Lancashire Rhymes; or, Homely Pictures of the People:
a book review by Gerald Massey for The Athenæum, [No. 1905, p.608], April
of the Moors and of the Mills: a book review of “Kilmahoe,
and other Poems”, by John Campbell Shairp, and of “Lancashire
Rhymes” by Samuel Laycock. LITTELL'S
LIVING AGE, Third
Series, Vol. XXV., 1864. (Re-printed from The Saturday Review).
Luke: an unpublished poem (courtesy Blackpool Central Library).
an essay by William E. A. Axon, published in the Papers of the Manchester Literary Club, Vol. XVII.,
article from the GAZETTE AND NEWS, 22nd. December, 1893.
YARD: set to music.
the GAZETTE AND NEWS, 22nd. December, 1893.
short article from the FYLDE ADVERTISER, December 22, 1893.
LAYCOCK AND HIS LAUREATESHIP:
a paper read to the Manchester Literary Club by John Mortimer (ca. 1910).
CENTENARY: report from the MANCHESTER
CITY NEWS, July 7th, 1926.
ON A VISIT TO INTAKE HEAD, THE BIRTHPLACE
OF THE LATE SAMUEL LAYCOCK.
Respectfully inscribed to my fellow traveller, Mr. ISAAC
BARDSLEY, of Oldham, and
Mr. GEORGE MARSDEN,
of Town Gate, Marsden. August 18th, 1894.
LAYCOCK, owd brid,
though gone to roost,
Foaks still remember thee;
An' this to me's as preawd a spot
As onny place con be.
Here ther's noa lordly castle owd,
Wi' turret, moat, an' keep;
But just a' whoamly cottage heawse
Built into th' hillsoide deep.
But 'tis fro' lowly wortchin' foaks
'At th' world's best teychers rise,
Hence common spots an' cottage whoams
Are sacred in eawr eyes.
Two theawsan' yer sin', very nee,
This world's Great Teacher coom
To leet i' lowly Bethlehem;
Sin' then fro' bench, an' loom,
An' farm, an' mill, an' shepherd's cote,
True men ov God ha'n sprung;
To help monkoind to higher things,
They'n suffer't an' they'n sung.
An' as fur thee, theaw worthy bard,
'At sprung fro' this lone spot,
Theaw's cheered some scores o' warty loives,
Enlivened mony a cot.
Throo' o thi lung an' useful loife,
Theaw lived an' sung fur th' poor;
An' turned their thowts to One aboon —
A Guide 'at's awlus sure.
An' neaw they'n put thee deawn i' th' greawnd,
Thy songs are ringin' on,
Loike sweetest bells at eventoide,
Just when the sunleet's gone.
Aw'm fain aw've seen this little spot,
Becose theaw once lived heer;
An' though we connut see thi face,
Aw think theaw mun be near:
Perchance theaw'rt watchin' us to-day,
An' wonderin' why we weep,
When theaw'rt enjoyin' well-earned rest —
A peace 'at's calm an' deep.
Well, well, owd friend, theaw'rt gone before,
We linger still behoind;
But when eawr journey's o'er, may we
Wi' thee a dwelling foind.
Adieu, sweet spot, pearcht uppo' th' hill,
Henceforth to memory dear;
Oft 'mid loife's busy maze eawr thowts
Will linger fondly here.
An' we shall hunger for that voice
Whose music used to thrill,
An' vainly lung to grasp that hond
Neaw lyin' cowd an' still.