Category: Songs

The West End's not the same tonight
The West End's not the same tonight
The lights aren't shining quite so bright
That's what I hear the little ladies say
To gave a glad eye is a crime, for it's a sad eye all the time
The dear lads of the village are away
The barmaid at you tries to wink
But with a tear-drop has to blink
And won't be ashamed to tell you why
Tho' the mob their flags are waving
Singing jingo songs and bragging
All the girls will ask each other with a sigh.

Where are the lads of the village tonight?
Where are the nuts we knew?
In Piccadilly? In Leicester square? No, not there
No, not there. They're taking a trip on the Continong
With their rifles and their bayonettes bright
Facing danger gladly where they're needed badly
That's where they are tonight.

No, Algie isn't on the moors
And bringing pheasants down by scores
He's shooting quite a different kind of bird
And Gussie isn't with the hounds
He's now on foreign hunting grounds
He's hunting German foxes so I've heard
And Percy tho' at sea a lot
Is not at Cowes upon his yacht
When last our Percy boy was seen
He was back as master gunner on a twenty thousand tonner
Dropping shells upon a German submarine

Where are the lads of the village tonight?
Where are the nuts we knew?
In Piccadilly? In Leicester square? No, not there
No, not there. They're taking a trip on the Continong
With their rifles and their bayonettes bright
Gone to teach the vulture murder is not a culture
That's where they are tonight.'

We miss those gay dare-devil boys
The student lads, all fun and noise
But Guys and St Bathelomew's know well
That in the trenches kneeling low
They tend the wounded though they know
The Red Croos Flag's a mark for German shell
But all the boys are doing grand
For King and Home and Motherland
And when at last they've turned the tide
Tho' Berlin's the place they'll rush for
They'll do nothing we need blush for
No, they'll play the game, and we shall say with pride.

Where are the lads of the village tonight?
Where are the nuts we knew
In Piccadilly? In Leicester square? No, not there
No, not there. They're taking a trip on the Continong
With their rifles and their bayonettes bright
Where the Kaiser humbled, knows his power has crumbled
That's where they are tonight.'

Three weeks ago, no longer
I was as gay as a bird on the wing
But since me and Bill have been parted, you know
Life is a blank and it's changed everything
I saw him out with another last night
None can guess how I felt at the sight
With tears in my eyes that I tried to keep back
I crept to his side and said,

Are we to part like this Bill
Are we to part this way?
Who's it to be, 'er or me?
Don't be afraid to say
If everything's over between us
Don't never pass me by
'Cos you and me still friends can be
For the sake of the days gone by.

We went to school together
Lived side by side, me and Bill, in the mews
When 'e was ill, too, I stayed up for nights
Nursed him - to do it I'd never refuse
'E used to tell me his wife I should be
I never thought that he'd turn against me
Sleeping or waking, at work or at home
I find myself murmuring this,

Down in a little laundry
Me and 'er work side by side every day
She was my pal and I looked to 'er well
Trusted and helped 'er in every way
Still if my Bill cares more for 'er than me
I wish 'em no harm no, but prosperity
I try to forget him, but each day I find
These words running through my mind.

A sentimental song from the turn-of-the-century halls, remembered by many traditional singers in the late 20th century. It was written and composed by  Harry Castling and Charles Collins..

Kate Carney (1868-1950) was for many the Cockney Queen of the turn-of-the-century music halls. McQueen Pope seems to be projecting perhaps an idealised view of London in his description of her:

a wonderful woman who sang wonderful songs. She was the type that’s sold flowers around Eros in Piccadilly Circus, to whom everyone was a “duck” or a “dear” or a “love”, who attended Covent Garden Market in the early morning to buy their wares. Or sat by their husbands barrow selling good stuff honestly at cheap prices – hard-working, honest people

MacQueen Pope, The Melody Lingers p342

I've got a pal,
A reg'lar out an' outer,
She's a dear good old gal,
I'll tell yer all about 'er.
It's many years since fust we met,
'Er 'air was then as black as jet,
It's whiter now, but she don't fret,
Not my old gall

We've been together now for forty years,
An' it don't seem a day too much,
There ain't a lady livin' in the land
As I'd "swop" for my dear old Dutch.

I calls 'er Sal,
'Er proper name is Sairer,
An' yer may find a gal
As you'd consider fairer.
She ain't a angel, she can start
A-jawin' till it makes yer smart,
She's just a woman, bless 'er eart,
Is my old gal!

Sweet fine old gal,
For worlds I wouldn't lose 'er,
She's a dear good old gal,
An' that's what made me choose 'er.
She's stuck to me through thick and thin,
When luck was out, when luck was in,
Ahl wot a wife to me she's been,
An' wot a pal!

I sees yer Sal,
Yer pretty ribbons sportin'
Many years now, old gal,
Since them young days of courtin'.
I ain't a coward, still I trust
When we've to part, as part we must,
That Death may come and take me fust
To wait... my pal!

A Cockney music Hall song still remembered by traditional singers in the second half of the 20th century.

Albert Chevalier (1861-1923) was a legitimate theatre actor before he was eventually persuaded to appear in the Halls. He was a key figure in making the turn-of-the-century Halls respectable, and was deeply disgusted when he was missed off the bill the first Royal Command Performance in 1912:

I think I may claim without egotism that my work has helped to purify the music halls and has assisted to produce a condition of things which has made the command performance possible.

quoted in Baker: British Music Hall

He was a singer of sentimental and comic songs: two of which are remembered today , this one and Wot cher! Knocked ’em in the Old Kent Road. Chevalier was popular with the audience, but tended to divide the opinion of his fellow professionals: some thought him a brilliant comic performer, others felt he laid it on a bit too thick: [making] “a dozen gestures, a dozen grimaces, when one would be ample“.

Wandering by the margin of the sailors graves
Gazing on the powerful and heartless waves;
Thinking of those souls at sea;
How they all might envy me;
As I paused and pondered on those storm tossed ships,
With a prayer for mercy on my trembling lips;
Presently a billow cast upon the shore,
An old brass locket from one who is no more.

An old brass locket cast up by the wave,
An old brass locket from a sailor's grave;
Inside there's a portrait, stained by ocean's foam,
Of a sweetheart who is waiting in a distant home.

Twined round that portrait is a golden tress,
Treasured in sweet memory of happiness;
Truth and beauty here we trace,
In the maiden's fair young face;
Maybe she is waiting for him, day by day,
Little may she dream his soul has passed away;
I will keep that locket, brazen stained and old,
As a precious emblem of love, unsoiled by gold.

Weather worn and battered though this keepsake be,
Yet it tells the story of its own to me.
Tells me how we oft may find, 
Poverty and love combined, 
Shall I ever see the face reflected here
This poor sailor's sweetheart who he loved so dear?
She would prize the locket for the old love's sake, 
And bless me for it although her heart should break!

From The Music Hall Songster (1892)

My good-for-nothing brother, Bob 
Has caused me many tears;
He hasn't done a stroke of work
For five and twenty years.
He is what they call a traveller, or
In other words a tramp –
In fact, to put it plainly, 
He is a  lazy, loafing scamp.

And I'm another – I'm another, 
That's a simple fact I can't deny, 
Yes, I'm another like my brother,
He's a lazy moocher – so am I

Along the path of honesty,
He never tries to jog;
I've seen him toss a blind man,
Then attempt to sneak his dog.
He'll shoot the moon on quarter day, 
And pinch your glass of ale;
Believe me he's a vagabond,
Who ought to be in jail. 

And I'm another – I'm another,
That's a simple fact I can't deny,
Yes, I'm another like my brother,
He's a sherbet lifter – so am I

For lying, he has talent, and
The truth he never speaks;
The tales he tells would bring a blush,
To anybody's cheeks.
To fairly fling the hatchet, he
Appears to never tire;
He fairly wins the biscuit as
Old England's champion liar

And I'm another – I'm another,
That's a simple fact I can't deny,
Yes, I'm another like my brother,
He's a holy friar - so am I.

Although his head is full of bumps,
In size and shape immense,
The only one that's missing is
The bump of common sense
He always seems to act without 
A reason or a rule,
The doctors say my brother Bob's 
A poor fat headed fool!

And I'm another – I'm another,
That's a simple fact I can't deny,
Yes, I'm another like my brother,
He's off his crumpet so am I!

A music hall song seemingly only collected once from a traditional singer, it was collected from the singing of Bill Williams by Peter Kennedy in 1957 .

Written by Charles Osborne, this is one of the many Music Hall songs which was designed for extemporisation – for “making up” topical or audience-specific verses. Some performers would do this on the spot, others would prepare them in advance, and occasionally these appear in the published versions labelled as “additional verses”. The American sheet music referenced below is a good example of the latter, with several additional verses designed for the US audience.

Herbert Campbell (1846 – 1904) often billed as England’s Own Comedian, famously had a 15 year partnership in pantomime at the Drury Lane Theatre with Dan Leno. As a teenager Campbell worked as an engineer in a gun factory in Woolwich. He started his professional life as a blackface comedian in a minstrel troupe and also performed in temperance halls early in his stage career. A big man with a big voice, he specialised in parodies and topical songs, usually sung in a broad stage-Cockney accent. Late in his career, he tried unsuccessfully to move into management with Leno and Harry Randall. As was sadly the case with many Music Hall artistes, he received a rather snooty obituary in the mainstream press:

For many years he had enjoyed a run of uninterrupted success in London, which he owed principally to a strong voice of clear and penetrative power that never failed to reach the furthermost limits of any building, however large. With a style singularly lacking in variety, and himself constitutionally too bulky for dancing or other violent stage work ….. of late years he had sung nothing of any special note, but in former times such ballads as Oh! Ain’t It Awful?, When you come to think of it and Up I came with my little lot secured an extensive vogue.

Daily Telegraph, July 20, 1904

Brigham Young
From sheet music held in British Library (1870)

Old Brigham Young is a Mormon bold. 
And leader of the roaming rams; 
And shepherd of a heap 
Of pretty little sheep. 
And a nice fold of pretty little lambs. 
And he lives with his five and forty wives 
In the city of the great Salt Lake. 
Where they woo and they coo, 
As little doves do, 
And cackle like a ducks to a drake. 

Oh, Brigham. Brigham Young, 
It's a miracle how he survives, 
With his roaming rams and pretty little lambs, 
And his five and forty wives. 

Hi number forty-five is about sixteen, 
Number one is sixty and three; 
And they make such a riot -
How he ever keeps them quiet, 
Is a downright mystery to me. 
For they clatter and they claw, and jaw, jaw, jaw, 
And each has a different desire; 
It would aid the renown 
Of the best shop in town 
To supply them with half they require.

Old Brigham Young was a stout man once, 
Tho' now he's thin and old; 
And I grieve to state 
He is bald on his pate, 
Which once had a covering of gold. 
For his youngest wives won't have white wool. 
And his old ones won't have red; 
So with tearing it out, 
Taking turn and turn about, 
They have torn all the hair off his head.

Now his girls are singing psalms all day, 
And his boys they all sing songs; 
And among such a crowd 
He has it pretty loud. 
For they're musical as Chinese gongs. 
And when they advance for a Mormon dance. 
He's filled with the greatest surprise; 
For they're sure to end the night 
With a Tabernacle fight, 
And scratch out one another's eyes.

There never was a home like Brigham Young's, 
So curious and so queer,
If his joys are double; 
He's treble lot of trouble, 
And it gains on him year by year; 
Yet he sits in state and bears his fate, 
In a serve-me-very-right sort of way; 
If there's one wife to bury, 
There's another one to marry, 
And there's something going wrong every day.

Now if any body envies Brigham Young, 
Let them go to the Great Salt Lake; 
And if they have leisure 
To examine their pleasure, 
They will find it a great mistake. 
One wife at a time, so says my rhyme, 
Is enough for the proudest Don 
So ere you strive 
To be lord of forty-five, 
Live happy – if you can – with one.

The Frenchman
Sung by Miss Jenny Engel
 
When first I came here from Parree
I did go to Union Square,
Took an Apartment nice, oh very,
Up on top of all the stairs
In the next room was a lady
On the piano she would play
Music charming, oh, so very!
And she sang too all the day.
 
Tral La La La! Tral La La La!
Tral La La La! Tral La La La!
Bong, Bong, Bong, Bong!
She would sing Tral La La La! Bong!
 
One day I said “Bonjour Madame”
Madame said to me “Good day”
Then I asked for her permission,
“Will she let me see her play?”
She says “Come,” I sat beside her
My heart beat like anything;
My head danced with love and music
Every time she went for to sing.
 
She played so grande! She played so softly
That I felt as I could cry
Then I caught her lovely hand and said
“Madame, love me, or I shall die”
While I kissed her little finger
While I knelt upon the floor;
While I swore my passion tender
Some man walked in the door.
 
Spoken: Ten thousand tons of [thunder?]! He was from England, he said “Ha! You’re one of them Frenchman, what [shall?] you want here?” I say “Pardonnez, mon ami, I only came here to see the Madame play”.. chorus
 
Then he scratched my head all over
Then he came and blow my nose
Then he turned me upside down, Sacre!
Then he caught me by my [clothes?]
While I ask him: Give me pardon!
He shook me so, so and he swears
Then he took me by my collar,
And dropped me down the stairs.
 
Spoken: He dropped me over the banister, and I go bumperzey, bumperzey, bumperzey - all the way to the bottom. Oh, my poor head! and Oh! my poor tail! But I swear revenge at him: I say “He shall die!” Then he looked out [of the window], put his nose to his thumb, stuck out his fingers and he sang .. chorus

A song written by GW Hunt which survived in the repertoire of at least one traditional singer in the 1950s when Francis Collinson transcribed the words from the singing of Mrs M Phillips.

It was sung in the Halls by Henri Clark, who was advertising it as part of his repertoire as early as 1871:

I was able to find the words in Billy Andrew’s Comic Songster, published in New York in 1873 , and suggesting that the song was in Jennie Engel’s repertoire . So the song was clearly being sung on both sides of the Atlantic before it was published as sheet music. The words as published make it clear that it was expected to be performed in extremely stylised comic French, to such an extent that it’s hard unpick exactly what is being said or sung. I have chosen to convert it into (I hope) more readable form.

The Modern Swells Diary
Written by Mr JA Hardwick, and sung by Mr JW Sharp

I'm a gent reduced by railway speculations,
Though not possess'd of ample means, I've splendid expectations,
My uncle he's Directer of 'The Round the Corner Junction'-
I often draw a pound of him without the least compunction.

On my word! 
By studying economy I live like a lord.

Since I've been on the town, alas, by fickle fortune undone, 
I've found out there's more ways than one to live slap-up in London,
This world is bad but I contrive, first-rate to rattle through it, 
So, if you'll only list to me, I'll tell you how I do it!

I rise at half past nine a.m. and then I make my toilet
Pipeclay my front, rub up my boots; my hair with candle oil it, 
As breakfast is a matter of pure taste, why I don't mind it,
And if I've none I go without and healthy too I find it

At ten o'clock I sally out, and go to hear the hand play-
That brings me to eleven, then I promenade the Strand way -
Until I get up to London Bridge, that rendezvous of schemers,
When half an hour glides away, admiring the steamers

This brings me round to twelve o'clock, then I invest a Joey 
In half a loaf, and pick out one slack baked and rather doughy,
Because, you see, it satisfies - I feel compelled to tell it -
A drink of water at the pump most certainly will swell it.

At one I buy a mutton pie and hide it in my pocket
Dive up a narrow court, and there I bolt it like a rocket.
I'm not obliged to let the world know what I have for dinner, 
If people think you're living queer, they'll swear you're getting thinner!

By two I reach the coffee shop, and read a book till seven
And then I take a half a pint of four ale till eleven -
By twelve get home and make no row, for fear of Mother Randall. 
And in the dark I go to bed, because it saves a candle

I like to save expenses, and as trifles don't annoy me,
With washing up my things at night an hour or two employs me—
There's nothing lost by that, you see, for while the linen dries, sir,
Why I'm engaged in concocting up a scheme to gain supplies, sir !

Sometimes to make a stunning meal I task my ingenuity,
Then I indulge in meat, but that I own's a superfluity.
As I can't a-bear block ornaments, for fear of those small maggots —
I wait till eight o'clock comes round, and patronises faggots,

I'm not particular to a shade, and when the funds are waning, 
I calculate the best way to dispose of what's remaining.
I used to have a penny scrape, but now I'm getting saving,
So when it's dark I go where a brown will do the shaving..

I used to smoke a meerschaum pipe in palmy days I bought one, 
But now the times are alter'd and I'm glad to smoke a shortone
When I've no visions of cigars, and very low in coppers, 
I walk along St. James's Park, and pick up all the toppers. 

The faculty they all declare light suppers aid digestion —
And I decidedly agree in their view of the question.
But if a friend invites me home, I do accept his offer —
If not, why then I speculate a penny in a Gouffre. 

I've told you now particulars of bow I pass the day away—
By living very close, you see, I haven't much to pay away.
Sometimes I get reduced, I own, to pease pudding on a Friday,
But still, considering all things, why I do it very tidy !



Studying Economy
Collected from Mabs Hall by Mike Yates in 1985 (from Mainly Norfolk)

Oh the times are hard but I'm prepared to try to rattle through it.
And if you come and list to me, I'll tell you how I do it.
And upon my word, studying economy I live like a lord.


At ten I sally out and go to hear the band play.
Which takes me 'til eleven when I promenade the strand way.
At two I reach a coffee shop and read a book 'til seven.
And half a pint of good four ale will last me 'til eleven.
And upon my word, studying economy I live like a lord.

I can't abide block ornaments for fear of those small maggots.
So I wait until eight o'clock comes round and patronise the faggot.
And upon my word, studying economy I live like a lord.

Now I've told you all the particulars of how I pass my day away.
Through studying economy I don't have much to pay away.
Though I've reduced it. I tell it to pease pudding on a Friday.
And all things considering why I get on pretty tidy.
And upon my word, studying economy I live like a lord.

Then I sally home and make no row, for fear of mother Randell.
And into bed all in the dark, because it saves a candle.
And upon my word, studying economy I live like a lord.

I like my share of pleasure, and I'll have it while I can
I love a loving woman, and respect an honest man
I like to find true friendship in the life that's rolling by
And such is always found between, my old Pal Tom and I.

We're dear old pals, jolly old pals
Clinging together through all sorts of weather
Dear old pals, jolly old pals
Give me the friendship of dear old pals.

We've tasted of the ‘ups' of life, we've also felt its ‘downs'
Sometimes our pockets held bright gold, and sometimes only ‘browns'
And be our drink bright sparkling ‘cham', or merely humble beer
The grasp of friendship's been the same, through each succeeding year

We do snug little dinners, and they pass off very nice
I put my old pal in the chair, he makes me take the vice
We toast her Gracious Majesty, we don't forget the ‘gals'
But the toast of the evening is ‘Success to true old pals'.

It's ever been my maxim, yes, and so it ever shall
To help a stranger when I can, but never desert a pal
And after winning life's hard fight, what sweet reward is found
In a conscience clear, a heart that's light, and dear old pals around.

The Blighted Gardener (from de Marsan, 1870)
Sung by Harry Rickards
Music at Boosey and Co - 644 Broadway, New York

I once kept a garden, where the vegetables did grow,
But my fate is an ‘ard ‘un, you’ll say, when you know
How I loved a fair damsel, whose like I never saw;
So graceful and beautiful that I loved her far more … than all ….

My cabbages and my turniptops,
My celery and my Brokelo –
Oh! I’ll never love, no, I’ll never love
None but sweet Mary Jones

Her parents kept a beer shop, Mary served at the bar,
And used to draw custom from ever so far
With her eyes bright as diamonds, and hair black as jet,
She made me feel so funnified I'd entirely forget…  all about….  
 
When I stood at the bar, I would heave a deep sigh:
When she looked at me, I’d wink one eye;
I, one day, plucked up courage, looked as wretched as could be,
Said: “I love you sweet Mary, oh! will you have me … and all my …
 
Out of the bar-parlour rushed a sailor pell-mell,
Turned me out of the house, and shook me as well –
The naughty boys jeered me, with mud I got splashed,
Then they followed me home yes and smashed … all my ….
 
Well, she married that sailor, she is now a gay wife,
She’s left this poor gardener all wretched for life:
My sufferings and misery there is no one can tell:
I’m a melon - choly horticulturist and hereby bid farewell  … to all …