«Курьезы уличной литературы»

The nobles from the pockets of John Bull are all well paid;

Sometimes you hardly know the lady from the servant maid,

For now they are so very proud, silk stockings on their legs,

And every step they take you think they walk on pigeon’s eggs.

The tradesman he can hardly pay his rent and keep his home,

And the labourer has eighteen pence a day for breaking stones,

In former days the farmer rode a donkey or a mule,

There never was such times before since Adam went to school.

Some can live in luxury while others weep in woe,

There’s very pretty difference now and a century ago,

The world will shortly move by steam it may appear strange,

So you must all acknowledge that England wants a change.

НОВАЯ ПЕСНЯ О ВЫБОРАХ.

«ШАПКА: КТО ХОЧЕТ, ТОТ ПУСТЬ НОСИТ».

O the general Electiom is coming they say,

What an huhabolu and a bustle there’ll be,

With the new candidates to be Parliament men,

And the old ones who wished for to go back again.

There’ll be all sorts of shuffling and all kinds of rigs,

There’s some will call Tories and some will call Whigs,

There’s some will wear colours, blue, orange, and red,

And to prove which is best, they’ll break each other’s heads.

O the general Election is coming they say,

What canvassing, coaxing, and thumping there’ll be,

While some will shout —— and —— so clever,

And others bawl —— and free trade for ever.

O the Whigs for ten years have cut a great swell,

But now by the Tories they’ve been wollop’d well,

And to pay off the bad boys with a good tit for tat,

They are sending them home to see how they like that.

This has caused amongst Tories and Whigs a great rout,

And many may go tell their mothers the’re out,

While some of the boobies will do a deal worse,

By loosing their election, and emptying their purse,

O the Elections are coming, what doings there’’ll be,

Such gutting and guzzling you never did see,

There’ll be cheap beef and ale for poor voters just then,

With Wine, Turtle, and Venison for gentlemen,

There will be open houses in every street,

Where the Birds of a feather may daily meet,

And sly Booots attends to collect all their senses;

Crying, landlord, fill up now, and damn all expenses.

Then to see the great nobs, who a canvassing go,

In the house, or the garret, or the cellar below,

Altho’ by infection he dreads his sweet life,

He’ll shake hands with the cobbler or kiss the sweep’s wife,

Or perhaps he will dandle the sweet little child,

Till he suddenly finds that his trowsers are spoiled,

Tho’ his heart it is ready to come up at his throat,

Yet he’d do ten times more to secure a vote.

And then at the last, when all other means fail,

To catch them they try to put salt on their tails,

Don’t think I mean bribery, my good sir, dear no!

They only give friends a small present or so.

Or perhaps if you have a nice Bird, Dog, or Cat.

To sell, they will give you five sovereigns for that,

He’s a very good customer, that is quite true,

So I’ll vote for ——, pray what less can I do?

O the Election is coming, what meeting and speeching,

All their knavish tricks to all the world teaching;

What rogues, fools, and shufflers, each other they call,

And stick their good characters up on the wall.

Each party seem ready the other to mill,

About rural policy, or the new poor-law bill.

While the Elections are on, what patriots they are,

But when they get in, the d——l may care.

ПЛАЧ О СМЕРТИ ГЕРЦОГА ВЕЛЛИНГТОНА.

Britannia now lament for our Hero that is dead,

That son of Mars, brave Wellington, alas, his spirit’s fled.

That general of a hundred fights, to death he had to yield,

Who brav’d the cannons’ frightful blaze upon the battle field.

CHORUS.

Britannia weep and mourn, his loss all may deplore,

That conquering hero Wellington, alas, he is no more.

The destructive wars of Europe does not disturb him now,

Great laurels of bright victory sit smiling on his brow,

For the burning sands of India he trac’d with valour bright,

And against that daring Tippoo Saib so valiant he did fight.

Where cannons loud did rattle, spread death and sad dismay,

The Duke was always ready with his men to lead the way.

Fortified cities he laid low, that general of renown,

Intrenchments and their batteries he quickly levelled down.

Thro’ Portugal and Spain his enemy did pursue,

With the veteran sons of Britain he march’d to Waterloo,

And there he made a noble stand upon that blood-stain’d day,

And fought the French so manfully and made them run away.

At Vittoria,—Badagoz, and Talevara too,

On the plains of Salamanca, the French he did subdue,

With the veteran sons of Britain wherever he did go,

Amidst thundering peals of cannon he conquer’d every foe.

On the plains of Waterloo where thousands they lay dead,

The iron balls in showers flew around his martial head,

While his valiant men and generals lay bleeding in their gore,

The laurels from the French that day brave Wellington he tore.

Napoleon was as brave a man as ever took the field,

And with the warlike sons of France he said he would not yield;

But the reverse of fortune that day did on him frown,

By Wellington and his army his eagles were pulled down.

Now let him rest in peace, and none upbraid his name,

On his military glory there never was a stain,

The steel-clad Cuirasiers of France that day at Waterloo,

He quickly made them face about and cut their armour through.

Brave Ponsonby and Picton they fell upon that day,

And many a valiant soldier brave in peace their ashes lay,

And that brave Duke that led them on his spirit’s took its flight,

To see him laid down in his tomb will be a solemn sight.

СМЕРТЬ ВЕЛЛИНГТОНА.

Дж. Харкнесс, печатник, 121, Черч-стрит, Престон.

On the 14th of September, near to the town of Deal,

As you may well remember who have a heart to feel,

Died Wellington, a general bold, of glorious renown,

Who beat the great Napoleon near unto Brussels town.

CHORUS.

So don’t forget brave Wellington, who won at Waterloo,

He beat the great Napoleon and all his generals too.

He led the British army on through Portugal and Spain,

And every battle there he won the Frenchmen to restrain,

He ever was victorious in every battle field,

He gained a fame most glorious because he’d never yield.

He drove Napoleon from home, in exile for to dwell,

Far o’er the sea, and from his home, and all he loved so well.

He stripped him quite of all his power, and banished him away,

To St. Helena’s rocks and towers the rest of his life to stay.

Then on the throne of France he placed Louis the king by right,

In after years he was displaced all by the people’s might,

But should the young Napoleon threaten our land and laws,

We’ll find another Wellington should ever we have cause.

He’s dead, our hero’s gone to rest, and o’er his corpse we’ll mourn,

With sadness and with grief oppress’d, for he will not return,

But we his deeds will not forget, and should we ere again,

Follow the example that he set, his glory we’ll not stain.

So don’t forget brave Wellington, who won at Waterloo,

He beat the great Napoleon and all his generals too.

ПАДЕНИЕ СЕВАСТОПОЛЯ.

There is nothing now talked on wherever you go,

Among old folks or young be them high or low,

But the Crimean heroes I vow and declare,

That has smothered the Russians in this very year,

On the 8th of September, Eighteen hundred & fifty-five

The wounded old bear from his den did arise;

He curs’d and he swore and he fell off his stool,

He lost all Malakoff and Sebastopol too.

Chorus.

Then hurrah jolly soldiers and sailors likewise,

With the brave sons of France you blackened his eyes,

You knock’d off his muzzle and stole all his grub,

And his teeth is all rotten and he can’t chew his cud.

The soldiers of France went at it like steel,

Determined to conquer and make the Russians feel,

That they were the lads that could do it like fun,

Then crack went their rifles and the Russians did run;

The hearts of oak thundered, their guns had began,

As hearts of oak only ball’d at the Redan;

The French blaz’d away with courage so cool,

Now England and France has Sebastopol.

The Russian bears did grumble and said it is no joke

To smother in rubbish with powder and smoke,

And to be without water our thirst for to quench,

When a thundering big bomb shell came in from the French,

They all turned dizzy some spued and some spit,

And the Russian commander in his breeches did s—t,

For he had got the skitters with Johnny Bull’s pills,

Our shot is the doctors that find out their ills.

At last they retreated, these bears from their den,

They got nearly roasted with shot and with shell,

Dingdong they did trot unto to the North side,

If they’d stopt any longer we’d have tickled their hides,

The Russian commander these words he did say,

We must now all hook it without more delay,

We can stop no longer in Sebastopol;

If we do they will choke us with long iron tools.

So come my brave fellows let’s sing and let’s dance,

Both Turkey, Sardinnia, old England and France;

We will all have a jig while the music does play,

We have nothing to fear for the Russians will pay;

And when we come home we will all keep a pig,

Our wives shall have bustles made of Russian wigs,

We will all take a bumper and drink good health,

So down with the Russians and up with the French.

БИТВА ПРИ АЛЬМЕ.

Oh! boys have you heard of the battle,

The allies brave had on the shore,

The joybells and cannons did rattle,

Announcing it o’er and o’er,

The total defeat of the Russians,

Was echoed with joy everywhere;

Success to John Bull and Napolean,

And very soon peace may we hear.

Chorus.

Then here’s to the army and navy,

In Russia they’re on the advance,

Supporting the standard of freedom,

Success to old England and France.

It was on the heights of Alma,

The Russians were laying entrench’d

Lord Raglan and Marshal St. Arnaud,

Commanding the English and French;

In front of the fortified walls,

The allies marched into the fight,

Fifty-eight thousand men in bright armour,

Put all the wild Russians to flight,

Then here’s, &c.

On the twentieth of September,

The desperate battle was fought,

The Russians will ever remember,

Tho’ dearly my boys it was bought

With the blood of our courageous allies,

Who fell on the fortified plain,

They brought the flag of old England,

Without either blemish or stain.

Then here’s, &c.

The Russians held up their position,

And fought for the space of three hours,

Secluded behind their entrenchments,

The balls flew around us in showers;

At last at the point of the bayonet,

The Russians were forced to retreat,

And run in the greatest disorder,

Compell’d by a total defeat.

Then here’s &c.

The number that lay dead and wounded,

Is awful my friends to recite,

Let’s mourn the loss of our allies,

Who fell in the desperate fight;

They fought them with great desperation,

And forced the wild Russians to yield,

While cannons did rattle in battle,

They conquered and died on the field,

Then here’s, &c.

СОЛОВЕЙ НА ВОСТОКЕ.

On a dark lonely night, on the Crimea’s dread shore—

There had been bloodshed and strife on the morning before—

The dead and the dying lay bleeding around,

Some crying for help—there was none to be found.

Now God in his mercy He pity’d their cries,

And the soldier so cheerfully in the morning doth rise,

So forward my lads, may your hearts never fail,

You are cheered by the presence of a sweet Nightingale.

Now God sent this angel to succour the brave,

Some thousands she’s saved from an untimely grave;

Her eyes beam with pleasure, she’s bounteous and good,

The wants of the wounded are by her understood.

With fever some brought in, with life almost gone,

Some with dismantled limbs, some to fragments are torn,

But they keep up their spirits, their hearts never fail,

Now they’re cheered by the presence of a sweet Nightingale.

Her heart it means good—for no bounty she’ll take,

She’d lay down her life for the poor soldier’s sake,

She prays for the dying, she gives peace to the brave,

She feels that a soldier has a soul she may save.

The wounded they love her, as it has been seen;

She’s the soldier’s preserver, they call her their queen!

May God give her strength, and her heart never fail,

One of heaven’s best gifts is Miss Nightingale.

The wives of the wounded, how thankful are they;

Their husbands are cared for, how happy are they;

Whate’er her country, this gift God has given,

The soldiers they say she’s an angel from heaven.

Sing praise to this woman, and deny it who can!

And all women were sent for the comfort of man;

Let’s hope no more against them you’ll rail,

Treat them well, and they’ll prove like Miss Nightingale.

БИТВА ПРИ ИНКЕРМАНЕ; ИЛИ «ПРИШЛА ВЕСТЬ В АНГЛИЮ».

There came a tale to England,

’Twas of a battle won,

And nobly had her warriors

That day their duty done;

They fell like sheaves in autumn,

Yet ’mid that fearful scene,

Their last shout was for England,

Their last breath for their queen.

There came a tale to England,

Of suffering, want, and woe,

Of the night watch in the trenches,

Of the sortie by the foe;

‘Mid rain, and storm, and sickness,

With no rest, no pause between,

And there was grief through England,

From the humblest to the Queen.

Then wrote the Queen of England,

God’s blessing on her pen.

Oh! tell those wounded soldiers,

Those sick, patient, suffering men,

There’s no heart in England,

Can feel a pang more keen,

That day and night her own lov’d troops

Are thought of by their Queen.

Then rose a shout through England,

From them ’twas wafted o’er,

From those sick wounded soldiers,

And it rang from shore to shore;

From Alma and Balaklava,

And Inkerman it came,

“God bless the Queen of England”

Again we’d do the same.

БОЛЬШАЯ БЕСЕДА О ВОССТАНИИ СЕВАСТОПОЛЯ!

As the western powers of Europe united all together,

In close deliberation they did appear to be,

And all their conversation seemed a grand determination,

To seize upon Sebastopol and set poor Turkey free!

When up steps Omar Pasha, saying here I am amongst you—

My country has been oppressed by tyranny and woes,

But now England and France in tens of thousands we’ll advance,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

The twentieth of September we ever shall remember,

Upon the heights of Alma we made the Russians run,

After a weary marching the day was hot and scorching,

We fought the first great battle by the setting of the sun,

Like hearts of oak we bounded and the enemy wounded,

And when the bugle sounded to charge our mighty foes,

For England’s home and beauty we nobly did our duty,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

Through rivers, brooks, and fountains, up hills and lofty mountains,

Our Generals were mounted in armour bright array,

Light infantry advancing with glittering bayonets glancing,

Upon the heights of Alma we showed them British play,

The cannons roared like thunder we cut their ranks asunder,

Though not an equal number unto our mighty foes,

We drove them from their quarters and made a dreadful slaughter,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

The cannons loud did rattle all in the field of battle,

To see the dead and wounded would grieve your heart full sore,

Through fields of blood we waded the enemy invaded,

As we beheld our comrades weltering in their gore,

With one determination and one loud exclamation,

We went with desperation against our mighty foes,

We cut them in succession of their guns we took possession,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

Lord Raglan that commander was brave as Alexander,

Describes this dreadful battle the first upon record,

The legions of France by the side of old England,

The power of the Russians could not them retard,

With fire and smoke around us nothing could confound us,

We gained the heights of Alma regardless of our foes,

Though hundreds fell upon the field we made the enemy to yield,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

The brave thirty-third and twenty-third regiments,

Also the ninty-fifth and the seventh fusiliers,

Under Sir Colin Campbell the gallant highlanders,

Died on the field of battle with the brave grenadiers,

Like lions they marched in the face of the cannon,

While hundreds lay bleeding as you may suppose,

They conquered and died on the hill of the Alma,

This grand conversation on Sebastopol arose.

МАЛЕНЬКИЙ ЛОРД ДЖОН БЕЗ РАБОТЫ.

You lads of this nation, in every station,

I pray give attention, and listen to me,

I’m little Jack Russell, a man of great bustle,

Who served Queen Victoria by land and by sea;

They call me a Proosian, an Austrian, a Roosian,

And off to Vienna they sent me afar;

They’d not me believe then, they vowed I’d deceived them,

And called me Friend of the great Russian Czar.

Chorus.

I’m little Jack Russell, a man of great bustle,

I’m full of vexation, grief, sorrow, and care,

I have got in disgrace, and am now out of place;

But I never broke windows round Bel-ge-rave Square.

In great London City for me they’ve no pity;

And Moon the Lord Mayor to my face told me plain,

All the freemen would scout me, and old women rout me,

If ever I went to the City again.

I’m the son of old Bedford, I’m going to Deptford

To look for employment, and find out a friend,

And then I’ll come back with a pack on my back,

Bawling frying-pans, saucepans, and kettles to mend.

Chorus, I’m, &c.

I have lost all my riches, I have worn out my breeches,

I am turned out of place, and have nowhere to go,

My state is most shocking, great holes in my stocking,

And my poor tender toes peeping out of my shoe—

Why should they so serve me, and try for to starve me?

I fought for my country and stood by my Queen.

Bad luck to the Prussians, the Austrians, and Russians,

And jolly bad luck to old Lord Aberdeen.

Chorus. I’m, &c.

I went like a wary plenipotentiary,

To the town of Vienna to settle the war,

Where I saw Francis Joseph, King Peter, and Moses,

And I fought Alexander, the great Russian Czar;

And when I came back they began for to clack,

They blamed me and gamed me and pulled out my hair,

They threatened to lick me, and nicely they kicked me,

Bawling pickled eel’s feet around Bel-ge-rave Square.

Chorus. I’m, &c.

I love Queen Victoria, I dearly adore her,

Although at Vienna I did her displease;

I wish all the Russians and Austrians and Prussians

Were tied in a blanket, and smothered with fleas.

Oh dear, hey down diddle, I have the Scotch fiddle,

I know that I caught it of old Aberdeen,—

Now I will so clever sing England for ever,

Down with the Russians, and God save the Queen.

Chorus. I’m, &c.

Джон Морган.

НОВАЯ ПЕСНЯ ПАМЯТИ ПОКОЙНОГО Р. КОБДЕНА, ЭСКВАЙРА, ЧЛЕНА ПАРЛАМЕНТА,

«ОН ДАЛ НАРОДУ ХЛЕБ».

Напев — «Фермерский мальчик».

Come mourn ye sons of Britain all,

The fact that Cobden’s dead:

Come sing his deeds, come praise his worth,

“He got the people bread.”

O death why didst thou snatch away

The best of England’s seed?

Why lay thy hand upon his brow?

“He gave the people bread.”

If ever man deserved a name,

Who did the people lead,

’Twas Richard Cobden known to all,

“He gave the people bread.”

His generous, loving, feeling heart

Brought blessings on his head,

Because he fought a long lifetime,

“To give the people bread.”

He lived a life of doing good,

This was his much loved creed,

Untiring zeal his labours crown’d

“To get the people bread.”

Yes, bread untax’d that all might live,

In every time of need;

Amidst the strife with truth as guide,

“To get the people bread.”

He’s now enshrin’d in the cold grave,

Which Kings and princes dread;

He died in peace, he smil’d at death,

“He’d gained the people bread.”

For ever shall his name endure,

Tho’ numbered with the dead,

His name through earth’s immortalised,

“He got the people bread.”

ВЕЛИКИЙ МОРСКОЙ БОЙ МЕЖДУ «КИРСАРДЖЕМ» И «АЛАБАМОЙ».

Come all you gallant hero’s

Of high and low degree,

And listen to the glorious fight

Was fought upon the sea;

The Alabama and Kearsage

Not far from the French shore,

Met on the 19th day of June,

Eighteen hundred and sixty four.

It was a glorious battle,

The crews fought manfully

In the Alabama and Kearsage,

That day upon the sea.

The English Yacht Deerhound

Was all the time quite near,

She belonged to Squire Lancaster,

Of Wigan in Lancashire;

And many a gallant seaman

So nobly did save,

Who when the Alabama sunk

Would have met a watery grave.

About nine miles from Cherbourg

This gallant fight took place,

The noted Alabama,

She did the Kearsage chase,

The Alabama’s guns did rattle,

And Captain Semmes believed

That he would win the battle,

But he was much deceived.

The men did fight like hero’s,

And round the decks did run,

Each ship did shake and no mistake,

As they fired their powerful guns,

Brave Captain Semmes did loudly call,

As he on the deck did stand,

Don’t move or flnch a single inch,

“Do your duty every man.”

But alas! the Alabama,

Began to feel affright,

Her sides were dreadfully shaken,

And she could no longer fight,

The Kearsage was chain plated,

And her guns were fired so free,

She beat the Alabama,

And sunk her in the sea.

The Deerhound was in readiness,

The conquered to receive;

And rendered great assistance,

My friends you may believe;

When the battle it was over,

The conquered, void of fear,

Safe in the Steam Yacht Deerhound,

Did to Southampton steer.

Now to conclude this gallant fight,

Undaunted brave and bold,

As great and glorious battle

As ever yet was told,

To the seaman and the officers,

We drink with three times three,

Who did their duty manfully

That day upon the sea.

Джон Харкнесс, печатник, Престон.

ПЛАЧ ДИЗЗИ.

Oh dear! oh dear! what shall I do?

They call me saucy Ben the Jew,

The leader of the Tory crew,

Poor old Benjamin Dizzy.

I’d a great big house in Buckinghamshire,

My Wages was Five Thousand a year;

But now they have turned me out of place,

With a ticket for soup, in great disgrace.

I had a challenge last Monday night,

Billy Gladstone wanted me to fight;

The challenge was brought by Jackey Bright,

To poor old Benjamin Dizzy,

I’ve got the sack, what shall I do?

They call me a converted Jew,

Bad luck to Bright and Gladstone too,

They mean to drive me crazy.

I never thought they’d turn me out,

For well I knew my way about,

But I am licked without a doubt,

So pity poor Benjamin Dizzy.

Oh! if I could Bill Gladstone thump,

I’d burst his nose, and kick his r—p;

If like Jack Heenan I could fight,

I’d wollop both him and Johnny Bright.

Gladstone will play the deuce with me,

For he’s got a great majority,

And as sure as my name is Disreali,

I am shoved out by Gladstone.

Billy Gladstone made a great big birch,

And said he’d not be in the lurch,

But he’d sweep away the Irish Church,

And kill poor Benjamin Dizzy.

If he had his will he’d play some rigs,

He’d smother the people with Parsons’ wigs;

But if I had my will, mark what I mean,

I’d make Murphy a footman to the Queen.

Murphy and me could make it right,

If like a Lancashire lad I could fight,

I’d poke out the eyes of Jackey Bright,

And punch the shins of Gladstone.

I tremble and I quake with fear,

For Gladstone he is so severe,

Though he was kicked out in Lancashire,

For Greenwich he’s elected.

The destructives say all over the land,

Every tub on his own bottom shall stand.

But in spite of all their joy and prate,

I will support the Church and State.

Bill Gladstone, Bright, and old Bob Lowe,

Are in the Cabinet you know,

And I will whistle not for Joe,

To all the measures they bring forward.

Where the Shamrock, Leek and Thistle grow,

I find that I had lots of foes,

So I will stick to England’s Rose,

And never will surrender.

Last night as I lay on my bed,

Some dreadful things came in my head,

I dreamt that I was whacked with a birch,

And that I’d swallowed the Irish Church.

Oh, Bright and Gladstone go the rig,

The Irish Church the fishes and pigs,

That you may be choked with Parsons’ wigs,

Is the wish of Benjamin Dizzy.

Джон Харкнесс, печатник, Престон.

ВЕЛИКАЯ БИТВА ЗА СВОБОДУ И РЕФОРМЫ.

You working men of England,

Who live by daily toil,

Speak for your rights, bold Englishmen,

All thro’ Britain’s isle;

The titled tories keep you down,

Which you cannot endure,

And the reason I to tell am bound,

You’re but working men—and poor.

With Gladstone, Russell, Beales, and Bright

We shall weather through the storm,

To give the working man his rights,

And gain the Bill,—Reform.

If the Hyde Park meeting had been allowed,

No disturbance would have been.

Long life, they cried, to the Prince of Wales,

And God bless England’s Queen!

Why should the parks be ever closed

Against the poor, who for them pay,

Work with a will for equality,

And you will gain the day.

We want no Tory government,

The poor man to oppress,

They never try to do you good,

The truth you will confess.

The Liberals are the poor man’s friend,

To forward all they try,

They’ll beat their foes you may defend,

And never will say, die.

Great meetings are held in high parts,

In country and in town,

The names of Beales and Gladstone,

With working men resound,

Riches are but worthless dross,

Without our working brother,

Which proves that in our national cause

We could help each other.

Great praise is due to the Reform League,

They have generous hearts and minds,

For the prisoners taken in Hyde Park,

They intend to pay the fines;

At the Agricultural Hall they met,

With band and flags so gay,

And when they meet at Lincoln’s-Inn fields

Give them a loud huzza!

Then vote for manhood suffrage,

And the ballot too, likewise,

For Freedom of opinion,

All Englishmen doth prize;

And why should not a working man

Have power to give his vote,

To one that is the poor man’s friend,

Tho’ he wears a ragged coat.

If the public parks of London

Are only for one class,

They ought to put this notice up:—

The poor they cannot pass.

It’s time our laws they altered were,

You’ll say it is a bore,

That one law should be for the rich,

And another for the poor.

An Englishman is not a slave,

For that was never sent,

Then give the working man his rights,

You’ll find he is content;

Give us the ballot and franchise,

It’s the only boon we ask,

Then shouts will rend the skies,

For that will end our task.

Дисли, печатник, 57, Хай-стрит, Сент-Джайлс.

ВЕЛИКИЙ МИТИНГ ЗА РЕФОРМЫ в понедельник, 3 декабря 1866 года.

You true friend of Reform,

Just listen to my song,

And some truth in these verses will be found:

It’s the talk throughout the nation,

About the Monster Demonstration,

Announc’d to take place in Ashburnham Grounds.

Then, cheer for Reform, and on be marching!

And you will find you will weather the storm;

For depend on what I say, you will sure to gain the day,

If you will lend a willing shoulder to Reform.

Now when the Tories found,

That in Ashburnham Grounds,

England’s sons were to meet—now only mark,—

At their dirty work they got,

And determined they should not,

As if they wished another scene like Hyde Park.

But, my lads, do not despair,

There is the pure and open air,

Which belong to the great and the small,

And though our foes they make a fuss,

There our rights we can discuss,

For the song says “There’s room enough for all.”

Shall our liberties be crushed.

And be trampled to the dust,

By men who never earnt a penny in their lives?

And yet we must not meet,

Nor for our rights dare speak,

But if we cannot win, boys, we must try!

Now the Tories they do say,

If we will only wait, some day

They will give us Reform upon their plan;

But their kindness it comes slow,

And the quarters they would show,

Would be the sort the wolf he shows the lamb.

So England’s working men,

The Rights they still defend,

Of the mightiest nation in the world;

And thousands will be found,

Who will gladly rally round,

So the banner of Reform we’ll keep unfurled.

Then send the Adullamite crew,

And their pals, the Tories, too,

Headlong to Old Nick altogether,

But for men like Beale and Bright,

Let’s shout with all our might,

Here’s the good cause, Reform, boys, for ever!

КОГДА МЫ ПОЛУЧИМ РЕФОРМУ ДЖОННИ.

Oh! is there not a fuss and bother

About Reform, Reform?

From one end of England to the other,

It’s Reform, Reform.

They say it’s to place us in a position,

That we may better our condition,

And be so jolly happy

When we get Johnny’s Reform.

Little Johnny, bless the darling boy,

Love’s Reform, Reform,

Long time he has nursed his favourite toy,

Reform, Reform;

And the dunderheads says, now really,

Is not it a fine grown baby,

Shan’t we be jolly happy,

When we get Johnny’s Reform.

There is our old friend Jacky Bright,

Says that Reform, Reform,

Is just the thing that’s right,

Reform, Reform;

To the seven-pound franchise he will stick,

And send all opponents to old Nick,

And make all jolly happy

When we get Johnny’s Reform.

Now our pauper system loud does call

For Reform, Reform;

With the great as well as small

Need Reform, Reform;

For the poor are not the only ones,

That feed upon the nation’s crumbs,

But never mind, be happy,

When we get Johnny’s Reform.

The teetotalers they will preach

Up Reform, Reform;

And the water-drinking dodge they teach,

Reform, Reform;

But the tipplers they all do say,

They will get tight three times a day,

And be so jolly happy

When they get Johnny’s Reform.

The little boys and girls they say,

Reform, Reform,

They expect it’s coming some fine day,

Reform, Reform;

Their bellies then they will be stuffing,

With almond rock and cakes for nuffin,

And be so jolly happy,

When they get Johnny’s Reform.

The farmers all throughout the nation,

Want Reform, Reform,

For they stand in need of reformation,

Reform, Reform;

But must not they have tidy cheek,

To give their men eight bob a week,

And tell them to be happy

When they get Johnny’s Reform.

Many they aloud will shout,

For Reform, Reform,

Scarcely knowing what about,

Bawl Reform, Reform;

They think no poor there will be then,

But all be ladies and gentlemen,

And be so jolly happy,

When they get Johnny’s Reform.

Now if the Bill should pass,

This Reform, Reform;

Now little Johnny he will laugh

At Reform, Reform;

His little body he will strut, sir,

Like a crow along the gutter,

And be so jolly happy

When we get the new Reform.

Then let us hope that we may see

This Reform, Reform,

Do some good for you and me,

Reform, Reform;

But liberty give to your thought,

If it don’t do good, why then it ought,

And make us jolly happy,

When we get Johnny’s Reform.

Г. Дисли, печатник, 57, Хай-стрит, Сент-Джайлс.

СВОБОДА И РЕФОРМЫ.

Unto these lines I’ve penned,

Listen, England’s working men,

Be united, we shall weather thro’ the storm,

Gladstone, Beales, & Bright, God save,

And your banners proudly wave,

Shout Old England for ever and Reform.

Hark to those drums so loudly beating,

See those glorious banners proudly wave,

Come men, and shout with me, Old England’s liberty,

And Reform! for Britons won’t be slaves.

Let’s be firm my boys, I say,

While the sun shines make your hay,

They’ve promis’d it long enough I vow.

At length the die is cast,

And the Lion’s woke at last,

No longer will he wait, he’ll have it now.

Fellow workmen, let them know,

We won’t have such men as Lowe,

Who treat the working classes all with scorn

Let them try with all their might,

For the working men are right,

And they’ll gain what they’re working for,—Reform.

What stagnation through the land,

For all trade is at a stand,

While the Tory government holds the sway.

Let us join then heart and hand,

And boldly make a stand,

If we’ve only got the will we’ll find the way.

Then banish care and pain,

Never mind Old Dicky Mayne,

He says this time he’ll not interfere;

He remembers it quite well,

How the Hyde Park railings fell

We his noble staff of Poleaxes don’t fear.

Then shout with all your might,

God save Gladstone, Beales, and Bright,

Wave your banners, let your ranks closer form,

And let your watchword be:—

“Old England! Liberty!

Manhood Suffrage! Vote by Ballot! and Reform!”

Г. Дисли, печатник, 57, Хай-стрит, Сент-Джайлс.

ВЕЛИКОЕ ЛИБЕРАЛЬНОЕ БОЛЬШИНСТВО В 110 ГОЛОСОВ.

Тори остались не у дел, и им нечего делать.

Draw near all you true Liberals,

And listen for awhile,

While I a ditty sing to you

That will cause you for to smile;

It’s concerning of the poor Tories,

Who are in a precious stew, oo-oo

They are out of a job, so-help-my-bob,

And got no work to do,

For the Liberals they have gained you see,

One hundred and ten majority,

And the Tories they are all froze out,

And got no work to do.

Through England and Ireland,

Scotland and Wales, they cry,

Give us the brave Liberals,

And let their colours fly;

For you may see by the returns,

The Tories they have cause to mourn,

They are in disgrace, and out place,

And got no work to do;

They are a selfish crew, oo-oo,

And their noses look quite blue oo-oo,

Their day is past, done brown at last,

And got no work to do.

For the Liberals, &c.

Now there is the Irish Bishops,

Must spout their shovel, hat, and wigs,

They will get no rent in shape of tenths,

Nor get no nice tythe pigs:

And the little boys will them get at,

I say, old boy, I’ll have your hat;

You have lost your tythes, and sarve you right,

You will have no work to do.

Yes, they will be licked clean off their perch,

If they capsize the Irish Church,

For Gladstone will give them the sack,

They’ll have no work to do.

For the Liberals, &c.

Ben Dizzey, he is lamenting,

For he is in a dreadful fix,

And from St. Stephen’s Cabinet-works,

He has had to cut his stick;

He is grieving for the loaves and fishes,

He may say his grace to empty dishes,

For Gladstone he will cut his comb,

Oh dear, what will he do?

His hopes are up the flue oo-oo,

But I pity him, don’t you, oo-oo?

He is all the way from Buckinghamshire,

And got no work to do.

For the Liberals, &c.

Now the Tories boast in Westminster,

They have gained a victory,

But how John Mill he has turned out,

You all may plainly see;

And there are more in the same state,

Who have been fishing with a golden bait,

But it is all of no use, we have cooked their goose,

They’ll have no work to do,

They dirty tricks can do, oo-oo,

What I tell you is quite true, oo-oo,

In St. Stephen’s Hall, they will sing small,

We have got no work to do, oo-oo.

For the Liberals, &c.

Now the working-men of England,

May chance to get their rights,

While they have their Champion Gladstone,

Their battles for to fight;

For that he is a brick, you’ll say I am right,

And so is that old cock Johnny Bright,

And the Tories them for to affright,

Will have their work to do.

Then for Reform give three huzzas!

The Liberals have gained the day,

And the Tories they in grief do say,

We have got no work to do.

For the Liberals, &c.

Г. Дисли, печатник, 57, Хай-стрит, Сент-Джайлс, Лондон.

ДЕМОНСТРАЦИЯ ЗА РЕФОРМЫ в Гайд-парке, 6 мая 1867 года.

Good people come listen, I’ll tell of a lark,

That happened on Monday, the 6th, in Hyde Park,

For brave Edmund Beales and his friends they did start,

To meet the working men there.

They reached there at six o’clock, gallant and right,

And when in so boldly did shout,

We’re here my brave boys, and we’ll show them this night

We’ll speak, and they shan’t turn us out.

So remember, my boys, ’twas a glorious sight,

In Hyde Park, on the 6th, it was right against might,

With Beales for our leader, we beat them that night,

At last working men they are free.

Now Dickey M—— to his friend Walley said,

If you go to Hyde Park pray mind your poor head,

And I’m sure I expect to be taken home dead,

And for me it will not be a lark.

Now don’t go says Walley, to you I declare,

Against us you know they’ve a spite,

The people mean business, so I shan’t go there,

Not in Hyde Park, on that Monday night.

In busses the Poleaxes hurried along,

And when they arrived they were five thousand strong,

But during the night you couldn’t see one,

Interfere with our friends in Hyde Park.

I heard that one said to his mate, “Bill, I say,

If they have a row, I’ll be off quick,

For I got in a bother the last reform day,

And they measured my head with a brick.”

Now Government frightened on Monday they were,

Some constables special in then they did swear,

Their staffs they did hide, when in the Park there,

They thought that they would have to fight.

One went home enraged, says he, “I’ll have a row—

Since to Hyde Park I’ve been on the march,

I am almost a boiling—we have been I vow,

Like dummies stuck on the Marble Arch.”

So the Franchise for ever, we’ve beat them, hurra!

Long life to brave Beales, and Reformers, I say,

United let’s be, and we’ll yet gain the day,

And always remember Hyde Park.

We do not want SPECIAL duty to be done,

Our rights! it is all that we ask,

To meet with each other when labour is done,

And speak out our minds in the Park.

МИТИНГ ЗА РЕФОРМЫ В БЛЭКХИТЕ.

For Reform, meet again, boys, on Monday I say,

Let trumpets sound loudly, we’ll yet gain the day,

Your banners wave proudly, and shout, boys, hurrah!

When to Blackheath on Monday you start;

Manhood suffrage, you know, is the working man’s own.

We only want that which is right,

Then raise loud your voices, the cause we shall gain,

If united we stand in our might.

Then forward for Liberty, Justice, and Right,

On Blackheath, my boys, ’twas a glorious sight,

And shout loud for Gladstone, for Beales, and for Bright,

Manhood Suffrage for ever, hurrah!

We’ll have it at last, of that you may be sure,

If they had not turned tail we’d have had it before,

We must have the Suffrage on England’s shore,

To be free is all that we ask;

You remember Hyde Park on the last 6th of May,

When there they boldly did shout,

Manhood Suffrage, the Franchise, we will have fair play,

Special Constables won’t turn us out.

So onward to Blackheath without care or pain

In Hyde Park we have met, and will meet there again,

In spite of the Specials, or old Dicky Mayne,

I am sure he will not interfere;

With Beales for our leader, again they will show,

English workmen themselves can behave,

Without the poleaxes, we can let them know,

That we will not be treated like slaves.

If we are to be governed, let us cry far & wide,

Let us be governed well, ’tis an Englishman’s pride,

And not have disturbance and bloodshed besides,

On this, our own dear native land.

Then let us have Justice, we do not want more,

We ask for our wives and our homes,

And have peace and prosperity on Britain’s shore,

Then we shall have what is our own.

Then wave high your banners, your trumpets then sound,

Manhood Suffrage for ever! let Blackheath resound,

And victory, yet we shall win, I’ll be bound,

If united we stand firm and true.

Long life to brave Beales & Reformers I pray,

The Reform League for ever, hurrah!

We’ll all work together, united we’ll be,

And, my boys, we will yet gain the day.

Г. Дисли, печатник, 57, Хай-стрит, Сент-Джайлс, Лондон.

ФЕНИАНЦЫ ИДУТ.

Wherever we go, wherever we be,

Some wonder of wonders we daily do see;

All classes through Britain are trembling with fear,

The Fenians are coming,—oh, don’t things look queer?

The land of old Erin looks bashful and blue,

Colonel Catchem and General Doodlem doo,

Has crossed the Atlantic, poor Erin to sack,

And carry Hibernia away on their back.

There’s a rumpus in Ireland by night and by day,

Old women and girls are afraid out to stray;

Cheer up and be happy on St. Patrick’s day,

The Fenians are coming,—get out of the way!

Pop goes the weazel, and shoot goes the gun,

While over the mountains the Fenians do run;

As a regiment of soldiers did after them jog,

Four hundred and fifty fell into a bog!

The best of the fun was—the soldiers did shout,

We have got in a mess, and we cannot get out!

When a funny old woman so nimbly flew,

And collared great General Doodlem-doo.

Some could not fire, and some could’nt run,

One carried a reap-hook, another a gun,

They tried to kill nobody, just for a spree,

So they both went together to cut down a tree;

There was a young lady, her name it was Peg,

She’d one eye and two noses, one arm and one leg,

March on, lads, she shouted, to glory we’ll steer,

The Fenians are coming, oh dear, oh dear!

Some with big stones and brickbats their pockets did fill,

They thought of the battle of great Bunker’s Hill,

Cut away, fire away, go along Pat,

A soldier fired at a Fenian, and shot a tom cat;

Old Molly Maloney, up her chimney did creep,

Over the hills and the mountains she had a good peep,

While under her window the bagpipes did play,

To cheer Moll with the tune of St. Patrick’s day.

What do you think of the Fenians? said Kit, in a joke,

Why, says Nell, it will end in a bottle of smoke,

Thousands over the mountains, like grasshoppers flew,

Be aisy, cried General Doodlem-doo:

Colonel Catch’em commanded, had a hump on his back,

Shoot away, fire away, philliloo whack,

Then a jolly old fiddler from famed Mullingar,

Struck up the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.

The soldiers one night when the bugle did sound,

That night going over the mountains they found,

A cat and a donkey, a pig and a dog,

And twenty old women stuck fast in a bog;

While down at Killarney, ’twas fire away whack,

At the glorious battle of herrings and sprats!

And although they fought without trousers or shirt,

I think they were really more frightened than hurt.

Cheer up, says old Barney, here comes the police:

Here’s old Erin and glory, plum pudding and peace,

A glass of good whiskey twice every day,

That is better than fighting and running away!

As for me, my dear boys, if a row I was in it,

I’d rather run for a mile than fight for a minute;

And I would advise all to have done with such capers,

And just stay at home to look after the taters.

Old Dennis Mahoney got up in a tree,

His musket was loaded with skillagalee,

Blood-an-ouns, said old Denny, I’m a Fenian, here goes,

He fired, and shot two policemen under the nose;

The bough of the tree with old Dennis soon broke,

And Dennis came down like a pig in a poke.

He died as he fell, and he whistled, oh la!

Singing, farewell for ever, old Erin-go-bragh.

Г. Дисли, печатник, 57, Хай-стрит, Сент-Джайлс, Лондон.

СТРАШНЫЙ ВЗРЫВ В КЛЕРКЕНУЭЛЛЕ. УЖАСАЮЩИЕ ЧЕЛОВЕЧЕСКИЕ ЖЕРТВЫ.

Now mothers all pray give attention,

And fathers listen to the tale I’ll tell,

To the fearful scene at the House of Detention

In Corporation Lane at Clerkenwell;

While parents for their children are weeping,

And tender mothers wring their hands in pain

Do tell me, are they dead, or only sleeping,

O shall I never see my child again.

To rescue Burke it was their intention,

At Clerkenwell this wicked deed was done,

And such a sight as this I’ll mention,

Was never heard of beneath the sun.

Three men they say on that fatal Friday,

At four o’clock on that afternoon,

Those villians caused that explosion,

And hurried those poor creatures to their doom.

They from a truck took a barrel of powder,

A female, Ann Justice was there as well,

And in one moment death and disorder

Around the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell.

Then all around lay the dead and dying,

Some crying, where is my mother dear,

Among the ruins in anguish lying,

Where tender mothers and children dear;

Covered with blood and mutilated,

And some they found, death had stilled their cries,

For mothers, fathers, and helpless infants,

Now in Bartholomew Hospital lies,

Three persons there were apprehended,

Allen and Desmond to escape they tried,

Their purpose it was frustrated,

But destruction was spread far and wide.

The one who did this deed so cruel,

From that sad spot he did escape,

But justice quickly will follow after,

Be sure it will that villain overtake.

They little thought on the fatal morning,

With hearts so light and spirits gay

That ere the sun should again be dawning,

Their little homes would be swept away;

That little children in death be sleeping,

Or parents for them in anguish cry,

For Minnie Abbot many now are weeping,

Another little girl has lost her eyes.

For those that’s gone shed a tear of pity,

And God bless those who assistance gave,

Such a crime we seldom hear in London city,

May God receive their souls now in the grave.

The government has relieved the sufferers,

From the Queen, a message to those in pain,

And such a sad and dreadful story,

In London may we never hear again.

ЗАКОНОПРОЕКТ О ВОСКРЕСНОЙ ТОРГОВЛЕ.

Oh dear, oh lor, what shall we do?

I am sure I cannot tell, can you?

Of Lord Chelmsford’s Bill, I’ll tell you true—

The Bill on Sunday trading.

The mawworms seem to try, I’m sure,

Each way they can to crush the poor,

And bring them to the workhouse door,

By stopping Sunday trading.

I’m sure it is a lying sin,

It’s no harm to say, bad luck to him,—

He might as well try to stop our wind,

As to stop all Sunday trading.

Oh! Chelmsford, you use the poor man ill,

Starve us all, I’m sure you will,

If they should pass your infamous Bill,

And stop all Sunday trading.

Tho’ the swells they may blow out their kites,

On jellies and tarts, and all things nice,

For the poor to live it is not right,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

With watercresses they must not go round,

Nor with winkles or shrimps to earn a brown,

Or else you will get fined a crown,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

No cat must mew, no dog must bark,

They’ll stop the warbling of the lark,

And drive them all bang out of the parks,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

The poor may buy potatoes and greens,

That is if they have got the means,

But no coals to cook them, though strange it seems,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

The nobs may call at the pastry shops

And with all sorts of dainties cram their chops,

But the poor must not buy a lollipop,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

You must not take, at least, they say,

A dose of salts on Saturday,

Lest they should work on the Sabbath day,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

If on Sunday you feel inclined to eat,

You can buy both bread and meat,

But no tea or sugar,—what a treat!

Says the Bill on Sunday trading

But to wash it down, Lord Chelmsford say,

To the gin shop you can cut away

And get blind drunk upon that day,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

And by and bye, if you have got the tin, sir,

To raise a baked joint for your dinner,

They’ll say, drop that dish, you hungry sinner,

Don’t you know it’s Sunday trading?

If your wife should be in the family-way,

She must not be confined upon Sunday,

But put it off till another day,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

No milkman through his rounds must go,

With milk, my pretty maids, below!

Without paying a crown,—the Lords say so,

In the Bill on Sunday trading.

Even the kittens must not play,

Nor frisk about upon that day,

Or their grub will be stopped for three whole days,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

No shoeblack, he must not dare to say,

Polish your boots upon Sunday,

Or else a dollar he will have to pay,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

And if you want to enjoy your pipe,

Where would you get a box of lights,

For the sellers they will be put to flight,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

No Yarmouth bloaters must be sold,

Nor peppermint drops for coughs or colds,

And muffin man’s bell it’s clapper must hold,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

You must not buy, but you must starve,

You must not sing, you must not laugh,

So you had better sow your mouth up fast,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

You must not sell, you must not buy,

To earn a crust you must not try,

Nor in the streets lay down and die,

Says the Bill on Sunday trading.

For the poor a fig they do not care,

More workhouses they must prepare,

He ought to be kicked to I know where,

For his Bill on Sunday trading.

Г. Дисли, печатник, 57, Хай-стрит, Сент-Джайлс.

ВЫБОРЫ В САУТВАРКЕ.

ОДЖЕР И ПОБЕДА.

Now all you gallant Southwark men,

Who does require protection,

Just mind I say, your p’s and q’s

At this Great Grand Election;

Never don’t elect a man

Who your wages will be stinting,

And never have a covetuous man

Like one who lives by printing.

Then act like men you Southwark blades,

Have neither a printer nor a “sodger,

Vote for a man who will protect your trade,

And sing, Southwark, lads, and Odger.

Long enough the poor man has been crushed,

Now is your time or never,

Come, now with me lads, nimble be,

Here’s Odger, lads, for ever.

Don’t you elect a Waterlow,

Whose principles are stinting,

He knows as much about the poor man’s rights

As a donkey knows of printing.

There has lately been some glorious fights,

In Southwark, says Ben Fagan.

It beat the Battle of Bunker’s Hill,

And the glories of Copenhagen;

An old lady stood by London Bridge,

Bawling, lick me you shall never,

She jumped complete to Toloey Street,

Bawling, Odger, boys, for ever.

In Bermondsey there was glorious fun

Among the girls and sailors,

It put the Borough all in mind

Of the devil among the tailors.

A grocer’s wife, full of spleen and spite,

Doffed her chignon so clever,

Pulled her petticoat off and went aloft,

Singing, Odger, boys, for ever.

Oh, Colonel, Colonel Beresford,

You are a rum old codger,

Neither you or Waterlow

Can ever cope with Odger;—

Odger is a working man,

And as clever a man as Pompey,

Odger is a gentleman,

And you are a pair of donkeys.

When Odger is returned, my boys,

To the brim we’ll fill our glasses,

We will drink success to the tanners’ wives,

And the blooming Kent Street lasses;

From the Bricklayers’ Arms to London Bridge,

There will be such a bustle,

Aye, and all the way from Cotton’s Wharf

To the Elephant and Castle.

Put the right man in the right place,

Keep out the aristocratic sodger

Tell old Waterlow it is no go—

It is victory and Odger;

The working men must have a friend,

Who against tyranny is clever,

With heart and glee, sing liberty,

Odger, my lads, for ever.

Odger we know is a working man,

If he’s not rich, he’s noble-minded,

He will understand how the working man

Has been crushed down and grinded.

Then send him into Parliament,

To put a stop to their capers,

And tell them we want a good beef steak,

Instead of herrings and taters.

Keep out the printing gentleman,

Banish the tyrant sodger,

Strive with all your might to do what’s right,

And plump my lads for Odger.

Напечатано для продавцов.

СБОРНИК «БАЛЛАД НА ТЕМУ».

РАЗДЕЛ III. СБОРНИК БАЛЛАД НА ТЕМУ.

«Что у тебя здесь, баллады? Я люблю баллады в печати; ибо тогда мы уверены, что они правдивы». — Шекспир.

«Уличные баллады на тему». — Существует класс баллад, которые можно с полным основанием назвать уличными балладами, поскольку они написаны уличными авторами для уличного пения и уличной продажи. Эти сочинения, однако, известны в торговле под вполне подходящим названием — «Баллады на тему». Самые успешные работники в этой отрасли профессии — это люди, описываемые как уличные зазывалы и певцы.

«Баллады на тему» всегда посвящены политическому, криминальному или волнующему общественному событию, либо тому, что заинтересовало публику, и быстрота, с которой одна из них пишется, а затем распевается на улицах, вполне соответствует духу «этих железнодорожных времен». После любого крупного события «баллада на тему» часто пишется, печатается и распевается «в честь», как было объявлено, «отставки лорда Джона Рассела». Конечно, нет времени ни на исправление рифм, ни на корректуру; но это считается маловажным, тогда как ранний «старт» с новой темой имеет большое значение, как меня уверяли: «Да, действительно, как ради еды, так и ради оплаты жилья». Если бы, однако, песни были исправлены хоть сколько-нибудь тщательно, их продажи не увеличились бы.

Читатель, должно быть, заметил, что все уличные песни, цитируемые как популярные, имеют своего рода припев или джингл в конце каждого куплета. Меня, однако, поправил один уличный певец за то, что я назвал этот припев джинглом. «Это хор, сэр», — сказал он. «В настоящей балладе на тему часто бывает двенадцать куплетов, ни один из них не короче восьми строк, и к каждому куплету есть четырехстрочный хор; и если это правильный сорт, баллада будет продаваться». Мне со всех сторон говорили, что не слова делают балладу, а тема, и, более чем тема, — хор; и, гораздо больше, чем то и другое, — мелодия! Действительно, многие уличные певцы баллад на тему питают к словам такое же высшее презрение, какое можно испытывать к любому современному композитору. Выбор мелодии для баллады, однако, — дело глубокого раздумья. Адаптировать балладу к слишком распространенной или популярной мелодии неразумно; ибо тогда, как мне сказали, ее может петь кто угодно — мальчишки и все остальные. Выбор же более сложной и менее известной мелодии, какой бы подходящей она ни была, может не понравиться некоторым членам «школы» певцов баллад, которые могут счесть ее выше своих вокальных способностей; также она может не прийтись по вкусу критикам уличных песен, чья одобряющая критика побуждает их как покупать, так и восхищаться.

Свободой, которой пользовались придворные шуты, а в некотором отношении и менестрели прошлого, безусловно, пользуются, не уменьшаясь, уличные писатели и певцы баллад на тему. Они — беспощадные сатирики, которые с редкой беспристрастностью хлещут все классы и все вероисповедания, а также любого отдельного человека. Один человек, на информацию которого я могу положиться, рассказал мне, что много лет назад он сам «работал» в городе и деревне с двадцатью тремя разными песнями в один и тот же период и на одну и ту же тему — свадьбу Королевы. Все они «продавались», но самой прибыльной была та, что «пелась принцем Альбертом в образе». Она была на мотив «Пыльного мельника»; и «она была хороша», сказал балладник, «потому что мы могли легко нарядиться в образ, данный Альберту. И что еще, сэр», — продолжал мой информатор, — «не очень долго после медового месяца герцогиня Л. подъехала в своей карете к печатнику, купила все песни в честь свадьбы Виктории, дала за них соверен и не взяла сдачи. Это была герцогиня. Почему я уверен в этом — хотя не могу сказать, была ли это герцогиня Л. или С.; ибо разве печатник, как честный человек, когда удержал цену за бумаги, не передал нам, ребятам, остаток на выпивку, и разве мы не выпили его! Тут не может быть ошибки».

«Баллады на тему», безусловно, являются «грубыми, некультивированными стихами, в которых записаны популярные рассказы времен», и каков может быть характер нации, проявляющийся в них, я оставляю на усмотрение читателя. — Генри Мэйхью, «Лондонский труд и лондонские бедняки».

Автор способной статьи в «Квортерли Ревью» за 1867 год о «Поэзии Севен-Диалс» отмечает, что «наш следующий раздел «Современных событий» характеризуется повсюду такой общей одинаковостью изложения, что требует лишь нескольких примеров для иллюстрации. Они явно написаны, по большей части, поспешно, под влиянием момента; и хотя они могут пользоваться хорошим спросом поначалу, они делают это не благодаря остроумию, красоте или меткости стиха, а благодаря захватывающему интересу к бедствию, которое они описывают. Так, скажем, в Лондоне происходит ужасное происшествие; новость распространяется как лесной пожар по всему городу и порождает слухи, даже более ужасные, чем реальность. К ночи оно увековечено в стихах одним из пяти или шести известных бардов, которые зарабатывают на жизнь писанием для Севен-Диалс, а затем распеванием своих собственных творений народу. Вдохновение поэта стремительно, исполнение работы быстро — насколько быстро, можно судить по следующему факту. В четверг, 21 февраля, женщина по имени Уокер была доставлена к мировому судье и обвинена в ограблении мистера Ф. Брауна, своего хозяина, трактирщика, которому она предложила свои услуги в качестве мужчины. Ее отправили в тюрьму, и там ее пол был обнаружен. На следующее утро, в 10 часов, двое мужчин и две женщины пели историю ее жизни и приключений в Нью-Кате перед большой, но не избранной аудиторией под названием «Женщина-бармен из Саутварка». Это был большой мусор, но продавался хорошо — однако плата за такую работу невелика. «Я получаю шиллинг за копию своих стихов», — говорит один, — «помимо того, что могу заработать, продавая их». Но стихи готовы и сразу идут в печать. Тысяча или две копий печатаются мгновенно, и «Ужасное бедствие» вскоре летает по всему Лондону из уст дюжины или двадцати менестрелей, в Нью-Кате, в Лезер-Лейн, Хаундсдитче, Бермондси, Уайтчепеле, Хай-стрит, Тоттенхэм-Корт-роуд — или везде, где толпу слушателей можно легко и безопасно собрать вместе. Если тема позволяет, два менестреля распевают одну и ту же песню