Category: Songs

The War, the War, the blooming war, has turned my wife insane
From Kruger to Majuba she's the Transvaal on the brain
And when to christen our first child, last Sunday week we tried
The parson said, 'What's this child's name?' and my old girl replied,

The baby's name is Kitchener, Carington, Methuen, Kekewich, White
Cronje, Plummer, Powell, Majuba, Gatacre, Warren, Colenso, Kruger
Capetown, Mafeking, French, Kimberley, Ladysmith, 'bobs'
Union Jack and Fighting Mac, Lyddite, Pretoria, Blobbs.'

The parson said, 'Such names I can't upon this infant pop.'
But my wife broke his rolling veldt and smashed his Spion Cop
She jumped upon his Kroonstad, and she never made a miss
Said she, 'I'll burst your armoured train, if you don't think of this,

She tore the parson's flag of truce, then burst his Jacobsdal
She pushed his Modder River right into his shrapnel shell
She kicked his mounted infantry, till his Bloemfontein was sore
Then she did a flanking movement, and she shouted out once more,

Listen to the song I'm going to sing you
You'll laugh till you haven't any breath
People as a rule now seem to think it funny
When they hear of a violent death
Poor little Solomon Snoozer behaved like an ass
He searched round the house with a candle t'other night
To find a big escape of gas.

More work for the Undertaker
Another little job for the tombstone maker
At the local cemetery they've been very very busy
On a brand new grave - Snoozer's snuffed it.

Billy Buck by nature was a moucher
Hard work didn't suit him it appears
He had never done one single bit of 'graft'f for nine and thirty years
Lately he had a bad nightmare, Bill at once got the 'knock'
He dreamt he'd been out looking for a job
He couldn't stand the terrible shock.

More work for the Undertaker
Another little job for the tombstone maker
At the local cemetery they've been very very busy
On a brand new grave - Billiam's 'blewed it.'

Sammy Shuter laboured on the railway, his work he was very clever at
Sam, the other day, was polishing the metals with a lump of mouldy fat
Up came a runaway engine. Sam stood upon the track
He held up his hands for he thoroughly believed
He could push the locomotive back.

More work for the Undertaker
Another little job for the tombstone maker
At the local cemetery they've been very very busy
On a brand new grave - Shuters 'shunted'

Peter Piper visited a circus, he saw what he could never forget – 
One of the performers jumped from the ceiling, of the house into a net. 
Peter, a day or two after, tried a similar drop – 
He lept from housetop 57 feet, and fell upon a big fat "slop" - 

More work for the undertaker
Another little job for the tombstone maker 
At the local cemetery they've been very very busy 
On a brand-new grave – for Peter and the P'liceman!

Little Freddie Figgleton, the fat boy last week called upon his Uncle Brown
Just before he left, young Freddie was presented with a bright new half-a-crown
Then as he felt a bit thirsty he went into a shop
Drank ten lemonades, a dozen ginger beers and there was a big loud Pop.

More work for the Undertaker
Another little job for the tombstone maker
At the local cemetery they've been very very busy
On a brand new grave - for Frederick's fragments.
 

I've just learnt a comical ditty
From some of my friends in the city
The verses are short
And I think that you ought
To admit that the chorus is pretty.

With a fol-the-rol-lol
Fol-the-rol-lol
Fol-the-rol-lol-the rol-lady
Fol-the-rol-lol
Fol-the-rol-lol
Fol-the-rol-lol-the rol-lady.

There was an old lady of Clewer
She was riding her bike and it threw her
A butcher came by
And said 'Missis don't cry'
And he fastened her on with a skewer.

There's a girl in the town of Kilkenny
She's worried by lovers so many
That the saucy young elf
Means to raffle herself
And the tickets are two for a penny.

There was once an old lady, Lor' bless her
She was climbing one day on the dresser
Now the doctor has said
That she can't leave her bed
Till her bumps are a little bit lesser.

There once lived a girl near the Niger
She smiled as she rode on a tiger
They came back from the ride
With the damsel inside
And the smile on the face of the tiger. 

THE GOOD OLD DAYS OF ADAM AND EVE
Tune - "Jingling Johnny"

I SING, I sing in jingling rhymes, Sirs, 
In praise of long-past good old times, Sirs; 
When female servants house-work would do. 
And dress'd themselves as servants should do; 
But now the servants, people tell us. 
Think of nought but running after the fellows; 
And all the wages that they gathers. 
Goes for finery, hats and feathers. 

Sing hey, sing ho, people grieve 
For the good old days of Adam and Eve. 
 
When near our houses might be seen fields, 
And a short walk took you to the green fields.
Where you might sing Nature's praises, 
Or pick a bough-pot of blooming daisies; 
But now if a man cannot endure all 
The noise of town, and wants to be rural, 
He'll find the charms of Nature undone. 
And a good day's journey to get out of London. 
 
When every man, whether wise or ninny, 
Was pleased at the sight of a good old guinea ;
The front of it had the old king's face on — 
The back, the royal arms and old spade ace on: 
But now there's a sovereign, and people tell you 
It is not worth so much in value;
For there's King George without a rag on. 
Galloping over an ugly dragon. 
 
When roast beef was eaten off platters wooden,. 
And no body neyer dined,without pudden; 
When songs were longer, and sung much louder. 
And beaux wore pig-tails, pomatum and powder; 
But now our beaux of pride are slighters, 
Keep company with gamblers and fancy fighters; 
And instead of hair-powder, great and small, now. 
Never comb their heads at all now. 
  
When rogues had a bold as well as a sly way, 
And went with pistols on the highway, 
Stopp'd the traveller, and without detail,
Robbed him of his cash by retail; 
But now despising petty stealers. 
Some are in robbery wholesale dealers. 
Get into credit — live quite dashing, 
And pay their debts with a clean white-washing. 
 
When drinking ale made strong men stronger. 
And doctors made folk live the longer;
Our grandfathers brew'd stout October, 
And thought it sinful to go to bed sober; 
Then was the time for games and gambols
When Oxford Street was covered with brambles. 
Hedges and ditches and ponds of water; 
But now there's nothing but bricks and mortar! 
 
When this very place, now cover'd over, 
Was a field of wheat, or perhaps of clover ; 
Two or three trees for the cattle to get under. 
Out of the way of the light'ning and thunder! 
No sounds were heard but the sweet birds singing. 
Except sometimes the Bow-bells ringing ! 
But now far off the birds are fled, Sirs, 
And we're the birds that sing instead. Sirs. 


THE SECOND PART OF THE GOOD OLD DAYS OF ADAM AND EVE. 

I SING, I sing in jingling rhymes. Sirs, 
In praise of long-lost good old times, Sirs, 
When old and young would every one rise 
Time enough to see the sun rise; 
But fashion plays a different tune now'
Folks don't get up till afternoon now; 
And all such healthy notions scorning, 
They get their night's rest in the morning. 

Sing hey, sing ho, people grieve 
For the good old days of Adam and Eve. 
 
When rogues^ whose necks strong halters suited,
Went in a cart to be executed;
Through the streets were mobs collecting
To Tyburn — and oh ! it was quite affecting. 
But now they hang them all at Newgate, 
And the crowd's so great, you can't a view get;
And though the parson prays and preaches. 
They never make no dying speeches. 
 
When all over England's happy island,
Churches and chapels were built on dry land; 
And on Sundays folks so gay there, 
In their best clothes went to pray there;
But now at novelty they grapples, 
There's swimming churches and floating chapels!
And what does more surprising seem. Sirs, 
There's prayers and sermons preach'd by steam. Sirs!
 
When round town there was many a score fields. 
And when old Bedlam stood in Moorfields,
Folk might stand by London Wall, Sirs, 
And plainly hear mad people bawl. Sirs;
But Bedlam was pull'd down, and in a hurry 
All the mad folks were moved to Surry; 
London Wall is down, I vow. Sirs, 
And Moorfields is no more fields now. Sirs.
 
When in our farm-yards hens would lay, Sirs, 
Producing eggs in the natural way, Sirs;
Then fondly sitting on and sticking. 
Till each egg produced a chicken; 
But now there's a man, who swears and vows and. 
Says his chickens can hatch by the thousand, 
And all by steam which so fast produces
He'll supply all London with ducks and gooses.
 
When people died, and this world's riot. 
Left and laid in their, graves so quiet,
Till the day of resurrection,
Nor dreamed of being dug up for dissection ; 
But now there are men, whose trade quite odd is. 
They go out of a night to steal dead bodies : 
To die in Town, the chance gadzooks is 
Ten to one but you go to Brookes's.  

A song which has passed into American traditional singing. It’s one of those songs designed for improvisation around a simple chorus, that in some hands can seem to go on forever! In traditional versions the verses vary considerably, but the chorus stays relatively constant.

The good old days of Adam and Eve (Parts one and two) was written by Thomas Hudson (1791- 1844) a song-writer and performer active in the singing taverns and supper rooms that influenced the early Music Hall in London. He was in many ways a transitional figure – his songs reflected both elements of 18th century song and the future style of comic song that dominated the Halls. [There is more on this on the Thomas Hudson page].

The song featured in the repertoire of another figure important to the development of the early Halls – the great improviser Charles Sloman (1808-1870) and in the earliest printed records I can find the song was being performed by him:

In the 1830s and 40s it was a hugely successful song for the comic actor Sam Vale (?-1848), who was recorded on one occasion at Sadler’s Wells Theatre:

…singing The Good Old Days of Adam and Eve with additional verses, for the space of half an hour, to the great gratification of the audience, who gave him a treble encore

Apr. 26, 1835;  The Sunday Times 

Like many of Hudson’s songs this one survives in multiple 19th century broadsheets and songbooks on both sides of the Atlantic.

My uncle Jimmy has got a beautiful ruby tinted nose
Scotch, of, course, is out of the question, uncle says he’s got indigestion.
Once he stood at a railway crossing to watch the trains go by.
A railway porter standing near came up and shouted “Hi

Shift up a little bit farther, shift a little bit farther up.
At this spot there soon will arrive a
Fast express, you’ll worry the driver
With that terrible nose, it’s like a danger light.
So, shift a little bit farther, father, farther out of sight”.

Well I went out with some friends of mine in a brand new motor car.
We was going from London to Dover, but before the journey was over,
Something seemed to go wrong with our machines inside.
Agricultural labourers came to us and shouted “Hi

Shift up a little bit farther, shift a little bit farther up.
We never thought a traveling tinker
Could be such a tiddley-winker.
We’ve no kettles and pots for you to mend today,
So shift a little bit farther, father, farther on your way”.

It was down at Winkleton-Super-Mare on a lovely summer’s day,
People was gazing out in the ocean, they was causing quite a commotion.
What’s that strange old object there, a new sea monster p’raps?
Well I dashed up to them and said “Look here, you girls and chaps

Shift up a little bit farther, shift a little bit farther up.
What you seem to think is a sort a
Curiosity in the water,
That’s my missus and she’ll be out in half a jiff,
So, shift a little bit farther, father, farther round the cliff”.

My aunt Maria is fairly heavy, she weighs a tidy lump.
Aunty, last bank holiday, tried a
Donkey ride and all of us guide her.
She jumped up on the donkey’s back, but the brute refused to stir.
He nods his head and winks his eye and then remarks to her:

“Shift up a little bit farther, shift a little bit farther up.
Please excuse me being so grumpy,
But you are a little bit lumpy.
I can’t waggle my tail, the flies give me the hump,
So, shift a little bit farther, father, farther off my stump”.

I wanted to join the Yeomanry
They told me I'd have to learn to ride a horse
Of course, I'd have to ride a horse
I went to a livery stable not so far from Charing Cross
To hire a horse of course
They said, 'Well, here's a horse.'
And so, of course, I thought it was a horse
It was a funny animal - the legs it had were four
One at every corner, it could have done with several more
The men bunked me up, I started away on my own
But I don't think I shall ever learn to ride like Sloan.

You don't catch me on a gee-gee's back again
It's not the kind of place that you can doze on
The only horse that I think that I could manage
Is the one the missis dries the clothes on.

I'll never forget the feeling
When that horrible quadruped got 'on the go'
You know, I kept on shouting, 'Whoa'
For what with wibberly wobbling and the bumping to and fro
And so and so, what ho, we made a rotten show
So that was why we went to Rotten Row
At last the gee-gee stopped a bit and, looking over there
Saw a beautiful girl with any amount of carrotty hair
He rushed up behind, before I knew what he had done
He had chewed a great big mouthful of the lady's bun.

I had to get off the gee-gee's back
The lady with ginger hair was feeling sore
But Lor, she soon began to roar
I tried to get back to my place, but I perspired at ev'ry pore
And something tore, I swore, when I was up once more
For there was I stuck on behind before
I grabbed the bounder by the tail - he dashed away of course
Then the saddle began to slip and it took me under the horse
The crowd gave a cheer - they thought I was having a spree
But I said, when I came out of the infirmary,

Joseph Baxter is my name; my friends all call me Joe
I'm up, you know, to ev'ry game, and ev'rything I know
Ah! I once was green as green could be, I suffered for it though:
Now, if they try it on with me, I tell them 'Not for Joe'

'Not for Joe', 'not for Joe'
If he knows it 'Not for Joseph'
No, no, no 'Not for Joe'
'Not for Joseph', oh, dear no.

I used to throw my cash about, in a reckless sort of way
I'm careful now what I'm about, and cautious how I pay:
Now the other night I asked a pal, with me to have a drain,
'Thanks Joe' said he, 'Lets see old pal I think I'll have Champagne.'
(Will ye, said I, oh, no,)

There's a fellow called Jack Bannister, he's a sort of chap is Jack
Who is always money borrowing and never pays ye back
Now last Thursday night he came to me, said he'd just returned to town
And was rather short of cash, could I lend him half a crown
(Well, I said, if I thought I should ever get it back again I would with
pleasure - but excuse me if I say...)


A friend of mine down in Pall Mall, the other night said 'Joe
I'll introduce you to a gal you really ought to know
She's a widow you should try and win, 'twould a good match be for you
She's pretty and got lots of tin, and only forty-two
(Fancy forty-two, old enough to be my grand-mother, and you know a
fellow can't marry his grandmother, lots of tin though, and pretty,
forty-two!).


I think you've had enough of Joe, and go I really must
I thank you for your kindness though, and only hope and trust
That the favour you have shown so long I always may retain:
Perhaps now if you like my song, you'll wish I'll sing again.
(But....)

From sheet music held at Trove, National Library of Australia

The lads in Navy Blue
Words and music by Harry Dacre

Sing a song in praise of Jack the sailor,
Sing a song about the jolly tar.
Why not boast of them that guard the coast?
Right proud of them we are.
Must we always sing of Tommy Atkins?
Not one word for Jack?
When on land he makes a mighty stand
And beats the foeman back.
Why in our glory do we tower?
What is the secret of our power?

It is the navy, the British navy
That keeps our foes at bay.
Our old song, 'Britannia rules the waves',
We still can sing today.
We've got a navy, a fighting navy,
Our neighbours know that's true,
For it keeps them in their place, for they know they'd have to face
The lively little lads in navy blue!

Years ago, when serving for their country, 
British tars have met our many foes. 
How Jack fought, in vict'ries dearly bought, 
Our history plainly shows. 
What we did in glorious days of Nelson 
England still can do. 
Hearts of Oak still scorn the foreign yoke: 
The old song still holds true!
Why in our glory do we tower?
What is the secret of our power?

Sailor Jack has gain'd a reputation,
Folks declare his love is only sport.
Evil minds believe a sailor finds
A wife in ev'ry port.
Ladies, I beseech you, don't believe it.
Jack can faithful be;
He never swerves the mistress that he serves,
His mistress is the sea!
Why in our glory do we tower?
What is the secret of our power?