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.