A tribute to Samuel Laycock
Lancashire Dialect Poet 1826 - 1893
Samuel Laycock was born in Yorkshire at a small hill farm in Marsden on 17th January 1826. His father was a hand loom weaver. Samuel had little schooling, apart from at the local Sunday School, because he started work in a woollen mill at the age of nine.
In 1837, when Samuel was eleven the family moved to Stalybridge and he became a power loom weaver in a cotton mill. By the time of the Cotton Famine he had risen to become a cloth-looker, buy the depression of the 1860's threw him and thousands of others, out of work.
The cotton famine changed Laycock's life - he published poems inspired by the crisis and as a result he never worked in the mill again. In 1865 he became the librarian and porter at the Mechanics Institute. He left this post six years later after which he seemed to drift for some time. Various unsuccessful enterprises - a bookstall on Oldham market, a photography business in Mossley, a short-term as Curator at the Whitworth Institute in Fleetwood - belong to this period. In 1868, he settled in Blackpool as it was thought the climate would be good for his health. He worked as a photographer a this time and his poems were published in book form, but it is probably safe to assume that his income remained somewhat precarious. He died in Blackpool in 1893.
Laycock was in the first rank of Lancashire dialect poets of the mid 19th century. He began to be published just at a time when a vigorous oral tradition was making its way into print. He knew the life and experience of his fellow cotton operatives and was able to capture the atmosphere of the times in verse. His poems were written for a working class audience and were printed in broadsheet form, so that cotton workers could afford to buy them. IN his later life his poems lost much of their spontaneity - he became a respected figure called on to contribute commemorative verses at format gatherings. Dialect writing became a backwater, harking back nostalgically to earlier times, not commenting on contemporary life, but at his height his poems present a vivid impression of mid 19th century working class life.
The Cotton Famine was a major event in the lives of many people in Stalybridge including Samuel Laycock. Contemporaries believed that the Famine was caused by the American Civil War, which interrupted the supply of raw cotton. It is now believed that is was the result of years of over production which had caused a glut on the market. Whatever the causes the result was massive unemployment which was particularly severe in the Ashton, Stalybridge and Dukinfield areas. All three towns were almost totally dependent on cotton. By November 1862, nearly 42% of the population of the Ashton Poor Law Union (which included Stalybridge) was receiving relief.
Samuel Laycock was one of many cotton workers who were laid off. Like other unemployed workers he used his skills to make extra cash and found that there was a market for his poems which were published in broadsheet form as "Lancashire Lyrics".
The popularity of his poems is evident from the fact that they were sold to people who were struggling to find the means to live - 14,000 broadsheets were sold. In fact, following the oral tradition of dialect poetry, they were set to tunes and sun in the street. Laycock's poems provide a valuable record of the working class experience of the times. They give expression to an attitude which was probably prevalent among respectable working people, that men should find an honourable way of standing up to the times and not be reduced to complaining about personal sufferings. The poems make clear the domestic problems and misery caused by hard times.
'Bowtons's Yard' and 'Bonny Bird' are Laycocks' best known and best loved poems and both were written in Stalybridge.
BOLTON'S YARD
Bolton's Yard, the dialect pronunciation being 'Bowton's Yard' was one of the courtyards of working class housing in the Castle Hall area of the town. The houses were probably built in the 1820's, when that part of the town was laid out. Castle Hall was built to house the cotton workers who were flooding into the town to work in the mills. Stalybridge was a boom town, the population grew bhy 158% in the ten years between 1821 and 1831 and the living and working conditions for the new townspeople left a lot to be desired. In 1844, Rederick Engels visited Stalybridge and described the housing -
"On first entering the town the visitor sees congested rows of old, grimy and dilapidated cottages.... most of the streets run in wild confusion up, down and across the hill sides. Since so many of the houses are built on slopes it is inevitable that many of the rooms on the ground floor are semi basements. It may well be imagined what a vast number of courst, back passages and blind alleys have been created as a result of this wholly unplanned method of building .... of this disgustingly filthy town."
Laycock's poem gives some impression of the people who lived in these conditions and the community life which grew up in the streets.
Some of the houses were demolished in the 1930's, the remainder went in 1955. Eventually, the whole of Castle Hall disappeared in a huge slum clearance scheme in the 1960's. Many people regretted that the way of life which went these close communities and which was celebrated in Laycock's poems, was lost forever.
BONNY BRID
Bonny Brid was written on the birth of his daughter, Hannah, on December 8th, 1864. It was written during the Cotton Famine and is a touching comment on the problems of bringing up a child born during a depression. Laycock was expecting a boy so the poem is addresses to a 'lad'. Bonny Brid grew up to marry Sim Scholfield, another Lancashire poet and many anniversaries in her life were commemorated by poems written by her father, her husband and their friends. Bonny Brid died on 13th July, 1939 in Torquay.
Bolton's Yard
At number one, i' Bowton's yard, mi gronny keeps a scoo, But hasn't mony scholars yet, hoo's only one or two; They sen the'owd woman's rather cross, - well, well, it may be so; Aw know hoo box'd me rarely once, an' pood mi ears an'o.
At number two lives widow Burns - hoo weshes clooas for folk; Their Billy, that's her son, gets jobs at wheelin' coke; They sen hoo coarts wi' Sam-o'-Neds, 'at lives at number three; It may be so, aw conno tell, it matters nowt to me.
At number three, reet facin' th' pump, Ned Grimshaw keeps a shop; He's Eccles-cakes, an' gingerbread, an' treacle beer, an' pop; He sells oat-cakes, an'o, does Ned he boath soft an' hard; An' everybody buys off him 'at lives i' Bowton's Yard.
At number four Jack Blunderick lives; he goes to th' mill an' wayves; An' then, at th' week-end when he's time, he pows a bit an' shaves; He's badly off, is Jack , poor lad; he's rayther lawm, they sen, An' his childer keep him deawn a bit - aw think they'n nine or ten.
At number five aw live mysel', wi'owd Susanah Grimes; But dunno loike so very weel - hoo turns me eawt sometimes; An' when awm in there's ne'er no leet, aw have to ceawer i'th' dark; Aw conno pay mi lodgin' brass, becose awm eawt o'wark.
At number six, next dur to us, an' close o'th' side o' th' speawt, Owd Susie Collins sell smo'drink, but hoo's welly allis beawt; But heaw it is that is the case aw'm sure aw conno' tell; Hoo happens maks it very sweet , an' sups it o herself.
At number seven there's nob'dy lives, they left it yesterday, Th' bum-baykus coom an' makr'd their things, and took 'em o away; They took 'em in a donkey cart, aw know nowt wheer they went. Aw recon they'n bin ta'en and sowd becose they owed some rent.
At number eight - they're Yawshur folk - there;s only th' mon and woife, Aw think aw ne'er seed nicer folk now these i' o mi loife; Yo'll never yer 'em foin' cawt, loike lots o' married folk, Tehy allis seem good tempered like, an' ready wi' a joke.
At number nine th'wod cobbler lives - th' owd chap 'at mends mi shoon, He's getting very weak an' done, he'll ha' to leov us soon; He reads his Bible every day, an' sings just loike a lark, He says he's practisin' for Heaven - he's welly done his wark.
At number ten Jame Bowton lives - he's th' noicest heawse i' th' row; He's allis plenty o' sum'at t' eat, an lots o' brass an' o; An' when he rides an' walks abeawt, he's dress'd up very fine, But he isn't hawve as near to heaven as him at number nine.
At number 'leven mi uncle lives - aw co him uncle Tum, He goes to conerts, up an' deawn, an' plays a kettle-drum; I' bands o' music, an'sich things, he seem to tak' a rpide, An' allis makes as big a moise as o i' th' place beside.
At number twelve, an' th eend o' th' row, Joe Stiggens deal i' ale; He's sixpenny, an' fourpenny, dark coloured, an' he's pale; But aw ne'er touch it, for aw know it's ruined mony a bard - Awm th'only chap as doesn't drink 'at live i' Bowton's Yard.
An' neaw aw've done aw'll say good-bye, an' leave yo' for awhile; Aw know aw haven't towd mi tale i' sich a first-rate style; But iv yo're pleased aw'm satisfied, an 'ax for no reward; For tellin' who mi nayburs ar 'at live i' Bowton's Yard.
Bonny Brid
Th'art welcome, little bonny brid, But shouldn't ha' come just when tha did; Toimes are bad. We're short o' pobbies for eawr Joe, But that, of course, tha didn't know, Did ta, Lad?
Aw've often yeard mi feyther tell, 'At when aw coom i' th; world misel' Trade wur slack; An' neaw it's hard wark pooin' throo - But aw munno fear thee, iv aw do. Tha'll go back.
Cheer up! these toimes'll awter soon; Aw'm beawn to beigh another spoon - One for thee; An', as tha's sich a pratty face, Aw'll let thee have eawr Charley's place - On mi knee.
God bless thee, love, aw'm fain tha'rt come, Just try an' mak' thisel awhoam; Here's thi nest; Tha'rt thoike this mohter to a tee, But tha's thi fether's nose, aw see, Well, aw'm blest!
Come, come tha needn't look so shy, Aw am no' blamin' thee, not I; Settle deawn, An tak' this haupney for thisel, There's lots o' sugar sticks to sell Deawn i th' teawn.
Aw know when furst aw coom to th' leet, Aw're fond o' owt at tasted sweet; Tha'll be th' same. But come, tha's never towd thi dad. What he's to co thee yet, mi lad - What's thi name?
Hush! hush! tha mustn't cry this way, But get this sope o' cinder tay. While it's warm. Mi mother used to give it to me, When aw wur sich a lad as thee, In her arm.
Hush-a-babby, hush-a-bee, - Oh, what a temper! dear-a-me. Heaw tha skrikes! Here's a bit o' sugar, sithee; Howd thi noise, an' then aw'll gie thee Owt tha likes.
We've nobbut getten coarsish fare, But, eawt o' this tha'll get this share, Never fear. Aw hope tha'll never want a meal, But allis fill thi bally weel, While tha'rt here.
This feyther's noan been wed so long, An; yet tha sees he middlin' throng, Wi' yo' o. Besides thi little brother Ted, We've one upsteers, asleep i' bed, Wi eawr Joe.