PERSHORE
SKETCHES
Containing
Printed by Thomas Hayes, Broad-Street. Worcester. 1839.
JOHN
GOORE,
The Pershore
Coachman.
Let
others on affairs of weight
Their
finger joints write sore-
My
humbler quill shall celebrate
The
coachman, Mr. Goore.
John
Goore a coachman is of fame
That
drives to Worcester city;
For
sterling nouse he has the name,
Blunt,
honest, hearty, witty.
To
glove-famed Worcester and from thence
Back
spins to Pershore town,-
Outside
he charges eighteen pence,
And
inside, half-a-crown.
Soon
as the sun, that fiery fellow,
Illumes
the eastern lawn,
His
well-mopped four-wheel, black and yellow,
Forth
from its shed is drawn.
His
four-wheel, answering to its name
Of
"Magnet," found so needful,
It travellers'
pins attracts the same
As loadstone
draws the needle.
Next rated
gruff, with rumps well knuckled,
Slow from the
stable led,
His quadrupes
to their tasks are buckled,
Stout,
muscular, well-fed.
His quadrupes,
one whereof her lord
Has trotted to
and fro
Such strings
of miles, the measuring cord
Round earth
would more than go.
'Tis then,
down blind-drawn Broad-street, drowsy,
Drown'd in the
mist of morn,
Jemmy, with
cheeks plum, puff'd and blowsy,
Winds his
announcing horn.
Jemmy, that
tuneful genius rising,
Twelve summers
old -- scarce more --
Endowed with throttle quite surprising,
And son of
father Goore,
From pillows of
brown, black, and hoary,
Eye -
shrouding slumbers scares
With 'Meet
Me,' 'Jump Jim Crow,' or 'Rory,'
And other
first-rate airs.
Then
they, who packages would send,
Or
legs indulge, upstarting,
Gowns,
trowsers in their hurry rend,
And
out of house doors darting.
Post to the
bustling whipster hie,
Who as their
wants they speak,
Regards them
with a twinkling eye,
And twitching
lip and cheek.
To passengers,
if not too late,
He guarantees
a seat;
If charged
with parcel, pockets straight,
And promises
to gee't.
Trunks,
hampers, sacks upon the roof
Are
lodge secure from falling,
And
'gainst a Murphy presage proof
Shrouded with
stout tarpaulin.
The
moment of departure nigh,
"Now Jem,
lad, start a tune;"
As cocks upon their perches fly,
The males are mounted
soon.
Young bashful
maids the ladder climb,
Cran'd up by
sheep-eye'd fellows
Who courteous
ease them for the time
Of baskets and
umbrellas.
Should aged,
blind, or palsied mother,
Strive slow
the steps to scale,
John deems
humanity no bother,
But hoists her
by the tail.
Grandees,
with ruby-garnish'd nose,
And
madams creep within,
Important,
formal-tongued, and close
As bottles in
a bin.
Then
wrapt in wool-white rough great coat,
With whip and reins in fist
And
foot on step, John's eye takes note
Lest
any load be miss'd.
"What's
her a-coming round the corner
"By
Old Dick Hopeful's house?
"Miss
Wolf--Miss Wiseacre--Miss Warner,
"No sure, 'tis Mrs. Louse."
Into
the box he mounting flings
His
whelp-o'erwhelming weight,
Broad
shouldered, with a front like king's
Upon a throne of state.
The
whipcord rings, with onward sound
The
vehicle slow rolls,
While
son loud sounds, and sire looks round
T'
augment his charge of souls.
Oft
stooping his course to catch
A
packet or a bundle
From
such as for his passing watch
As
wheels begin to trundle.
And Grandees' mothers, daughters,
wives,
Big, delicate, bow'd double;
Where'er their nests are built he
drives
And
saves them yards of trouble.
"There's
Monsieur Tulip at his window,
“Half
stripp'd -- he'll be too late."--
"I'll
not your van one moment hinder,
"Stop,
hoi, Goore, stop, halt, wait!"
Tho',
if not burden'd with o'er stuffing,
Late
folks may catch him still
With
scampering, shouting, sweating, puffing,
A-top
of Aylesbury Hill.
Once
roundly on the Queen's highway,
Careful,
not fast nor slow,
John
whips along, nor brooks delay
From
aught above, below.
Softly
up hill and softly down
He scolds each prick-ear'd hack:
Though frail as biscuit were your
crown,
That
crown he ne'er will crack.
With
cheerful chat he speeds the flight
Of
Time's too tedious pinion,
On
every notice claiming sight
Pronouncing
blunt opinion.
With
hoarse long straining laugh ecstatical,
Tells
anecdotes, cracks jokes,
And
oft with elbow-bond emphatical
Your
side for praises pokes.
Meantime
should pike present its bar,
Or
waggon block the road,
Jem
warns the inmates from afar,
Or
turns aside the load.
Nor
knowing less to play his pipes
In
prompt precocious tattle.
Point
out hares, partridges, or snipes,
And judge of crops or cattle.
While Stoulton
straight before us, he,
With
bugle's boisterous charms,
Beguiles
the long acclivity
Up to Somers'
Arms,
Where, as at
Lane's of Whittington,
His prudent
sire pulls up
To ask if
aught waits carrying on,
Or quaff a half-way
cup.
Then such as
dread the morning air
May hasten to
the bar,
Swill cider,
ale, or juice of pear,
Or light a
real cigar.
Green
elm-crown'd Crookbarrow long past,
Where
Danes their hero did bury:
Down
Red-hill we approach at last,
The winding ward
of Sidbury,
Where, as Old
Cromwell's self was entering
Loyal
Worcester's captured City,
Jem,
his cherubic cheeks concent'ring,
Pours
ditty upon ditty
In notes so
numerous, brisk, and loud,
The pert
melodious noise
Strikes the
street's ear and draws a crowd
Of mimic girls
and boys
Who
eye the perch-o'erbending sparrow
With
mouths ope'd fit to bite ye,
That
from a belly-pipe so narrow
Should burst a
blast so mighty.
At length the
van up-drawn before
The
Janus-fronted Talbot,
Whose jolly
landlord fills the door,
Like a round
bulky tall butt.
Emblem that
they who use his inn,
From steeples
down to skittles,
At small
expense may stuff their skin
With store of
drink and victuals,
The ladder's
summoned with a shout;
With
step-regarding care
The outs creep
down, the ins creep out,
And John
receives his fare.
Then friends
shake hands, then sons and daughters
Seek
hearts with welcome hopping,
While
others, like dividing waters,
By various
routes go shopping.
The smoking
cattle to their stalls
Conducted in
their traces,
His coach
'neath gateway roof he hauls,
And clapping
on his glasses,
Resolved, as
he gulls no one, so
He'll not be
gull'd by any:
At table
round, with serious brow,
Squats down to
book each penny,
While
Jem's despatch'd about the town
To far and
near abodes,
With baskets,
parcels blue or brown,
And all the
lighter loads.
But
the great reckoning uprun,
And red-bound note-book scann'd,
To mark the matters to be done,
Which
first to take in hand,
(For
should Pershorian own a watch
Or
ring that asks repairing,
For
any riband seek a match,
Or
novel be despairing,
And
trust our whip with the commission,
He'll
execute each tittle
With
speed, integrity, precision,
And
charge you very little.)
John,
than whom lion looks not bolder
At
rifles glaring levelly,
With
huge bread-basket on one shoulder,
Forth
staggers, laden heavily
With
loaves and luggage, which being all
Delivered
soon, or sold,
Though
still at every interval
He
halts, some chat to hold,
And
asking others how they do,
"Ah,
lad, how be-a? your hand gee,"
Replies
to their "and how be you?"
"Hearty,
my boy, as brandy."
To
dinner back he eased, repairs.
Where
Jem with greasy lips
The
wholesome plain out-blowing shares.
And
from the same mug sips.
Sometimes
while steak or liver's frying,
Out
loud he'll slow peruse,
Through
huge old optic circles prying,
The
sheet of weekly news.
Or,
with the room should he maintain
Promiscous
conversation,-
Who
speaks so pithy, plump, and plain!
Whose
laugh knows such duration!
Though
doom'd to list with lip convuls'd
A
prosy grandam's tale,
His
sympathy, not soon repuls'd,
Oft
stops her mouth with ale.
On
market day, John takes his seat,
Perpetual
"Vice" at table,
And
operates on fish, fowl, meat,
With
hand, clean, quick, and able.
The
choice declared of every guest,
He
piles the plates with food;
And
dealing still to each the best,
Saves
for himself as good.
"Now,
maid, a glass." Ye toper brutes!
A
lesson from him learn ye -
The
Class that cheers him ne'er unsuits
To
trace his homeward journey.
Then,
block and chip, scarce less in love
With
industry than ease,
Once
more the streets for luggage rove,
Like
wax-collecting bees.
Till
heaven's complexion turning dark,
Like
Briton's at Calcutta,
The
van, like neap'd unentered ark,
Is
hauled into the gutter.
And
shouting, -- "Now, put to the osses,"
John
eyes and aids the whole;
Its harness’d head as either tosses
Securing
to the pole.
Then
how his blubber he bestirs!
How
shouts he -- "Look alive!"
How
buz the doors with passengers,
Like
openings to a hive!
Still
tracing him from place to place,
Like
terrier weasel hunting,
Jane, popping in her busy face,
Cries
-- "Mr. Goore, you're wanting."
Their
sojourn near its final sand,
Jem
crows! safe mounts each man
And
woman, and, like stray cur canned,
Back
rattles Pershore's van.
A
traveller whom the mail had left
Bamboozled
in the lurch,
Of
bags and well-nigh wits bereft,
For
Goore made instant search.
"The
Mail! -- The Mail! -- I'm left behind!
"A crown if you'll o'ertake it!"
"Mount."
-- and he mounts as vexed in mind
As
pea when school-boys bake it.
Eight miles
o'er-gallop'd of the way --
"Where
are these rogues?" -- "Aye, there, sure!"
A
lash, a spring, and John, hurrah!
First dashes
into Pershore.
Now ye, who
that lethargic spot
To visit feel
a day's whim,
Down to the
Talbot, swift as shot,
He'll, carry
all "as pays him;"
For sure am I,
as horses neigh,
To swell his
poke with pelf,
He would not scruple to convey
Victoria
herself!
. . . Author Unknown-
Transcribed
from a copy of the original found by Jo Hodges.
Email: Lionel Graves (lionel@graf-tek.com).
Copyright ©2000-2007 L.& R.Graves. All Rights Reserved.