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Burnley Express
Saturday 26 October 1895
A Short Sketch of Tattersall Wilkinson's Life, Written For His Seventieth Birthday
Seventy years have rolled away
Since Tat came to this earth;
Worsthorne, I've often heard him say,
Wer't place that gave him birth.
He'er born in eighteen twenty-five,
October brought friend Tat;
Then "doal" kept country folk alive,
Though they hadn't much of that.
For poor folks then were in a fix,
Grim want they bravely fought,
Old folks remember twenty-six,
They lived on next to nought.
But Tatty lived though times were bad,
And grew to be a mon.
His mother said he'r bonniest lad
That ever sun shoan on.
When but a child to school he went,
But only now and then,
He'er seven year old when he were sent,
And left when he were ten.
When school were o'er he went on th' moor
To mind his father's sheep,
The funny tales he has in store
Would make you laugh and weep.
He roved about, a shepherd lad,
Free as the mountain air,
His boyish heart was never sad,
He'd never met with care.
But soon he joined the human throng,
An auctioneer was he,
For thirty year he wagg'd his tongue
By Blackpool's breezy sea.
But when the rush and crush was o'er,
Back to the hills he fled
And roamed again the healthy moor,
Among the ancient dead.
To roam the moors with Tat for guide,
And summer at its best;
There may be joys on earth beside,
But surely then we're blessed.
To see him chipping at a rock,
Or looking toward the sky,
Or gazing on the wild moorcock,
As he darts quickly by.
Or see him digging for an urn
In lands both cold and damp,
Or, perhaps his footsteps he will turn
Towards the Roman camp.
He'll tell of Rome and all her pomp,
When we were 'neath her care,
When over Europe she did romp,
Were masters everywhere.
But all her fame and glory's gone,
Her pride and power is past,
No longer 'neath her yoke we groan,
Her wrongs could never last.
For liberty she reared her head
And freedom then held sway,
The tyrants from our land have fled
For Rome she's seen her day.
From Roman camp we then retire
To Tatty's lonely cot;
We all get clustered round the fire,
For 'tis a noted spot.
We hear Tat tell of earthen jars
That hold the bones of men,
He also speaks of distant stars
That's far beyond our ken.
We sit and while the time away,
And have a friendly chat,
We then do revel in his Tay,
Then bid good-bye to Tat.
John Bradshaw
42, Yorkshire-street, Burnley
_________________
Mel
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