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- THE PRIMROSE LEAGUE - THE PRIMROSE LEAGUE - THE PRIMROSE LEAGUE - THE PRIMROSE LEAGUE - THE PRIMROSE LEAGUE - THE PRIMROSE LEAGUE -

Poems by Gerald Massey and Samuel Laycock.

Gerald Massey (29th May 1828 - 29th October 1907) was born near Tring, Hertfordshire,

Chartist, poet, Shakespearian scholar, Egyptologist, free thinker and not a friend to the Primrose League.

This poem is one, from his selection of ELECTION LYRICS.

THE PRIMROSE DAME.

By

GERALD MASSEY.

For comprehensive details of Massey and his writings visit the Gerald Massey Web Site.

The Primrose Dame is a likely lass,
To wile and wheedle the Working Class
Of their Votes - her end and aim.
A vision of beauty, in bye-way or street,
Is the glance of her face, or a glimpse of her feet,
When a-foot is the Primrose Dame.

The men used to bear the brunt of the strife,-
Kissed the children, courted the wife,
And cured the halt and the lame;
But they who once lorded it over the Poll
Now send out the women to beg and cajole,-
Pray you pity the Primrose Dame!

We're all of one flesh, at Election time,
Of course ; white-powdered or black with grime,-
Skim milk, or crême de la crême;
Open-armed at your door she knocks,
Wants to pry into the ballot-box,
Does the delicate Primrose Dame.

She scatters her perfume around you in showers,
Wrung from the lives of our human flowers
Without thought of shame or blame;
And the rose of health, that was ruthlessly torn
From the children's cheeks, is want only worn
In the robe of the Primrose Dame.

Soliciting votes, she is not shy,
Will let you light your pipe at her eye,-
Kindle your fire with her flame;
But look for the snare when you see the smile,
Under the Primrose she can beguile:
Beware of the Primrose Dame.

She only asks to be mounted astride
The British Lion-thinks she can guide,
And the rampant animal tame,
If he will only give her his trust;
If he will only go down in the dust
To carry the Primrose Dame.

Her charm for leading him by the nose
Is very simple-a gilt primrose,-
What a meal for an empty wame!
Flower of simplicity! You are too sweet,
If the brute should be tempted either to eat,-
Let us pray for the Primrose Dame.

Samuel Laycock (1826 - 1893) was born in Marsden, Yorkshire.

He was to become one of Lancashire's most famous dialect poets, despite little or no formal education.

Much of this work, described in local dialect verse, the conditions and disastrous effects that widespread unemployment had on the local districts of Stalybridge, Ashton and Dukinfield.
.

The Primrose Dames at Their Durty Games.

By

Samuel Laycock.

( One of his Broadsheet Poems. )

For comprehensive details of Laycock and his writings visit the Gerald Massey Web Site.

Well, they're at it agen wi' their filth au' their durt, But its women this time 'at are hondlin' th' squirt; An' everyone knows 'at these feminine wits, When they're properly roused con lick men into fits. It's noa wonder to me they should fidget and fret, To find 'at mi challenge has never been met; 'At rowlin' mi sleeves up, au' strikin' eawt streight, Hasn't drawn forth their champion to come eawt an' feight. Poor things! they must feel disappointed an' bad, An' that letter o' Gladstone's has driven 'em mad; They're collectin' ole th' filth they con find on th' coast, An' sendin' it on to me here throo' th' post; Th' first dose wur a pictur', --an' this, one may see, Is intended bi th' sender to represent me; Heaw foolish to give an owd warrior a sword; If mi face doesn't suit they should write to the Lord, An' say there's complaints abeawt some ov His wark, 'At Primrose Dames think it's noan quite up to th' mark; An', unless He con raise a moor passable crop, They'll send on their orders to some other shop. Eawtrageous? disgraceful? ungallant? Of course! Must aw pet a rude mare while aw whollop a horse? Iv th' former's feawnd doin' undignified tricks, It's folly expectin' moor kindness nor kicks. To speak a bit plainer, iv th' women throw clods, Neither angels nor men, neither devils nor gods, Neither th' fear ov a prison, a dungeon, or rack, Will prevent me fro' hurlin' a clod or two back. Iv these filth-flingin' females consider they're rest, Let 'em do same as awve done, come eawt into th' leet; But they send their vile prints on witheawt ony name; Oh! women of Blackpool! oh, fie! fie! for shame. What contemptable ceawards! what slaves to fear! What poor, puny chickens we have abeawt here! Leavin' females to foul their fair fingers wi' slutch, 'At these Primrose League Knights daren't t venture to touch! God help 'em! they'n very near got to th' far end When they've nowt but foul filth an' vile pictures to send! An' --judgin' bi th' colour, bi th' creases, an' smears-- This is stuff they'n had hid fro' their mothers for years. An' aw dar' say they're Christians--go deawn on their shanks,-- Insultin' high Heaven it wi' their damnable pranks: Forgettin' there's One up aboon 'at con see 'At they're plannin' some insult to send on to me! Aw challenged a man when aw wrote th' other week ; Not some mean, insignificant, feminine sneak, 'At goes creepin' wi' letters to th' post when it's dark, Afraid an' ashamed ov her dastardly wark! What's th' cause o' ole this? Why, their pet had done wrong, An' for doin' so, aw took him to task i' my song: But he's never attempted his words to defend, Nor shown 'at aw'd wrong'd him i'th' lines 'at aw penn'd. Had he own'd th' words had slipp'd fro' his tongue witheawt thowt-- Which it's likely they did-he ha' done as he owt; An' his female admirers--'at seem so mitch hurt, Would ha' had no occasion to hunt up their durt. Neaw, aw dunno' believe H. H. Wainwright's to blame For this womanly way o' defendin' his fame; An', lately, he's had quite sufficient o' kicks, Witheawt havin' t'suffer for their durty tricks. So these are th' best arguments th' Tories can bring! Why, even an hawve-witted idiot con fling A bucket o' filth in an archangel's track, Or insult the Almighty behind His back. Aw find H. H. Wainwright reported i'th' Times, As saying he's pleased when he reads my rhymes. Well, aw fancy it's pretty well known i th' teawn, 'At aw'd noan mitch pleasure i' pennin' em deawn. No, nowt but a keen sense o' justice an' reet	Would ha' moved me to bring that "queer poem" to th' leet. Firin' shots so near whoam connot benefit me, An' this blinded bigots may easily see. An' aw want to say this, aw'm not dealin' mi blows To pleos ony friends, or to vex ony foes; But to rap at a wrong most maliciously done, Not bi th' "uncreawned king," but a clergyman's son! Well, aw'm longing for th' time--tho' it may be a dream-- When mi thowts con be turned to some loftier theme; But so long as aw'm reawsed up wi' insult an' wrong, Aw shall slash reet and left, wi' a sting i' mi song. So trot eawt your mon, iv yo' have one i' stock-- Not feathers and frills fro a milliner's block; What aw want is a chap o' some standin' an' "grit," Some college-bred cad, full o' larnin' an' wit; Some parson, or lawyer, or would-be M.P., Wi' rings on his fist an' a glass at his e'e; Owt i' heaven or on earth but thoose poor silly dames, 'At send leeters thro' th' post they darn't sign wi' their names. Aw'm obliged to "John Taylor," "James Hilton" an' o, For th' brotherly feelin' it's pleased 'em, to show; Tho' aw didn't expect or seek praises i' song, For doin' mi duty exposin' a wrong. It's noa pleasure to me to be rootin' i'th' durt, An' aw'm sorry to find th' women's feelin's are hurt; But iv they weren't blind they might easily see, 'At Wainwright wur th' cause o' this bother--not me. Had they ta'en him to task when this slander came eawt, They'd ha' left nowt for me to be scribblin' abeawt; But they screened this wrong-doer, this minister's son, An' blamed me for doin' what they should ha' done. Well, bi ole 'at aw've penned aw'm prepared to abide; An' aw find aw've boath Tories and Rads on mi side. An', further than this, aw've good reason to know 'At aw've pleased one or two o'th' church parsons an' o'! This reminds me o' summit aw musn't forget; Some weeks sin', a writer i'th' Blackpool Gazette, In a kindly an' friendly allusion to th' rhymes 'At wur previously printed i'th' columns o'th' Times-- Expressed a desire 'at aw shouldn't defame What he (an' aw thank him for't) called mi good name, Or hurt th' reputation deservedly got, Wi' championin' th' worst part o'th' Radical lot. Well, thanks to this scribe; and he's reet noa deawt: Will he feight i' my armour iv aw'll get eawt? Aw've sent in mi name to engage in a race; Will he dun mi "pumps" an' run in mi' place? Iv aw suit mi own tastes-creep back into th' shell-- Will he see aw'm uninjured, au' feight hissel'? Iv th' owd brid should conclude to retire to his nest, Will he frown on abuse--see 'at wrongs are redressed? Iv age is insulted, or injuries done, Dare he venture to tackle a clergyman's son? Will he publish these hateable tricks i'th' Gazette, An' teach th' chap a lesson he'll never forget? Iv some o'th' church parsons are tempted to stoop So low as to quarrel o'er th' "tommy" an' th' soup, Will he tell 'em sich conduct is open to blame, An' may bring to this teawn undesirable fame? Will he see 'at poor people aren't left eawt i'th' cowd, 'Cause-as some "snickets" tell us-they're ugly an' owd? Yo aw put deawn mi pen, an' retire into th' shade, Will he see 'at noa wrong's done to owt 'at God's made? Iv he'll do these nice jobs,--shift th' durt fro' my door,-- Why, then, aw shall feel very grateful, aw'm sure: An' purgin' abuses is moor i' his line, An his pills may go deawn a deol better nor mine! SAMUEL LAYCOCK, Blackpool, Feb. 3rd, 1891.

Printed at the "Times" Office, Church Street, Blackpool.

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Thanks go to Ian Petticrew and David Shaw for permission to use extracts from their Web Site.
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