Category: Songs

Transcribed from Jack Charman recording on YouTube

There's a chap named Tommy Atkins, and his praises we will sing 
Tommy! Our pride and our joy!
We have always found him loyal to his country and his king. 
Tommy! Our brave soldier boy!
When home from war returning, for wives and sweethearts yearning
In hearty welcome lusty voices ring, hear how they sing!

Hullo there, little Tommy Atkins! Hullo there, little soldier man
Always cool and steady, always brave and ready
Hullo there, little Tommy Atkins, defeat you, no one can
Mid the rattle of the battle or at home sweet home, 
You are a soldier and a man!

There's a chap named Tommy Atkins, and he loves the ladies fair
Tommy! Makes love to the lot!
With his captivating manner and his fascinating air
Tommy! Is awfully hot!
Just see him out parading, the ladies' hearts invading
The girls all say, while marching with the band "Don't they look grand!"

There's a chap named Tommy Atkins, he's a terror to the world
Tommy! All Britons adore!
For the foe he's always ready and with Union Jack unfurled
Tommy! Can fight as of yore! 
He's proud of what he fought for, a fight he never sought for,
And that's why British subjects all proclaim our hero's fame

Delaney from the market bought a fowl a month ago
If he meets the man who sold it he will kill him with a blow
He said it was a chicken of a plump and tender breed
But of a more deceitful bird you'll never hear or read.
When they settled down to pluck it all their efforts were in vain
But hands were torn and blistered and their muscles had a strain
So dressed in all its feathers then they put it in the stew
If you want to make Delaney wild, shout "Cock-a-doodle-do.

That bird must have crowed when they built the tower of Babel
Was fed by Cain and Abel, and lived in Noah's stable
All the shots that were fired, on the field of Waterloo
Couldn't penetrate, or dislocate, that elongated, armour-plated,
Double-breasted, iron chested, Cock-a-doodle-do.

Delaney bought that chicken just to give us all a spread
On Sunday, when the guests arrived, he went clean off his head
In the yard were picks and shovels that were twisted up like tin
That he tried to carve the chicken with, but couldn't break the skin
We borrowed Daly's rammer, with which he rams the stones
And thought one gentle blow would break the tender chicken's bones
At the first blow it rebounded like an India-rubber ball
And knocked ten yards of coping off Mulhanny's garden wall.

Mick Dunn, the ex-dragoon, then tried to excavate the thing
But the sword he carved the Russians with bent like a yard of string
Tim Burke, the navvy miner, through the young bird showed daylight
By blowing up himself and it with a pound of dynamite
To scrape the walls of chicken wasn't very easy work
It puzzled us to find out which was chicken, which was Burke
I found a leg of bird, and with a friendly blacksmith's aid
A pair of everlasting heels upon my boots I've made.

A public house, the Rose and Crown,
Holds one that I well know;
An active little barmaid,
Without pride or fal-de-ral.
We're shortly to be married,
And when a fellow's thus inclined;
It's best to save the half-pence,
So I'm taking care of mine.

I'm saving them all for Mary,
She shall have every one;
I'm saving them all for mary,
She shall have lots of fun.
They know me well at the country bank,
Cash is better than fame or rank;
Heigh-ho lucky, I'll wed my ducky,
The belle of the Rose and Crown.

Of course, I do no flirting now,
For Mary 'twould disgust;
To marry one whom out of sight,
She couldn't safely trust.
I often meet old friends of mine,
But simply pass them by;
In fact I'm strictly honest,
And I've never told a lie.

I quite deserve a medal,
I'm so very good and true;
I frown on my companions,
When the slightest wrong they do.
The photographs of ladies,
In an album I don't nurse;
I never stay out late at night,
You never hear me curse.

I never drink champagne unless,
By someone else it's bought;
I've never seen the famed Argyle,
Or Hampton's mazy court.
At ten 'o clock each night I sleep,
A bachelor's repose;
I never fight or quarrel,
And I've never punched a nose.

From a broadside held in the Bodlleian library

One day as I strayed 'neath the beautiful glade, 
Enjoying the sweet summer breeze, 
I chanced to behold the remains of an old
Ruined abbey all sheltered with trees; 
The picture to crown, as I chanced to look down,
Was a picture by form I did see, 
Of a lovely young maid, who reclined 'neath the shade 
Of a wide spreading horse-chestnut tree. 

There were no eyes to see, no tongue to tell, 
Only the birds saw our doings
As i fondly embraced her dear little waist
Down by the old abbey ruins. 

As closer I crept I found that she slept;
Then boldly I crept closer still:
And gazed with great zest on the charms she possess'd
Till my heart with love quickly filled.
It seemed like a dream, till she awoke with a scream, 
And jumped to her feet in dismay;
But I took off my hat, said beg pardon, dear pet, 
For disturbing you in such a way.

I told her my name so friends we became, 
Her shyness I cannot compare; 
She fondled And fussed, looked pale and then blushed, 
When I told her how long I'd been there 
By the old abbey wall, I told her that all 
I had in this world she should share; 
And none but the birds heard our fond loving words, 
Or what we were saying down there

A song from the Halls of the 1880s, most often associated with the performer  JW “Over” Rowley.. The earliest record of a performance of the song is from 1879 at Gatti’s Hall in London:

From Broadside in Frank Kidson collection VWML

Now once there was a maid kept an old magpie,
And a parson who prayed lived very close by;
When this maid met the parson they both stopped to talk
And often on the quiet go for a cosy walk;
But her lover was a sailor, who sailed across the main,
And he promised she would be his wife when he returned again,
Still she let the parson see her home from church,
And kiss her never thinking of the magpie on the perch.

The maid and the magpie would talk all the day.
The maid would believe all the magpie would say,
She said I love the parson, but don't you tell the tar."
When the old magpie only said, "Quar, quar!"

Now while this sailor was away so the story goes,
This maid flirts with the parson but of course nobody knows,
Until she tells the magpie when talking one day,
She'd rather have the parson now the sailor is away,
But she said don't tell this secret or I'll give you the birch,
Every night at nine I meet the parson by the church,
The magpie only quar-quar'd as he had done before,
But he meant to tell a sailor boy when he returned on shore

While stationed at Gibraltar the sailor so it seems,
When sleeping in his cosy bunk he had some funny dreams;
He dreamt the girl he left behind on dear old England's shore,
Would whilst he was away flirt with half a dozen more
So he made his passage homeward, as quickly as could be,
Landed safely at her house but no maiden could he see;
He then talked to the magpie who was dancing on the perch,
And the magpie told him all about the parson at the church.

Now when the sailor met the maiden he passed her with disdain,
So she sued for breach of promise, tried five hundred to obtain;
But he brought the magpie into court, which told the truthful tale,
So to get what she required the maiden did fail.
She then went for the parson but in vain for him did search,
For he knew which way the wind blew so he hooked it from the church;
The lawyers couldn't find him, so the case went on the shelf,
And this tricky little maiden had to dwell by herself.

The maid and the magpie ne'er talk all this day,
For the jolly little sailor took the knowing bird away;
And now, with all his shipmates, this rare good-hearted tar,
While the magpie tells the truthful tale, he sings - "Quar! Quar!"
 

A song written for the Halls which seems to have passed into the oral tradition, collected from several traditional singers in southern England, and once collected in Australia.

The maid and the magpie was written by WH Phillips and was first sung by Harry Yorke in late 1878:

The cows won't milk and the bulls won't roar (Jolly Little Lewis version)
Written and composed by WH Phillips. Sung with immense success by Jolly Little Lewis, the Great Comedian and Clown
Frank Kidson Collection: Broadsheet at VWML

Once I was as happy as the birds upon the tree, 
And as lively as the tiny fish that swim beneath the sea; 
I could sing a jolly little song, and dance right merrily, 
Yes, and work like a Turk in the dairy! 
But now the time has gone and I am left forlorn,
For Father and Mother turn’d contrary; 
And they sent away the Girl, that they knew I loved so well
My dear rosy cheek'd little Mary. 

The Cows won't milk, and the Bulls won't roar; 
The Cocks won't crow, and the Pigs won't snore; 
The Ducks won't quack, and the Hens won't lay, 
And  I’ve gone crack'd since Mary went away

Now Mary you would like to know, work'd at our little farm,
And around me like an angel there, by gum, she placed a charm: 
We would  ramble down the country lanes while walking arm in arm, 
And she'd  trip by my side like a fairy 
Yes all the way along she'd twit a funny song
I often took her for our pet canary, 
And her voice would sound as strong, as a wheel without grease on
And the Cows they would chorus with Mary. 

Now since my Mary's gone away, I don't mind telling you 
I don't know what I talk a -bout, and don't know what I do: 
And the people say I'm off my chump, by gum I think it true 
For in my head I don't feel gradely; 
For of her I dream all night, and wake up in a fright, 
And commence to cry just like a little baby: 
The pillow then I squeeze, for it seems to give me ease, 
And I kiss it and fancy it’s Mary 

The bulls won't bellow (Sam Torr's version)
From reproduction of the Howard and Co (1880?) sheet music in Garratt 60 years, "Written and composed by T Hanley"
 
I used to be as happy as the little birds above
As lively as the little lambs at play
But now I'm broken hearted for I've lost the girl I love
With a swell from town she's lately gone away
We worked upon one farm, and my spirits she would charm
When she would chant a very pretty song
But ever since the day that my false love went away
The farm, and all upon it, has gone wrong.

The bulls won't bellow and the cows won't low
The hens won't cackle, and cocks won't crow
The turkeys won't gobble, and the ducks won't quack
And never, never will do till my Jane comes back.

There's something wrong with everything since Jane has gone away
And I'm doing nothing else but fret
The cat with her back to the fire sits on the hearth all day
And the poor old sheep-dog's nose is never wet
The pigs won't curl their tails; the ducks won't eat the snails
The gander now won't come home to be fed
And the poor old billy-goat has a big lump in his throat
And a hogshead full of tears the sow has shed.

The hens have got the whooping cough, and will not leave their coop
The canary is in the moult and will not eat
The donkey's got bronchitis, and the tomcat's got the croup
The geese have all got chilblains in their feet
The ferrets and the weasels are all down with the measles
And the wool is coming off the sheep
The bull has got the tic, and the cow her calf won't lick
And the horses have the nightmare when they sleep.

To see the weeping willows, they all seem full of grief
They seem to moan and shake their heads like me
There's a sympathising look on every cabbage leaf
And a nod of pity, too, from every tree
At night I dream of Jane, that she's come back again
And I'm whistling as I used to do
But when I awake, how I shiver and I shake
When I find my dreams of pleasure are not true.

Two very similar songs, both describing the deleterious effect of unhappy romance on farming livestock, were sung in the 1880s. (The words have parallels as you can see above, to me the music of the chorus at least seems very similar…)

George ‘Jolly Little’ Lewis (18??-93) was a Music Hall manager and comedian, active between the mid-1860s and his death in 1893 . He came from a Music Hall family – his brother performed under the name Little Levite, and his wife Julia Bullen was a serio-comic. He sang his version of the song with the title The cows won’t milk and the bulls won’t roar:

As far as I can see, Lewis’s version of the song was always credited to WH Phillips, as in this notice in The Era:

Sam Torr sang his version under the title The bulls won’t bellow or When my Jane comes back. The sheet music and various other sources credit it as being written and composed by T Hanley:

In 1877 T Hanley was also credited with writing Oh Jo “a new comic song” for Sam Torr ( The Era, Oct 28). Michael Kilgariff, the great archivist of the halls suggests this is Ted Hanley (1868-1927), a writer and comedian who according to Era reports first appeared on stage in 1895. I would suggest he was probably too young to have written the song in the late 1870s. Far more likely to be Tom Hanley, a writer/performer from Sheffield who later appeared at least once at the Leicester Music Hall managed by Sam Torr. Tom Hanley was sometimes billed as a ” Yorkshire dialect reciter”:

Its not clear how two performers, both of whom at various times threatened court action against anyone who would steal their songs, ended up singing such similar pieces. It’s likely that they did know of each other, as they were managed by the same theatrical agent HJ Didcot.

A song collected from several traditional singers in the second half of the 20th century…

From sheet music at Arthurlloyd.co.uk

I'm a jolly old miller, Bob Bell is my name,
And in my own village I'm well known to fame,
I've a wife and a daughter, a dear little lass,
I'm fond of them both and I'm fond of a glass,
Some say I'm too fond, well perhaps, that may be,
I try to be steady and am as you see;
But if I attempt to refuse drink a day,
I fancy the wheel of the mill seems to say,

Take it Bob, take it Bob, take it Bob, take it Bob,
That's what I fancy the mill says to me,
Take it Bob, take it Bob, take it Bob, take it Bob,
Take it Bob, take it, it's better than tea.

I've tried very oft' a teetot'ler to be,
But my mill is quite right, brandy's better than tea,
And altho', what I say, you may all think absurd;
I believe what the mill says, is right, 'pon my word.
I called on old Jones, 'bout some business you know,
And he said, Bob, a pipe and a glass, 'fore ye go;
Now, I didn't require it, believe what I say,
But although a mile off, I could hear the mill say,


Now I dreamt t'other night that Bob Bell was no more,
That he died at the age of p'rhaps forty or more;
And I heard people round me say, drinks done it's worst,
But altho' I was dead, I was dying of thirst.
A bottle of brandy close by I could see,
It was meant for the mourners, it wasn't for me;
But, as on my bed, still and silent I lay,
In the distance, distinctly, I heard the mill say,

I'm only up here for a bit of a spree, 
My wife thinks it's business between you and me; 
And you know the old saying, that never deceives, 
What the heart doesn't see, why the eye doesn't grieve. 
I must toddle at once, so goodbye to you all, 
Next season I hope I shall give ye call; 
Don't ask me to drink when I'm going away, 
Or I'm certain to fancy I hear the mill say...


Alternative last verse and chorus at monologues.co.uk

Then the jolly old wheel laughed, 'That's all in your eye,
If I said a word may the mill-stream go dry,
For the sake of your daughter, that dear little lass,
Go smash the green bottle and throw down the glass;
By water you live and by brandy you die,
So dust out the hopper and dash in the rye,
And while sacking the wheat and while taking the toll,
Sing clearly and loud like a jolly old soul.

Take it Bob, take it Bob, take it Bob, take it Bob,
That's what I fancy the mill says to me,
Take it Bob, take it Bob, take it Bob, take it Bob,
Take it Bob, take it, 'No never for me!'