A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (3rd ed.)/Preface
Preface.
In the year 1846, I had the temerity to publish a small—yea, a very small—collection of Poems, Songs, Scraps, &c., then, as now, under the title of "Ned Farmer's Scrap Book;" all of which, as the immortal Sairey Gamp would say, "is well beknown." The very kind manner in which the diminutive tome alluded to, was received by my friends, and the amiable forbearance evinced by the few reviewers who condescended to notice it, have mainly actuated me in thus daring again to meet the public gaze. Further than this, it may just be, as is often the case, the few have brought the infliction on the many; for, travelling as I do very much, I have often been asked, whether in jest or earnest the inquirers best know, where my Scrap Book could be obtained; and being induced to look over "the nooks and comers of old England"—meaning my boxes, drawers, writing-desk, &c.—I discovered among many other queer crudities of the brain, the varied contents of the little work now offered, with the most profound respect, for general perusal; the chameleon-like nature of which will go to prove under what varied moods and feelings they have had their birth.
For I am one who only writes,
Just when the "mental maggot" bites.
But, argues Common Sense, admitting all this to be true, why not be content, as scores of far better writers have been, to keep within the healthy compass of unpretending manuscript, this "mad material of the mind?" To all such inquiry, albeit most judiciously and forcibly put, I merely reply, "What should I get by that!"
Again, if better writers than myself are deterred by prudential, or other and worthier motives, from publishing "their brilliant corruscations," must it not be clearly in favour of myself and "such small deer," who have had the bad taste to trouble a publisher! Why, I say Yes to that.
Well, well, a wilful man must have his way, says the old adage; and were it not so, this, the Third Edition of "Ned Farmer's Scrap Book" had never met the enraptured gaze of an admiring world! (Rather fine writing that, I flatter myself) For it is simply wonderful what an amount of trouble some of my quondam friends and acquaintances have been at in endeavouring to dissuade me from what they, in the exuberance of their zeal, have kindly designated "making a fool of myself." Well, nous verrons.
Others there are, who, as a deterrent, have narrated for my special behoof, a list of glorious names, among whom were enumerated such giants of the pen as Robert Burns, Tom Moore, and—though last, not least in our dear love,—"Tom Hood;" and, putting it to me in tones of mingled contempt and derision, if I really had the astounding impudence to dare—aye, marry, dare was the word—to publish the lame and limping offspring of my muse, in the same country, and in the same language. To all of which I give for answer, one loud, emphatic Yes!
Why, what on earth have I, poor poetaster as I am, to do with those proud names, or the myriads of mental diamonds which they in their abundance have scattered broadcast o'er the land, beyond the high, and I trust duly appreciated privilege of being permitted to peruse those bright undying records of their genius—the works they left us?
Again, is it by any means an unusual circumstance, that a dwarf and a giant are exhibited in the same town, nay, sometimes in the selfsame caravan? Is my simple fife to be unheard because other and better performers play upon ophicleides and trombones? Am I not to vend my sprats, because, forsooth, there happens to be salmon in the market? Because I possess not the fleetness of a Deerfoot, am I therefore to sit ingloriously still? Nonsense! in mild and subdued tones, but with a decided amount of firmness, I repeat. Nonsense!
Do me, courteous Reader, I conjure ye, the justice to believe me, when I most solemnly assert that, in bringing out the Third Edition of my Scrap Book, I was perfectly free from any wild and ambitious expectancies as to what was likely to accrue therefrom. I anticipated no proud niche in Westminster Abbey; and, as "I am a tall man and a gentleman," I never for a single moment had it in my mind to thrust from his well-filled throne the Poet Laureate, or snatch from his magic hand the well-earned sceptre he so worthily grasps. I had no futile hope of thereby immortalizing the humble name I bear; I entertained no insane idea of amassing a colossal fortune.
Beyond this I feel bound to state, that no person breathing, can by any possibility be more thoroughly alive to the numberless shortcomings and defects of my Scrap Book than myself; but what was I to do? People would keep asking for it. I had a lot of pieces of one kind or other stowed away, and lying about in drawers, cupboards, and boxes, and it was quite a certainty that if I did not publish them, no one else ever would; and it just became a question with me, whether I should bum them or print them. I decided on the latter course, and hinc illæ lachrymæ.
This also did I take into account: that having, miserable varlet as I am, no fond and devoted wife to be pained by the eccentricities of her husband—no loving children (the more of misery mine) to be taunted with their father's follies—I decided upon the present course of action; and, as a friend of mine would say, "I've been and gone and done it!"
Had I more of time than my present avocation allows me, I am free to confess that I would have endeavoured to have licked into somewhat better shape these rough and uncouth "bear cubs" of my brain. True it is, that more than one kindly-disposed individual has volunteered to parse and otherwise alter and amend the varied contents of my book; but such offers I have ever declined firmly, yet, I trust, respectfully: for had I permitted such alterations as doubtless better taste and higher learning had suggested, the book would have ceased to have been my production, and would have been written by that well-known and highly respected firm of "Me, Somebodyelse & Co." As it is, I can, if not proudly, at least very truthfully, assert that—"alone I did it;" and I am, furthermore, fully justified in asserting that not one word is translated from the French.
It is perhaps due to myself, to observe that each and every portion of the Scrap Book grew out of some "strong and present impress of the mind." For instance, the Additional Verse to the National Anthem was written when, as is the nation's custom. England's bright sword was drawn, and the scabbard laid aside, on the declaration of war with Russia.
"Up with the Standard of England" about the same time.
"The Battle of the Alma" on receipt of the news of that glorious passage of arms.
The song of "Florence Nightingale" was written when, as now, a whole world loved her for her gentle deeds.
The songs of the "Blue Jackets," "Jack Anchor," "The British Volunteers," &c., &c., about the same exciting period.
"I'd rather be an Englishman," was written, with a hope fully realized that a free and happy nation would gladly endorse the sentiments it contained.
The Poem of "Little Jim" grew out of a melancholy bereavement in the mining districts, which came under my own immediate notice.
It is, I presume, quite unnecessary to state when or why I wrote the Royal Marriage Song, seeing that an entire population are as yet scarcely recovered from a national hoarseness, consequent upon the loyal and vociferous shoutings on the great occasion that gave rise to it
I cannot permit the present opportunity to pass without thanking, which I most sincerely do, all those who have, with great kindness, permitted the introduction into my Scrap Book, words of songs, the Copyright of which I had sold to the respective parties.
This, I think, is all—in fact, perhaps more than I need have said to my immediate friends, or an ever kind and indulgent public. And now for the Critics. What shall I say to them: or, rather, what will they say to me? "Aye, there's the rub." Humbly, then, and with most deferential respect, O, most learned Thebans, I crave your mercy. Take not, I beseech ye, "a kitchen poker to kill a mouse." Treat me, I conjure ye, with the contempt I merit. Don't deign to notice me at all—it will serve me right; and I, oh glorious escape, shall creep out easy. But if, in terrorum, it is essential that I should be immolated on the shrine of your well-engendered ire, then let me ask, as a special favour, that you "lay on heavy and dispatch me quick."
"You bear a mighty scourge, I pray you spare it.
But should ye not, why I must grin and bear it."
Then bethink ye, dread beings, how far nobler it would be, passing by all such pigmies as myself, if you were to set lance in rest against some worthier mark; or, in common parlance, just to hit one of your own size. Do this, and O, gentle Sirs, deign to leave alone one who has the honour to subscribe himself,
Your own and the Public's
Very respectful, obedient, and humble servant,
Edward Farmer.
Derby, August, 1863.