Rebel Verses — Fightin' Tomlinson

Fightin' Tomlinson I sit by the chimbley corner, My blood is runnin' slow, My hands is white as a printed paage, Wot once wor red wi' the fighter's waage;

They're withered an' wrinkled now wi' old aage;

An' the fire's burnin' low.

Once I could lether anyone An' strike a knock-down blow: My legs were limmack as a young bough, They could race or dance or foller the plough;

But they're crookled and wemblin' all waays now, An' the fire's burnin' low.

I 'member me of owden daays: At Metheringham Show: I fought young Jolland for a scarf, I nearly brok his back in half;

He galloped hooam to Blankney Barff As hard as he could go.

I fought an' danced an' carried on, Razzlin 'igh an low;

I drank as long as I could see, It made noa difference to me, I wor a match for any three: 'Tis sixty year ago.

They called me 'Fightin' Tomlinson,' (My name is Thomas Tow) I wor the champion o' the sheer;

If any furriner come near, I never shirked nor felt noa fear, I allers 'ed a go.

On ivery night o' Saturday, Noa matter raain nor snow, We gethered in the market plaaces, An' stripped stark naked to our waas'es, Gev' one another bloody faaces-- A Sunday mornin' show!

I fought at all the County Fairs, From Partney down to Stow;

They called me nobbut a 'Billinghay Rough,' I niver knawed when I'd 'ed enough, For I wor made o' the proper stuff, I'd like to 'ev you know.

Aye--them wor roughish times--my word!

'Tis sixty year ago;

Our heads wor hard, our hearts as well, I wonder as we niver fell, Into the burnin' pit of hell, Wheer dreadful fires glow.

I used to hit like this--but now I cannot strike a blow: My battle's nearly lost--or won, My poor owd limbs is omost done, The tears is droppin' one by one, An' the fire's burnin' low.