Classic Poem

I SIT by the chimbley corner,
My blood is runnin' slow,
My hands is white as a printed paage,
Wot once wor red wi' the fighter's waage,
They're withered an' wrinkled now wi' old aage;
An' the fire's burnin' low.

Once I could lether anyone
An' strike a knock-down blow.
My legs were limmack as a young bough,
They could race or dance or foller the plough,
But they're crookled an' wemblin' all waays now,
An' the fire's burnin' low.

I 'member me of owden daays:
At Metheringham Show
I fought young Jolland for a scarf,
I nearly broke his back in half,
He galloped hooam to Blankney Barff
As hard as he could go.

I fought an' danced an' carried on,
Razzlin' 'igh an' low;
I drank as long as I could see,
It maade noa difference to me,
I wor a match fer any three:
'Tis sixty year ago.

They called me “Fightin' Tomlinson”
(My name is Thomas Tow).
I wor the champion o' the sheer,
If any furriner come near
I never shirked nor felt noa fear,
I allers 'ed a go.

On ivery night o' Saturday,
Noa matter raain nor snow,
We gethered in the market plaaces,
An' stripped stark naaked to our waas'es,
Gev' one another bloody faaces—
A Sunday mornin' show!

I fought at all the County Fairs,
From Partney down to Stow.
They called me nobbut a “Billinger Rough,”
I niver knawed when I'd 'ed enough,
For I wor maade o' the proper stuff,
I'd like to 'ev you know.

Aye—them wor roughish times—my word!
'Tis sixty year ago,
Our heads wor hard, our hearts as well,
I wonder as we niver fell
Into the burnin' pit of hell,
Wheer dreadful fires glow.

I used to hit like this—But now
I couldn't strike a blow!
My battle's nearly lost—or won,
My poor owd limbs is omost done,
The tears is droppin' one by one,
An' the fire's burnin' low.