Poem by Benjamin Brierley

“Owd Ab's” Lament over Knott Mill Fair

AIR.—The harp that once through Tara's Halls.

THE lungs that once through Knott Mill Fair
    Their classic music shed,
Are now as mute in Knott Mill Fair
    As if that voice were dead.
So gone's the strut of former days,
    So tinselled glory's o'er;
And hearts that beat to penny praise
    Now feel that throb no more.

No more the chief with tawdry dight
    The roar of tumult swells;
The noise alone that's heard at night
    Its tale of drinkin' tells.
Thus talent now whene'er it wakes,
    Our feelings to engage,
Is when some poor old Thespian takes
    A taproom for a stage.

1. Wigan Sam
2. Owd Pigeon
3. To Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Edinburgh on Her Wedding
4. Fotchin' th' Keaws up
5. May

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