  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. |
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