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.
Cookies on Poetry Cove