I think he was quite remarkable and I wish I'd known him. His name was Robert McLintock and apparently he ran away from home in Glasgow when he was about 15 (I'd love to know why) and finished up in Barnsley, South Yorkshire. He and his wife raised 13 children, one of whom became extremely successful, establishing a quilt manufacturing business. This was not my ancestor alas but one of the poems is, I believe, directed towards this particular son.
The poems range from typical rustic rhymes to an allegorical poem about the 1820 Radicals March in Barnsley, interspersed with his thoughts on gluttony, drunkenness, child chimney sweeps and the local town clock.
I think I can assume that there would not be any copyright involved now - Robert has been dead since 1858 and the following might be of
interest to anyone researching the surname Strutt in the Barnsley area. It also gives an idea of the sort of food available in the early 19th century.
STRUTT'S PIE
When Strutt brought in the pie and plate
I then began to cut and eat;
I cut a piece, a good large wedge,
And with my teeth I did engage.
I chewed it small and then did swallow,
And it went down into a hollow.
This pie was very sweet and sound;
A better pie could not be found.
It was not made of offal bits,
Such as the dog or cat oft gets;
It was not tough like old shoe leather;
In Yorkshire there was not a better.
It did not hang between my teeth,
Like old ram mutton or bull beef;
But it was made of good fat pork,
There ne'er was better on a fork.
Such pies shall always be my choice,
They almost tremble with my voice.
With this good pie, and good brown ale,
I keep my face from looking pale:
It makes me look both fresh and ruddy -
It is not like the Scotchman's crowdy.
The Scotchman's crowdy and hodge podge,
Shall never in my stomach lodge
When pinched with hunger, I will cry
Give me some more of Ben Strutt's pie.
Robert McLintock 1769 - 1858
