Бенджамин Брирли (Benjamin Brierley)

Wigan Sam

THERE is in Bury's ancient town
    An inn of good report;
'Tis not the "Albion," "Keys," nor "Queens,"
    Nor one of humbler sort.

But high it towers above the roofs
    Of "Swans," "Grey Mares," and "Grapes;"
And many a peddling hostelry,
    Its grander neighbour apes.

But none can match the "Eagle's Nest"
    In quality of fare,
Though some aver the figure's high;
    But such are poor and rare.

The cream of good society,
    The privileged, and proud,
Have on our inn, for years gone by,
    Their patronage bestowed.

Look on the stately front, and say
    Who of plebeian soil
    Shall e'er presume to take it's wines,
Or share the barmaid's smile?

The host, than whom a neater man
    Is known in Bury town,
Can either welcome with a bow,
    Or freeze you with a frown.

That means, when you're good company,
    Or tavern laws transgress;
But though he turns on points so nice,
    Esteem him not the less.

A wit he is, and fond of joke,
    Albeit of high degree;
And though he courts a coronet,
    To lowly worth is free.

What can be said of man the more,
    However high his birth ?
The wight who owns a generous heart
    Is emperor of the earth!

A tyke there came to Bury town,
    One "Wigan Sam" by name ;
A dog whom neither house, nor clan,
    Nor parish cared to claim.

Friends he had none, nor kith, nor kin,—
    No home wherein to creep
When winds were fierce, and frosts were keen,
    And snows were wild and deep,

Save the "big house" upon the hill,
    Where dwell the lost to earth—
Where feeds the vagabond beside
    The wreck of humble worth.

Sam lay in fallow half his time
    Within those sheltering walls,
Nor sought to lift by fruitful toil
    Himself to higher calls.

But when the flowers began to peep,
    And birds began to sing,
And nettles grew on sunny banks—
    The firstlings of the spring,—

Then Sam would from his furrow creep,
    And shaking off the earth
That pauper sloth had heaped on him,
    For change would wander forth.

'Mongst brick-crofts, farms, and buildings new,
    A living, Sam would make,
And sleep at nights in barn or stall,
    Or taproom lodgings take.

When other work could not be found,
    A basket he would sling,
And vend young onions, mustard, cress—
    The edibles of spring;

Or he would trundle through the street,
    A one-wheeled truck, with sand
And "idle-back" for rags and bones,
    Or "aught" that came to hand.

But Sam had one ambitious wish,
    Though paltry it might seem,
To raise a modest donkey cart,
    With single brute, or team.

Yet how the needful to obtain,
    Such "rolling stock" to buy,
Had bothered oft his scheming pate,
    And turned his wits awry.

But, lucky thought! each dog's his hour,
    And Sam's had come at last;
His wand'rings through the streets one day
    The "Eyrie" led him past.

Mine host just out of band-box turned,
    Stood whistling at the door,
With hands deep in his pockets thrust,
    Their contents jingling o'er.

Our vagabond from Wigan town
    Soon Boniface espied,
And, waxing keen to try a joke,
    Thus to the yokel cried.

"Hallo, old sinner ! what's your game?
    You're out again, I see.
No work?   Eh, eh!   Old story, Sam
    Oh,—want to speak to me?

Well, cut it short.   What is't you want?"
    "A friend," was Sam's reply;
"I want to raise a suvverin
    A jackass cart to buy.

I know wheere I con have a moke
    Two days a week or so;
An' if yo'n lend me th' twenty bob
    Yo'n be th' best friend I know."

"But what security can t' give?"
    Mine host said with a grin;
"A man these times must have some hold
    Before he parts with tin."

"That's bothered me for weeks an' months,"
    Said Sam with hopeful leer;
"But now I've getten o'er it straight
    An' tidy.   It's just here—

I're thinkin', if yo' lent me th' brass,
    Ut I could make a start,
For security, an' sich as that,
    Yo' could have yo'r name on th' cart."