These observations have run to a greater extent than I had intended; but I thought it desirable that the whole case, as far as possible, should be brought before you, and I have only now earnestly to request that you will this day do your part towards the furtherance of the good work.

I have no apprehension, if the distress should not last over five or six months more, that the spontaneous efforts of individuals and public bodies, and contributions received in every part of the country, will fall short of that which is needed for enabling the population to tide over this deep distress; and I earnestly hope that, if it be necessary to apply to Parliament, as a last resource, the representatives of the country will not grudge their aid; yet I do fervently hope and believe that, with the assistance of the machinery of that bill passed in Parliament last session, (the Rate in Aid Act,) which will come into operation shortly after Christmas, but could not possibly be brought into operation sooner, I do fervently hope and believe that this great manufacturing district will be spared the further humiliation of coming before Parliament, which ought to be the last resource, as a claimant, a suppliant for the bounty of the nation at large.

I don't apprehend that there will be a single dissentient voice raised against the resolution which I have now the honour to move." SONGS OF DISTRESS, CHIEFLY WRITTEN DURING THE COTTON FAMINE.
STANZAS TO MY STARVING KIN IN THE NORTH.
BY ELIZA COOK.
Sad are the sounds that are breaking forth From the women and men of the brave old North! Sad are the sights for human eyes, In fireless homes, 'neath wintry skies; Where wrinkles gather on childhood's skin, And youth's "clemm'd" cheek is pallid and thin; Where the good, the honest--unclothed, unfed, Child, mother, and father, are craving for bread! But faint not, fear not--still have trust; Your voices are heard, and your claims are just.
England to England's self is true, And "God and the People" will help you through.
Brothers and sisters! full well ye have stood, While the gripe of gaunt Famine has curdled your blood! No murmur, no threat on your lips have place, Though ye look on the Hunger-fiend face to face; But haggard and worn ye silently bear, Dragging your death-chains with patience and prayer; With your hearts as loyal, your deeds as right, As when Plenty and Sleep blest your day and your night, Brothers and sisters! oh! do not believe It is Charity's GOLD ALONE ye receive.
Ah, no! It is Sympathy, Feeling, and Hope, That pull out in the Life-boat to fling ye a rope.
Fondly I've lauded your wealth-winning hands, Planting Commerce and Fame throughout measureless lands; And my patriot-love, and my patriot-song, To the children of Labour will ever belong.
Women and men of this brave old soil! I weep that starvation should guerdon your toil; But I glory to see ye--proudly mute-- Showing SOULS like the HERO, not FANGS like the brute.
Oh! keep courage within; be the Britons ye are; HE, who driveth the storm hath His hand on the star! England to England's sons shall be true, And "God and the People" will carry ye through! THE SMOKELESS CHIMNEY BY A LANCASHIRE LADY {1} (E.J.B.) STRANGER! who to buy art willing, Seek not here for talent rare; Mine's no song of love or beauty, But a tale of want and care.
Traveller on the Northern Railway! Look and learn, as on you speed; See the hundred smokeless chimneys, Learn their tale of cheerless need.
Ah! perchance the landscape fairer Charms your taste, your artist-eye; Little do you guess how dearly Costs that now unclouded sky.
"How much prettier is this county!" Says the careless passer-by; "Clouds of smoke we see no longer, What's the reason ?--Tell me why.
"Better far it were, most surely, Never more such clouds to see, Bringing taint o'er nature's beauty, With their foul obscurity." Thoughtless fair one! from yon chimney Floats the golden breath of life; Stop that current at your pleasure! Stop! and starve the child--the wife.
Ah! to them each smokeless chimney Is a signal of despair; They see hunger, sickness, ruin, Written in that pure, bright air.
"Mother! mother! see! 'twas truly Said last week the mill would stop; Mark yon chimney, nought is going, There's no smoke from 'out o'th top!' "Father! father! what's the reason That the chimneys smokeless stand?
Is it true that all through strangers, We must starve in our own land ?" Low upon her chair that mother Droops, and sighs with tearful eye; At the hearthstone lags the father, Musing o'er the days gone by.
Days which saw him glad and hearty, Punctual at his work of love; When the week's end brought him plenty, And he thanked the Lord above.
When his wages, earned so justly, Gave him clothing, home, and food; When his wife, with fond caresses, Blessed his heart, so kind and good.
Neat and clean each Sunday saw them, In their place of prayer and praise, Little dreaming that the morrow Piteous cries for help would raise.
Weeks roll on, and still yon chimney Gives of better times no sign; Men by thousands cry for labour, Daily cry, and daily pine.
Now the things, so long and dearly Prized before, are pledged away; Clock and Bible, marriage-presents, Both must go--how sad to say! Charley trots to school no longer, Nelly grows more pale each day; Nay, the baby's shoes, so tiny, Must be sold, for bread to pay.
They who loathe to be dependent Now for alms are forced to ask Hard is mill-work, but, believe me, Begging is the bitterest task.
Soon will come the doom most dreaded, With a horror that appals; Lo! before their downcast faces Grimly stare the workhouse walls.
Stranger, if these sorrows touch you, Widely bid your bounty flow; And assist my poor endeavours To relieve this load of woe.
Let no more the smokeless chimneys Draw from you one word of praise; Think, oh, think upon the thousands Who are moaning out their days.
Rather pray that peace, soon bringing Work and plenty in her train, We may see these smokeless chimneys Blackening all the land again.
1862.
THE MILL-HAND'S PETITION.
The following verses are copied from "Lancashire Lyrics," edited by John Harland, Esq., F.S.A.They are extracted from a song "by some 'W.C.,' printed as a street broadside, at Ashton-under-Lyne, and sung in most towns of South Lancashire." We have come to ask for assistance; At home we've been starving too long; An' our children are wanting subsistence; Kindly aid us to help them along.
CHORUS.
For humanity is calling; Don't let the call be in vain; But help us; we're needy and falling; And God will return it again.
War's clamour and civil commotion Has stagnation brought in its train; And stoppage bring with it starvation, So help us some bread to obtain.
For humanity is calling.
The American war is still lasting; Like a terrible nightmare it leans On the breast of a country, now fasting For cotton, for work, and for means.
And humanity is calling.
CHEER UP A BIT LONGER.

{2} BY SAMUEL LAYCOCK.
Cheer up a bit longer, mi brothers i' want, There's breeter days for us i' store; There'll be plenty o' tommy an' wark for us o' When this 'Merica bother gets o'er.
Yo'n struggled reet nobly, an' battled reet hard, While things han bin lookin' so feaw; Yo'n borne wi' yo're troubles and trials so long, It's no use o' givin' up neaw.
Feight on, as yo' han done, an' victory's sure, For th' battle seems very nee won, Be firm i' yo're sufferin', an' dunno give way; They're nowt nobbut ceawards'at run.
Yo' know heaw they'n praised us for stondin' so firm, An' shall we neaw stagger an' fo?
Nowt o'th soart;--iv we nobbut brace up an' be hard, We can stond a bit longer, aw know.
It's hard to keep clemmin' an' starvin' so long; An' one's hurt to see th' little things fret, Becose there's no buttercakes for 'em to eat; But we'n allus kept pooin' thro' yet.
As bad as toimes are, an' as feaw as things look, We're certain they met ha' bin worse; We'n had tommy to eat, an' clooas to put on; They'n only bin roughish, aw know.
Aw've begged on yo' to keep up yo're courage afore, An' neaw let me ax yo' once moor; Let's noan get disheartened, there's hope for us yet, We needn't dispair tho' we're poor.
We cannot expect it'll allus be foine; It's dark for a while, an' then clear; We'n mirth mixed wi' sadness, an' pleasure wi' pain, An' shall have as long as we're here.
This world's full o' changes for better an' wur, An' this is one change among th' ruck; We'n a toime o' prosperity,--toime o' success, An' then we'n a reawnd o' bad luck.
We're baskin' i' sunshine, at one toime o'th day, At other toimes ceawerin' i'th dark; We're sometoimes as hearty an' busy as owt, At other toimes ill, an' beawt wark.
Good bless yo'! mi brothers, we're nobbut on th' tramp, We never stay long at one spot; An' while we keep knockin' abeawt i' this world, Disappointments will fall to eawer lot: So th' best thing we can do, iv we meon to get thro', Is to wrastle wi' cares as they come; We shall feel rayther tired,--but let's never heed that,-- We can rest us weel when we get whoam.
Cheer up, then, aw say, an' keep hopin' for th' best, An' things 'll soon awter, yo'll see; There'll be oceans o' butties for Tommy an' Fred, An' th' little un perched on yo're knee.
Bide on a bit longer, tak' heart once ogen, An' do give o'er lookin' so feaw; As we'n battled, an' struggled, an' suffered so long, It's no use o' givin' up neaw.
FRETTIN'.
(From "Phases of Distress--Lancashire Rhymes.") BY JOSEPH RAMSBOTTOM.
Fro' heawrs to days--a dhreary length-- Fro' days to weeks one idle stons, An' slowly sinks fro' pride an' strength To weeny heart an' wakely honds; An' still one hopes, an' ever tries To think 'at better days mun come; Bo' th' sun may set, an' th' sun may rise,-- No sthreak o' leet one finds a-whoam.
Aw want to see thoose days again, When folk can win whate'er they need; O God! to think 'at wortchin' men Should be poor things to pet an' feed! There's some to th' Bastile han to goo, To live o'th rates they'n help'd to pay; An' some get "dow" {3} to help 'em through; An' some are taen or sent away.
What is there here, 'at one should live, Or wish to live, weigh'd deawn wi' grief, Through weary weeks an' months, 'at give Not one short heawr o' sweet relief?
A sudden plunge, a little blow, Would end at once mi' care an' pain! An' why noa do't ?--for weel aw know Aw's lose bo' ills, if nowt aw gain.
An' why noa do't?
It ill 'ud tell O' thoose wur laft beheend, aw fear; It's wring, at fust, to kill mysel', It's wring to lyev mi childer here.
One's like to tak' some thowt for them-- Some sort o' comfort one should give; So one mun bide, an' starve, an' clem, An' pine, an' mope, an' fret, an' live.
TH' SHURAT WEAVER'S SONG.

{4} BY SAMUEL LAYCOCK.
TUNE--"Rory O'More." Confound it! aw ne'er wur so woven afore; My back's welly brocken, mi fingers are sore; Aw've been starin' an' rootin' amung this Shurat, Till aw'm very near getten as bloint as a bat.
Aw wish aw wur fur enough off, eawt o'th road, For o' weavin' this rubbitch aw'm getten reet sto'd; Aw've nowt i' this world to lie deawn on but straw, For aw've nobbut eight shillin' this fortnit to draw.
Neaw, aw haven't mi family under mi hat; Aw've a woife and six childer to keep eawt o' that; So aw'm rayther amung it just neaw, yo may see-- Iv ever a fellow wur puzzle't, it's me! Iv aw turn eawt to steal, folk'll co' me a thief; An' aw conno' put th' cheek on to ax for relief; As aw said i' eawr heawse t'other neet to mi wife, Aw never did nowt o' this mak' i' my life.
O dear! iv yon Yankees could nobbut just see, Heaw they're clemmin' an' starvin' poor weavers loike me, Aw think they'd soon sattle their bother, an' strive To send us some cotton to keep us alive.
There's theawsan's o' folk, just i'th best o' their days, Wi' traces o' want plainly sin i' their faze; An' a futur afore 'em as dreary an' dark; For, when th' cotton gets done, we's be o' eawt o' wark.
We'n bin patient an' quiet as lung as we con; Th' bits o' things we had by us are welly o' gone; Mi clogs an' mi shoon are both gettin' worn eawt, An' my halliday clooas are o' gone "up th' speawt!" Mony a time i' my days aw've sin things lookin' feaw, But never as awkard as what they are neaw; Iv there isn't some help for us factory folk soon, Aw'm sure 'at we's o' be knock'd reet eawt o' tune.
GOD HELP THE POOR.