Lines, Written At The Blue Ball, Rochdale. Poem by Samuel Bamford

There's a little crude knot
Who visit this spot—
What wonderful statesmen they'd make;
What pity that they
From 'the helm' are away
They'd rectify ev'ry mistake.

Without stop or pause
They'd give us new laws,
And the spirit of trade would revive.
Huzza, what a buzz
About woollen and fuz,
The markets would all be alive.

Their converse how wise,
Man, open your eyes
And list to their sayings profound;
About Hollingworth dam,
And the fishes that swam,
And the bull-heads and stock-baits they found.

And if a strange wight,
From the road and the night,
Step in and a refuge should claim,
How the wise-acres pose,
How they snuff with their nose
To catch his profession and name.

With wit he is stunn'd,
He's baited and dunn'd,
But the wit is a wit of their own;
Both vulgar and dull,
Their skulls being full
Of matters that long have been known.

I leave them this time,
With this merciful rhyme,
I wish not to flog very hard;
If their manners don't mend,
Ere next I attend,
They shall feel all the ire of a bard.