Huddersfield In Print - Page 4 of 4

These two poems were political statements at the time of their publication in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine in 1857.

Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine Vol.81 (499) May 1857 Page 634

Lays of the Elections.

Please, gentle Wilson! Listen to my tale!
I found I could not deal with Palmerston.
More close was he than was; and when I spoke,
His answer was a quibble or a gibe,
Which, aim’d at Walmsley, or such petty deer
As Pellatt, Miall, Layard or the rest,
Might possible have been appropriate
But were rank insults to a chief like me.
Therefore, because I could not rise alone,
I sought THE SCION, and to him I gave
Adhesion, for the time that was to come.
Dark Hayter watch’d me; and against my name,
Which heretofore was on the Liberal list,
He set three crosses of ensanguined ink,
Betokened that my latter end was nigh!

Nay, Wilson, I adjure thee, do not nod!
I draw to the conclusion of my tale.
I voted smack against Lord Palmerston,
For divers reasons, which I need not state.
And then I saw the angry grin of Peel,
The long fix’d look of misery and woe
With which poor Lewis laid his Cocker down;
I heard old Bethel grind his wolfish teeth,
And Osbourne mutter – what was not salaam!
Then all the Whigs arose, and glared on me,
And, in their ruthless eyes, I read the fate
That, like a bloodhound, tracked me to my lair!

Wilson! thou shouldst be waking at this hour!
What! dost though sleep? Nay, then, the case is hard,
When Wilson cannot spare his friend an oath!
I came for comfort – comfort find I none:
I ask for sympathy, but none reply!
Milner is less than Potter: Gibson’s name
Is faint beside the Turner’s. Fare-thee-ill,
Thou wretched, wavering Cottonopolis!
I will go down to Huddersfield and speak
With valiant Cobden; for he says, a light
Dances before his eyes, and in his ears
There ever is the tramp of armed men.
What this portends I know not; but I know
That henceforth Manchester shall bear my curse,
Nor would I give it tribute of a tear,
Though it were wrapp’d in all-devouring fire!

Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine Vol. 81 (499) May 1857 Page 635

The Maid of Huddersfield.

There's a rose-tree in my garden; but it hath not budded yet,
April's tears are cold and frozen, and the cheek of spring is wet.

Bud not, blossom not, my rose-tree; let thy boughs in June be bare,
Since thou canst not give a bridal garland to bedeck my hair.

Scarce a single moon has faded since my lover walked with me,
All along the gloomy garden, and we paused beside the tree.

And I said, "Dear Billy Roller, thou hast pray'd me for a sign,
For a token of our union, of the biss that shall be thine.

As the maids of ancient Sparta, sent their lovers to the field,
Bidding them return in triumph, or be borne upon the shield;

So I set a task before thee, and I swear till it be done,
Never shall the surpliced vicar join our hands and make us one.

Lo! The land around is ringing with the wild election cry,
Cobden calls thee to the rescue – Cobden, child of liberty!

Shall a vile and fawning Whig be sent as member for our city?
Up and gird thee for the battle! Be the foremost on committee!

Canvass every voter, upwards, downwards through our streets and lanes,
Win the victory for Cobden, and this hand rewards they pains!

Then, when summer sends it blossoms, William, shalt thou cull for me
Flowers to make a bridal garland, roses from my favourite tree.

And I’ll meet thee at the altar; come, my dearest, to they side;
And perhaps – O bliss of blisses – Cobden may bestow the bride!

But should fate decide against us, should the venal blanketeers
Choose a Whig instead of Cobden – chair him with triumphal cheers;

Then, although my heart will quiver, and the blow be deadly sore,
William Roller, thou must never hope to see thy Sarah more!

Clad in widow’s weeds I’ll wander, widow-hearted though a maid,
Uttering my lamentation in the sunshine and the shade.

Wailing ever, deeply wailing, till the light of life be dim,
And a tear for thee shall mingle with the floods I shed for him!”

All is over – William Roller, Richard Cobden, both are done!
Hie, ye clouds, across the Welkin! Smother up that weary sun.

Let no glimpse of glory flicker over this degraded place,
Let the darkness brood above it, emblem of its dire disgrace.

Let the wooden staplers shudder in their drear and dingy homes,
Let their marrow inly curdle as from damp of catacombs.

Let rheumatic twinges rack them, if their consciences be mute,
May lumbago smite the muscles, and the gout assail the foot!

May they groan in bitter torture, for their infamous intrigue,
Thus discarding Richard Cobden, foremost Champion of the League!

Dastards Cravens! They have robbed me – robbed me in a single day,
Of my hero and my husband – let them perish in dismay!

Never bloom again, my rose-tree! Let thy boughs be always bare,
Henceforth do not yield a blossom to perfume this tainted air;

Or, at most, let three white roses open with the waning year,
One for Richard, one for William, one to wither on my bier!

SOURCES
- ILEJ, Notes and Queries, a 19th century journal.
- ILEJ, Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine , a 19th century journal.

CREDIT
- Marion B Harper, Genealogist