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What Weary Toimes
by Joseph Ramsbottom
From ‘Lancashire Miscellany’, 1960, edited by James Bennett, published by Hirst, Kidd & Rennie, Oldham.
I know little of Joseph Ramsbottom, other than he worked at one time in a dye-house and wrote poems of the Cotton Famine of the early 1860s that were published in a little book called ‘Phases of Distress’.
‘What Weary Toimes’ tells of the sense of shame that the cotton workers felt if forced to depend on charity or hand-outs under the Poor Law. In their minds this made them paupers, a situation to which great stigma attached. Edwin Waugh, in his book ‘Factory Folk’, reprinted his descriptions of visits he made with the Overseers of the Poor to the folk of Wigan, Blackburn and Preston at this time. He witnessed scenes of great privation where families had done everything possible to avoid having to ask for relief, including selling every last stick of furniture in their homes, as described in the poem below. And what kind of market were they selling into?
'Breakin' stone' is what paupers were required to do in exchange for the relief they received. Traditionally they did this in the Workhouse, so much a day, but during the Cotton Famine many cotton workers were obliged to work in stone quarries (as chronicled by Waug). They often found the outdoor physically-demanding work too much for them, especially in their weakened state following months of mal-nourishment. Words that might cause problems - and you can also go to the Glossary: Wur = worse Wortchin' = working Steyl = steal Beighl = boil Clem = starve Two-three = few Dee = die What Weary Toimes
By Joseph Ramsbottom
Eh! dear, what weary toimes are these,
There’s nob’dy ever knew ‘em wur’;
For honest wortchin’ folks one sees
By scores reawd th’ Poor-law Office dur.
It’s bad to see’t, bo’ wus a dyeal,
When on’e sel’ helps to mak’ up th’ lot;
We’n nowt to do, we dar’ no steyl,
Nor con we beighl an empty pot.
To wortch wi paupers, aw’d noa do’t,
Aw’d starve until aw sunk to th’ floore;
Bo’ th’ little childher bring me to’t –
One’s like to bend for them, yo’re sure.
Heawever hard things are, or queer,
We’re loike to tak’ ‘em as they come;
For th’ cravin’ stomach’s awlus theer,
An’ childher conno’ clem a-whoam.
Mi little savin’s soon wur’ done,
An’ then aw sowd mi two-three things, –
Mi books an’ bookcase, o are gone, -
Mi mother’s pitcher, too, fun’ wings.
Mi feyther’s rockin’-cheer is gone,
Mi mother’s corner cubbort too;
An’ th’ eight-days clock has follow’d, mon; –
What con a hungry body do?
Aw’ve sowd until aw’ve nowt to sell,
An’ heaw we’n clemm’d past o belief;
An’ where to goo aw couldno’ tell,
Except to th’ Booard, to get relief.
Ther wur no wark, for th’ mill wur stopt;
Mi childher couldno’ dee, yo’ known;
Aw’m neaw a pauper ‘cose aw’ve dropt
To this low state o’ breakin’ stone.
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