Category: Folksongs from halls

Last night I went out with some pals, for we'd heard
That booze they were giving away,
But where this free distribution took place
They couldn't with certainty say.
We toddled down Regent Street, spotted a place,
It's quiet and cosy, said I,
We entered but nobody noticed one thing
That was that the place was the Cri.

Spoken... When they brought the bill it was as long as a lawyer's. Then the waiters all chanted the chorus of 'Do Not Forget Me' and after paying two men at the door, one for telling us it was a fine night and the other for having to tell him we didn't want a cab, Jenkins said we'd better 'hedge' this is the wrong shop for us.

Come where the booze is cheaper!
Come where the pots hold more!
Come where the boss is a bit of a joss!
Come to the pub next door!

Then Tomkins suggested, as we were still dry,
We'd leave the gay part of the West,
And he's show us where we could get a cheap drink,
Said we, 'Very well, you know best.'
We entered and certainly, just for a bob
In liquor we nearly got drowned,
But when for our watches and trinkets we felt,
Not one of the things could be found.

Spoken... Hello! said I, Is this a den of thieves? That did it! Round came the landlord, barmen and potmen and their toes were raised and our back premises removed before you could say 'knife'. As one looked at a battered hat, another at a black-eye and I found my trousers would never be fit for 'lumbering' again, we came to the conclusion that booze was not cheap there, so off we started for pastures new, singing rather hazily...
Chorus:

When we got thrown out it was just on closing time
And not a drop more could we get.
Then Tomkins laid odds that he'd knock off the hat
Of the very first bobby we met.
We all took his bet and the bobbies took us,
And charged us next day with assault,
And then the Judge charged us a very stiff price
For taking a drop too much malt.

Spoken... The old chappie asked us what we had to say to the charge. 'Well,' said I to the beak,'what do you charge here for booze?' 'Forty shillings a-piece!' said he. 'Why,' said I, 'that's more than the bun shops charge.' 'Well,' said he, 'if you object to paying, you can work it out on the Wheel of Life.' But as we were not in training for gymnastics, we elected to pay, but never again will they have me with the 'Will-o'-the-Wisp' cry of...

Now Sandy was a Scotchman, and
One day, upon my soul
He went into a local fair, 
To climb the greasy pole
He wore a lovely tartan kilt
His white wash brush as well
He'd nearly reached the top, but oh!
He heard a policeman yell:

You'd better come down at once, you'd better come down at once;
For all the people down below
Are waiting about for the wind to blow
Oh! I say, you are a bit of a dunce
There's something thats making the people laugh, you'd better come down at once
[twice]

I never shall forget the day
When our house caught on fire,
And there upon the windowsill
Stood our old Aunt Maria
She seemed a bit afraid to venture
Down the fire escape
Until a fireman came and yelled
"Now then, you giddy ape:

You'd better come down at once, you'd better come down at once;

Now don't get standing in the breeze
With nothing but flames all round your knees
Oh! I say, you are a bit of a dunce
You ought to know better, you saucy cat, you'd better come down at once
[twice]

I've got a little pussy cat,
She's gentle, kind and good,
She mashes all the gentleman
Around the neighbourhood;
Twas in our backyard late last night
She sat a-making love
I heard her miaow to one Tom Cat
Upon the tiles above:

You'd better come down at once, you'd better come down at once;
If you stick in the chimney pots
I'm not going to show my beauty spots
Oh! I say, you are a bit of a dunce
If you are in the business to chase me Tom, you'd better come down at once
[twice]

The Lambeth Walk (original 1899 version)

Talk a-bout the Cake-Walk - just a bloomin' fake walk
Wot the folk did up-on the plan-tee-ation.
Come the Sur-rey side, boys, keep your peepers wide, boys.
The Lambeth Walk'll beat cre-a-tion.
Costers won't you come, where the kippers hum
And oh! The pearlies, whoa, the pearlies take your breaf away
Gals so light and gay.
Down the old 'lime chalk'.
Fevvers in their 'ats, all a-shout-in' rats.
And oh! the 'round guys! "Whoa! the round guys!"
Kick-in' up a dust, proud e-nough to bust
Is the style of the Lambeth Walk.

Talk a-bout the Cake Walk,
Why the Lambeth Walk 'ud knock it all to smithereens
It ain't a bloomin' fake walk,
It's the same as wot we use when out a-sellin' greens.
And we don't want no banjoes, burned cork or any fake,
The Lambeth Walk, there ain't no talk, that walk takes the cake.

If you want a sing-song, just a merry ding-dong,
Come and 'ear us 'owl at our 'armonie meeting;
Talk of balmy breezes wafting through the treeses
The fried-fish shop 'ull want some beating.
Oh! the middle bits gives the costers fits,
And oh! the 'taters! fish and 'taters!
On the cellar flaps all the gals and chaps
Dance as light as cork.
Never mind the 'tecs, arms around yer necks,
Pewters in yer 'and, orgin for yer band-
Is the style of the Lambeth Walk.

See us out at Whitsun - got the latest fits on,
'Roundmys' lavender and wilet frocks cut away;
Chaps and gals a-cuddlin', kissin' and a-fuddlin',
Our waggynette's a trifle 'orsey.
Cornet on the box, giving of it socks,
And oh, the moisture! pints of moisture
We can put away in a single day,
And don't it make yer talk.
Chingford we get out, chuck ourselves about-
It's over 'Liza! over Liza!
All been in the sun, rollin' 'ome at one
Is the style of the Lambeth Walk.
 

Lyrics from sheet music in Empire News & The Umpire March 1910

There's a dainty little girl, one of the prettiest,
And you'll meet her in a leafy country lane,
You ask her where she lives, her address she never gives,
She tries to tell the name of it, in vain,
It's just a cot, she'll answer, on the boundary,
Of a stately English mansion, fine and grand.
It stands here all alone and all around she's known,
As the little girl from No Man's Land.

She's the pretty little girl from nowhere,
Nowhere at all,
In a house very small,
That's ten miles from the railway station,
No name, no number, so lovers never call,
On the pretty little girl from nowhere,
Nowhere at all.

In her little old sun bonnet and her cotton dress,
She's as fine as any lass of high degree,
Lads from far and near come a-courting her, I fear
Her husband never one of them will be,
For a certain youthful lordling, who has lost his way,
Lost his heart to her, and soon I understand,
Titled single girls will mourn, that the season's catch has gone,
To the little girl from No Man's Land.

My wife's Mother sent a letter today
Saying she was coming for a week to stay
When I heard the news 'Well strike me fat'
That is what I've done to my best hat
Then thought came suddenly to me
Talk about a spree, I was in my glee
My wife shouted 'What's the matter now
Want to have a row, or a fight I vow?'
I said 'No you're wrong my dear'
And because it's like this here.

I'm getting ready for my Mother-in-Law
Getting ready for the fray
When she puts her face inside the place
I'll make the old girl feel all gay
There's a little back room on the third top floor
Where the beetles up the wall do climb
Oh! Mother, mother, mother, mother, mother, mother
You'll have a lively time.

Round to the bakers I went off in a tick
Bought a quartern loaf quite as hard as a brick
Went into a shop where fish was sold
Found a pair of kippers nigh a fortnight old
Four-pence I gave for some mouldy cheese
Strong enough to sneeze, let alone the breeze
Then I got a pound of margarine
Talk about a scene, it was turning green
When the shopman looked at me
I said, 'It's all right cockie!'

I've been cutting off the legs of a chair
So she'll break her back, when she sits there
In her little bed I've stuck some pins
Just to make the old girl scratch her shins
Five and twenty tom cats and a 'she'
Are waiting patiently, for to have a spree
Off the roof I've taken all the tiles
Talk about St Giles, or the Seven Dials
If she wants some nice fresh air
She can have it when she's here.

Knowing that she likes a little drop of gin
I've got a gallon of turpentine in
I'll make her shift in about three ticks
Whether she screams or whether she kicks
She'll have a jalap in a cup of tea
Take a tip from me happy I shall be
Meat that I've got to make an Irish stew
In a day or two, it will 'Pinky Poo' 
If she thinks it all serene
Oh! God save our gracious Queen.

Published as Household Remedies in The Oxford Book of Traditional Verse:

Most folks believe in doctors, but there's my old girl she don't,
And when I'm laid upon my bed send out for one she won't;
She says she's got enough to do without her paying fees,
And doctors me herself she does with household remedies.

No matter what the ailment is she knows a simple cure,
But whether it fits my complaint we're never certain sure.
For instance, when my aching hollow tooth upset my health,
That putty didn't answer though she pushed it in herself.

She tried to stop the toothache with her gutta-percha sole, 
A thing she said was never known to fail,
And to melt the pieces in held a light beneath my chin—
It's wonder I'm alive to tell the tale.

I used to have the bilious bile through eating pork at night,
And someone said a black draught would be the thing to set me right. 
We hadn't got no black draughts but we have some dominoes—
She vaselined the double six and down my neck it goes.

And when I had a face which swelled as big as Pilsdon Hill, 
I had the earache awful and the gumboil took a chill,
She said she'd try her grandad's cure, a thing she knew by heart, 
And a little sweet oil and feather seemed to play the leading part.

She tried to stop the earache with some sweetened paraffin, 
You'd have thought I was a bedstead from a sale;
But that beastly low-flashed oil blew off my lovely boil—
It's wonder I'm alive to tell the tale.

I wore a dandelion when my liver bad became,
And all the boys got shouting after me in Laddin's Lane, 
And then I up and tells her 'tis medicine I need;
Instead of Carter's liver pills she gave me Carter's seeds.

And when my blood was very hot, well ninety in the shade, 
She very nearly corpsed me with the cooling stuff she made.

She got some salts and senna and some raspberry ice and cream 
And asked the man to cool it in his pail.
What I suffered no-one knows when the raspberry unfroze—
It's a wonder I'm alive to tell the tale.

[Dundee Poets Box c1880 -1900]
CUMARACHANDHU
Sung by HARRY LINN

I'm a decent policeman, the pride o' the Glesca' force,
Though I'm no so very fat, I'm strong as ony horse;
When I meet freens, I'm no like you, I dinna say, "How dae ye do?"
I gie them the richt Heelan' grip, and say, "Cumarachandhu."

I look sae weel, fine head tae heel, 
In my bonnie coat o' blue,
And the boys they cry, as I pass by, 
There goes Cumarachandhu!"

I hae often seen a case doon at the police court, 
I've thought the prisoner at the bar a decent kind o' sort;
When the magistrate said, "Hand up your hand, and swear that a' is true,"
The only answer that I gas, is "Cumarachandhu."

I hae got a guid, kind heart (that's kent a' roun' the toon).
Though I lock a chappie up, I'll never knock him doon;
And if I see a man in the street, lying there blin' fu',
I gie him a shake till he's wide awake, and say, "Cumarachandhu."

We hae black sheep in the flock, there is nae doubt o' that,
But I have often heard the deil was painted far owre black:
Nae doot we ha'e some queer ones, but we've got some good sorts too,
You'll find the best out of a' the rest is "Cumarachandhu."

The loom and the Lathe
Written and sung by Harry Sydney

Like most other men who've been knocking about,
Strange places and persons I've seen; 
Sometimes I've had plenty sometimes been without,
And frequently hard up I've been.
But still tho' dame fortune has been a sad jade, 
And baulked me of many a prize,
What I see, I remember, and some say I've made 
A pretty good use of my eyes.
 
Then hurrah! for the loom and the lathe, 
Hurrah! for the spade and the plough, 
The happiest man I have met with is he 
Who lives by the sweat of his brow.

The lawyers, with eagerness, pocket the fees,
But look at them well, and you'll find
Tho' they live in great style and appear at their ease,
They're frequently troubled in mind,
The parsons have duties fro morning till night,
If they do them — but yet I'm afraid
The living is that, in which most they delight,
And they make their religion a trade.

The bankers, tho' wealthy, have many a care 
As to how they will double their cash,
But still speculation is often a snare,
And frequently ends in a smash:
Tho' members of Parliament do all they can, 
To get in the house, 'tis no use,
If they wish to be happy, they'll alter their plan, 
For many get naught but abuse.

Some poets and authors who live by their brain,
Have seldom a shilling to spare,
Beset thro' their lives by grim poverty's pains,
They frequently die in despair.
They starve in a garret while striving for fame,
Which seldom arrives till they're dead, 
Neglected they live,—then their work get a fame
And a monument's built them instead.

The higher their station; the more we require, 
And the more we're expected to do,
The greater the income, the more we desire,
I'm sure you'll acknowledge that's true.
The more we possess, the more anxious we get,
For fear that our wealth should be lost, 
The path of the rich is with troubles beset,
As many have found to their cost.

Yes! Happy is he on himself who depends,
If he has but contentment and health, 
For Industry more to happiness tends
Than either position or wealth.
I envy not those who great riches have got, 
For wealth is too often a ban,
But he has the best and the happiest lot, 
Who works — acts — and speaks as a man.