ludd!

When the web that we weave is complete,

And the shuttle exchanged for the sword,

We will fling the winding sheet

O'er the despot at our feet,

And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd.

Though black as his heart its hue,

Since his veins are corrupted to mud,

Yet this is the dew

Which the tree shall renew

Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!

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IX

FOR THE FAST DAY.

Ye dark despotic nations,

O cease your devastations,

Your horrid imprecations,

Now manifest your guilt.

The scene is plainly changed,

Your plans are all deranged,

The blood will be avenged,

Which you have barely spilt.

Must infamous aggressors,

Be Gallia's chief oppressors?

No - ne'er must vile oppressors,

Effect her overthrow.

A people be molested,

Who slavery detested,

Who's wills been manifested,

The sole, the supreme law.

With hellish rage infected,

Your hirelings ye collected,

Who basely you directed,

Against a people FREE.

Whose virtuous legislators,

Did vanquish but their traitors,

And infamous dictators,

To save their LIBERTY.

Whilst virtue's shocked with wonder,

The poor you basely plunder,

Diffusing blood and thunder,

Thro' every fertile shore,

Ye monsters big with power,

A thick impending shower,

Awaits the dreadful hour,

When you must be no more.

Your villainy's completed,

Your hopes are all defeated,

In God whom you intreated,

You will ne'er succour find.

No, - vain ejaculator!

A wise supreme dictator,

Will ne'er assist a creature,

In butchering mankind.

'Tis horrid superstition,

With despotic ambition,

Have formed that composition,

We all so much deplore.

When reason's cultivated,

And man regenerated,

'Twill be exterminated,

To ne'er be heard of more.

(Charles Sylvester. Poems on Various Subjects.)

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X

Of all the major and minor poets that have been raised out of Sheffield the most prolific and effective has been Ebenezer Elliott. His life has already been well chronicled as have most of his better known pieces. Almost all of his work was of a political nature, much of it was irritatingly overt and superficial, but an equal amount was wrapt in subtle and natural imagery. He had a powerful intellect that, sadly, was never given the opportunity to flourish to its full extent. Nonetheless, his work, considered dated by many, is still thought worthy of inclusion in modern anthologies. This collection of five poems are lesser known and intended to illustrate once again his wide and varied talents as a poet.

ARTHUR BREAD_TAX WINNER.

Who is prais'd by dolt and sinner?

Who serves master more than one?

Blucherloo, the bread-tax winner;

Bread-tax winning Famineton.

Blucherloo, the bread tax winner!

Whom enrich'd thy battles won?

Whom does Dirt-grub ask to dinner?-

Bread tax winning Famineton.

Whom feeds Arthur Bread-tax-winner?-

All our rivals, sire and son,

Foreign cutler, foreign spinner,

Bless their patron, Famineton.

Prussia fattens - we get thinner!

Bread tax barters all for none:

Bravo! Arthur Bread-tax-winner!

Shallow, half-brain'd Famineton!

Empty thinks the devil's in her:

Take will grin, when make is gone!

Bread tax teaches saint and sinner,

Grinning, flint faced Famineton!

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XI

From STEAM, AT SHEFFIELD.

II

Come, blind old Andrew Turner! link in mine

Thy time-tried arm, and cross the town with me;

For there are wonders mightier far than mine;

Watt! and his million-feeding enginry!

Steam-miracles of demi-deity!

Thou canst not see, unnumber'd chimneys o'er,

From chimneys tall the smoky cloud aspire;

But thou canst hear the unwearied crash and roar

Of iron powers, that, urg'd by restless fire,

Toil ceaseless, day and night, yet never tire,

Or say to greedy man, "thou dost amiss.2

III

Oh, there is glorious harmony in this

Tempestuous music of the giant, Steam,

Commingling growl and roar, and stamp and hiss,

It stuns our wondering souls, that start and scream

With joy and terror; while like gold on snow

Is morning's beam on Andrew's hoary hair!

Like gold on pearl is morning on his brow!

His hat is in his hand, his head is bare;

And, rolling wide his sightless eyes, he stands

Before this metal god, that yet shall chase

The tyrant idols of remotest lands,

Preach science to the desert, and efface

The barren curse from every barren place

Where virtues have not yet atoned for crimes.

He loves the thunder of machinery!

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XII

In his later years Elliott kept a Common Place Book in which he maintained a daily record of everyday information such as train times, addresses, sketches of his house, seed sowing time, and a list of house repairs he needed to do. He also scribbled occasional verses as they came into his head. This one called Luther's Hymn was written into the book on January 3rd 1841.

Great God what do I see and hear,

The end of things created!

The judge of mankind does appear

On clouds of glory seated!

The trumpet sounds the grave restore

The dead which they contained before

Prepare my soul to meet him.

I waited on, and sought the Lord

And patiently did bear:

At length to me he did accord,

My voice and cry to hear.

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XIII

In support of the great social and political changes that were taking place during the early part of the nineteenth century was the influence of the Non-Conforming religions. Their influences extended right across the spectrum of society and deep into the home. Indeed, Caroline Reid has written about the tendency of "respectable" working class people to attend church or chapel regularly, to save in friendly societies, and to clean and tidy in their physical and mental outlook. Elliott recognised the importance of education in the well being of the people and also of the need to take a pride in their lives. A tasteful and clean home in which to live and to raise their children was considered of paramount importance. The next two poems illustrate Elliott's attempts to put these points over to the people.

SATURDAY.

"Tomorrow will be Sunday, Ann,-

Get up my children with me;

Thy father rose at four o'clock

To toil for me and thee.

The fine folks use the plate he makes

And praise it when they dine;

For John has taste - so we'll be neat,

Although we can't be fine.

Then let us shake the carpet well,

And wash and scour the floor,

And hang the weather glass he made

Beside the cupboard door

And polish thou the grate, my love,

I'll mend the sofa arm;

The autumn winds blow damp and chill;

And John loves to be warm.

And bring the new white curtain out,

And string the pink tape on -

Mechanics should be neat and clean;

And I'll take heed for John.

And brush the little table, child,

And fetch the ancient books -

John loves to read, and when he reads,

How like a king he looks!

And fill the music glasses up

With water fresh and clear;

To-morrow, when he sings and plays,

The street will stop to hear.

And throw the dead flowers from the vase,

And rub it till it glows;

For in the leafless garden yet

He'll find a water rose.

And lichen from the wood he'll bring,

And mosses from the dell:

And from the sheltered stubble-field

The scarlet pimpernel.

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XIV

THE HOME OF TASTE.

"You seek a home of taste, and find

The proud mechanic there,

Rich as a king, and less a slave,

Throned in his elbow chair!

Or on his sofa reading Locke,

Beside his open door!

Why start? - Why envy worth like his

The carpet on his floor.

You seek the home of sluttery -

'Is John at home?' you say,

'No, sir; he's at the Sportsman's Arms;

The dog fight's o'er the way.'

Oh, lift the workman's heart and mind

Above low sensual sin!

Give him a home! the home of taste!

Outbid the house of gin!

Oh, give him taste! it is the link

Which binds us to the skies -

A bridge of rainbows thrown across

The gulph of tears and sighs;

Or like a widower's little one -

An angel in a child -

That leads him to her mother's chair,

And shows him how she smiled."

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XV

James Montgomery's excursion into radicalism was short lived. He had written some fairly adventurous, if juvenile, pieces in his early days with Joseph Gales. Indeed, he is said to have written a poem that was sung to the tune of "The Old One Hundredth" at the mass meeting of the Sheffield Society for Constitutional Information in 1794. After his two periods of imprisonment, Montgomery's health understandably was in poor repair, so much so that he spent some months by the sea recuperating. Nonetheless, he continued to write poetry on his return though his work made a significant shift towards religio-romanticism. His fame grew and indeed he was nationally known and respected throughout the literary world.

From THE GRAVE.

There is a calm for those who weep,

A rest for weary pilgrims found;

They softly lie, and sweetly sleep,

Low in the ground.

The storm that wrecks the winter sky

No more disturbs their deep repose,

Than summer evening's latest sigh,

That shuts the rose.

I long to lay this painful head

And aching heart beneath the soil,

To slumber in that dreamless bed

From all my toil.

For Misery stole me at my birth,

And cast me helpless on the wild:

I perish; - O my mother earth,

Take home thy child.

On thy dear lap these limbs reclined,

Shall gently moulder into thee;

Nor leave one wretched trace behind

Resembling me.

Hark! - a strange sound affrights mine ear;

My pulse, - my brain runs wild, - I rave;

- Ah! who art thou whose voice I hear?

- "I am THE GRAVE!

"The Grave, that never spake before,

hath found at length a tongue to chide;

O listen - I will speak no more -

Be silent, Pride!

"Art thou a wretch, of hope forlorn,

The victim of consuming care?

Is thy distracted conscience torn

By fell despair?

"Do foul misdeeds of former times

Wring with remorse thy guilty breast?

And ghosts of unforgiven crimes

Murder thy rest?

"Lashed by the furies of the mind,

From wrath and vengeance wouldst thou flee?

Ah! think not, hope not, fool! to find

A friend in me.

"By all the terrors of the tomb,

Beyond the power of tongue to tell!

By the dread secrets of my womb!

By Death and Hell!

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XVI

Chartism took hold in Sheffield during 1837 and, as in the rest of the country, gathered momentum over the next few years. Ebenezer Elliott involved himself in the early stages of the movement, though his major role was concentrated on the Anti-Corn Law League. The Chartists consisted mainly of the labouring classes who, frustrated by their ineffectiveness, resorted to violence and attempts at insurrection. Elliott rejected the Chartists but the movement continued until 1840 when an aborted coup led to the imprisonment of Samuel Holberry and his subsequent death in York prison. Like the Constitutional Societies and the Methodists, the Chartists organized themselves in an effort to educate and to lift the working class membership out of the physical and mental deprivation that they experienced. Poetry, they thought, was a means of doing this and many Chartists wrote verses to enhance the ideas of their movement. This poem, which appears to have been written by a member of the Anti-Corn Law League, derides the Chartists for their activities and wonders how they may still get bread under the current Corn Laws.

THE CHARTISTS AND THE BREAD-TREE.

Once, "on a raw and gusty day",

A British tar was cast away,

In spite of all his naval art,

Because he sailed without his chart,

Upon an island Jack was thrown,

Fertile in iron, rock and stone;

A firm foundation for his feet,

But nothing in the world - to eat!

Except to bless his hungry eyes,

One Bread-Tree of enormous size,

With stem that almost reached the skies,

Thick hung at top with many a peck,

But smooth as his own quarter deck,

Sweet food, and good for Jack's digestion,

To get it was the previous question.

Long gazed poor Jack, while at the view,

His empty stomach sharper grew,

And long with elbow and with knee,

He tried to climb the slippery tree,

And tried again though sure to fail,

Foil'd by that treacherous sliding scale.

Now Jack we know can turn his hand,

To any job, by sea or land,

Starved as he was, to work he went,

To make a ladder firmly bent

But how, with scarce a stick or spar,

Might puzzle you but not Jack Tar,

Devouring hunger knows no law,

Jack made the brick without the straw,

With some poor fragments cast on shore,

He toil'd and knotted, spliced and swore,

Till, tight at last, with spar and junk,

He rear'd the ladder to the trunk,

Just then, while with complacent look

He eyed his work, a whirlwind shook

The huge old tree, and all the bread,

Came rattling down about his head,

For such a blessing unprepar'd,

Jack stood, and shook his ears, and stared,

Till, at this odd conclusion nettled,

His wonder in vexation settled -

That bread which he had so long wanted,

Should thus into his lap be canted,

His ladder, labour, toil, and care,

He wasted thus on empty air,

Was more than his proud heart could bare.

Not long he pondered which to choose,

The ladder he resolved to use,

Reject the bread, and twist a noose,

Good for nought else, his darling thing

Might help him to his final swing,

So up he ran, and from the topmost bough,

For aught I know, Jack may be dangling now.

MORAL.

Chartists! are you or Jack the madder?

Both spurn the bread, and hug the ladder.

(Sheffield Independent May 27th 1841.)

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XVII

The street balladeer, Joseph Mather sang his bawdy and scandalous songs outside the factories, the pubs and the fashionable houses frequented by the wealthy and influential people of the town. The works of Thomas Paine were widely read through the newspapers and various pamphlets published at the time. Rights of Man was almost a Bible to the radical movement in the locale and Joseph Mather was quick, after first reading the text, to write this poem. In 1792, a year after the publication of Paine's work, the song was sung in the streets of Sheffield as Joseph Gales was carried shoulder high in triumph after a meeting in the Cutlers' Hall.

GOD SAVE GREAT THOMAS PAINE.

God save great Thomas Paine,

His "Rights of Man" to explain

To ev'ry soul.

He makes the blind to see

What dupes and slaves they be,

And points out liberty,

From pole to pole.

Thousands cry "church and king",

That well deserve to swing,

All must allow.

Birmingham blush for shame,

Manchester do the same,

Infamous is your name,

Patriot's vow.

Pull proud oppressors down,

Knock off each tyrant's crown,

And break his sword;

Down with aristocracy,

Set up democracy,

And from hypocrisy,

Save us good Lord.

Why should despotic pride,

Usurp on every side?

Let us be free.

Grant freedom's arms success,

And all her efforts bless,

Plant thro' the universe,

Liberty's tree.

Facts are seditious things,

When they touch courts and kings,

Armies are raised.

Barracks and bastiles built,

Innocence charged with guilt,

Blood most unjustly split,

Gods stand amazed.

Despots may howl and yell,

Tho' they're in league with hell

They'll not reign long.

Satan may lead the van,

And do the worst he can,

Paine and his "Rights of Man"

Shall be my song.

(The Songs of Joseph Mather. p.56. Sung to the tune of the National Anthem)

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XVIII

The wars with the French were hated by the people for many reasons. They were considered a waste of young lives as well as, to those who understood, a severe waste of money and resources. European monarchs had been regarded as despots for centuries, and many numbered George the Third in this category. Charles Sylvester was a local artisan of various skills. In particular he wrote poems which were supported by a basic knowledge of the economic and financial whims and ways of the established governments. In this poem, as in his others, Sylvester takes a rather dim and sinister view of the wars satirizing the major role players on the international front.

SONG ON THE COMBINED ARMY.

Tho' despots once strove to subdue the French nation,

They've since been repulsed with great precipitation,

They can only deplore now their sad situation,

And cry we're all ruined by war.

Chorus.

Rouse round brave sons of Liberty!

Despots will soon be no more.

Just like an immense group of fierce alligators,

They once strove to vanquish the French legislators,

But all was in vain, for those famous king haters,

Have tired them all with the war.

Chorus.

Tho' Howe's grand success was by some celebrated,

The fury of Frenchmen was never abated,

For each Gallic heart is with joy elevated,

They've been so successful in war.

Chorus.

When Austrian Flanders was evacuated,

The despots of Europe were exasperated,

The Emperor and Mack now are sorely stagnated,

Exclaiming farewell to the war.

Chorus.

All their efforts proved vain tho' often repeated,

For Clairfayt and Coburg are also defeated,

The D---l knows where with great haste they've retreated,

They're really so tired of the war.

Chorus.

Since Freddy has lost all his fellow commanders,

From town unto town in confusion he wanders,

By a retrograde motion thro' Holland and Flanders,

Resolve to be rid of the war.

Chorus.

Afraid that the French unto Paris should lead him,

No rivers, nor ditches, nor bogs could impede him,

For running thro' Flanders no-one could excede him,

When flying with haste from the war.

Chorus.

Tho' Clairfayt has been re-exerting his powers,

In order the brave sans-culottes to devour,

He quickly met with a Republican shower,

And once more he's sick of the war.

Chorus.

Tho' the Dutch are surrounded with sad desolation,

And threatened by despots with an inundation,

But they boldly detest such a wet situation,

They've suffered so much by the war.

Chorus.

Since the French have extinguish'd the Emperor's fire,

The Prussians are glad in disgrace to retire,

And John Bull to struggle is left in the mire,

And with himself rid of the war.

Chorus.

Now satan with all his blood-hunting banditi,

May safely return to his infernal city,

And there they may sing their lamentable ditty,

And cry we're all ruined by the war.

Chorus.

(Poems on Various Subjects. By Charles Sylvester.)

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XIX

If indeed, "the past is a foreign country" then the people of Sheffield in the early part of the nineteenth century were foreign people and so were the streets and buildings. We cannot go back from our twentieth century lives to experience this foreign land and its inhabitants but we can allow our minds the excursion via the writings of the period. In this excerpt from James Wills' The Contrasts: or the Improvements of Sheffield we can get a first hand view of life as it happened in 1824.

From THE CONTRAST.

Ye veterans of Sheffield, with intellects bright,

Whose memorys are good, may remember the sight

Of the streets, and the buildings, for sixty years past,

And with pleasure behold them - improving at last.

You remember the sinks in the midst of the streets,

When the rain pour'd in torrents - each passenger greets

His fellow, with "what a wide channel is here!

"We all shall be drown'd, I am greatly in fear,

"For lately two lovers were sat on a rail,

"On the edge of the sink, fondly telling their tale,

"When the flood wash'd them down in each other6s embrace,

"For no longer the lovers could sit in that place,

"And hence True-love's Gutter the name that was given,

"Because by the flood these two lovers were driven."

The Old Laithes in Bullstake, that dismal retreat,

Where hearses, and stalls, very often did meet,

Is now a large Tontine - the length of a street.

Take a view of the Town-Hall, when near the Old Church,

And Sam Wibberley's parlour, his favourite lurch,

In which was the lobby, he frequently said,

"Have you clean'd out my parlour and made up my bed?"

A lodging which he often gain'd for his deeds,

By pilfering and stealing good things for his needs.

Proceed then up Church-lane, that poor narrow place,

With wood buildings projecting! 'twas quite a disgrace,

The roofs nearly meeting, a dark dreary street,

Might justly be styled "the robbers' retreat;"

Where shops were so darken'd for want of true light,

Appear'd quite at noontide, as though it were night:

But now what improvement is made in Church-lane,

Fine shops for each tradesman, whereby he may gain.

A beautiful road into Bow-street is made,

Where coaches come down with the Manchester trade,

This Manchester road, where fine gardens once stood,

Is adorn'd with fine buildings an excellent road.

In ascending the hill, and due west of the town

Is St. George's fair Church, a gift from the crown,

A beautiful fabric of stone you behold,

And near it a Free-School of similar mould.

Now from St. George's take an antique view

Of old Crookes-moor, and what I say is true,

A noble race-course, form'd of hill and dale,

(Grand-stand and starting-post) fenced round with a rail,

Where many a noble steed, of mettle sound,

Has won the golden prize upon that ground;

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XX

Although unknown to each other, there seems to have been an almost universal agreement amongst poets at this time that their art, their poetry, had its origins deep within their souls. Shelley had argued forcefully that poetry was divinely inspired, both Leigh Hunt and Thomas Carlyle put forward similar propositions. One of the most interesting pieces of work by the self-educated man of soot Ebenezer Elliott was his lecture to the Hull Mechanics' Institute in 1836 in which he talked of his poetry being his "heart speaking to itself". The substantial paragraph quoted below is the opening to his lecture and concludes this short anthology of local work.

A LECTURE ON THE PRINCIPLE THAT POETRY IS SELF-COMMUNION.

YOUNG MEN! Poets, it is said, know nothing. What, then, can they teach? Nothing, of course, if the saying is true; but, assuming to be teachers, they may choose subjects on which something may be said by people who know nothing; and in this way, I believe, much business is done. I may be wrong in my opinions on that something, or that nothing, which is called poetry; but I have endeavoured to be right; and what I shall say to you on this occasion is my own, or made such by reflection, for I take no man's opinions on trust. I come, then, to tell you what poetry is - not what that word is - for, not having learned Greek, I don't know; and, if I tell you anything about poetry but what you have already felt to be true, I am unfit to address you on the subject: for what is poetry - what can it be - but the heart speaking to itself? The principle of earnest self-communion - on which all composition purporting to be poetry must stand, or, wanting it, fall - I now purpose to elucidate and confirm by examples; because it has been asserted by a great philosopher, that poetry has no fixed principles - as if anything could exist without them; because a great living poet, whose example refutes his theory, declares, if I understand him, that poetry is distinguished from prose by being written in verse, or, in other words, that verse is essential to poetry; and because the history of modern poets, as such, is the history of the revival of poetry in Britain, their distinguishing characteristic being poetry, or earnest common sense - whereas, some of their predecessors often wrote that dullest common place which common sense laughs to scorn. Now, this effect must have had a cause; for, as the earth could not move an inch, as a watch could not go at all, in opposition to the undisputable will of God, as declared in his mechanical laws - so only on the axis of its principle can move the universe of poetry, representing the Most High in the heart of man.

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