Category: Songs

Version #1 from Sheet Music (personal copy)
(More or less identical to the version in Sabine Baring-Gould's  The Songs of bonnie Scotland)

There is A Josser's land, Far Far Away!
Where a drink they never stand, Far Far Away!
Term'd Prosser's Avenue
Where of Pro's you meet a few
Hundreds could much better do, Far Far Away!

I wish my mother-in-law, Far Far Away!
You can hear her blessed jaw, Far Far Away!
When she speaks the house it shook,
Always bringing me to book, 
I shall quickly take my hook, Far Far Away!

Where's my dear, dear wife gone, Far Far Away!
I'm left with 17 babes to mourn, Far Far Away!
For drink most everything she'd sell, 
The truth at last I'm forced to tell,
The young man lodgers gone as well, Far Far Away!

Where is a Bobby found, Far Far Away!
It's ten to one he's off his round, Far Far Away!
Should you do wrong and hold the pelf, 
And tip to some blue-coated elf 
Where does he take himself? Far Far Away!

I sent off thirty stamps so meek, Far Far Away!
To learn to earn five pounds per week. Far Far Away!
It turned out a swindling plan, 
The answer came, and thus it ran, 
Start a baked potato can, Far Far Away!

Where are my Sunday clothes? Far Far Away!
Resting in sweet repose, Far Far Away!
Well looked after, there's no doubt, 
They are simply up the spout; 
But where's the coin to get them out? Far Far Away!

ENCORE VERSES

The cry of outcast London is known, Far Far Away!
All may hear the bitter moan, Far Far Away!
Homeless, starved, without a friend
[while wet savages atttend]??
All our charity we send, Far Far Away!

Where is our gracious Queen? Far Far Away!
Where is she mostly seen? Far Far Away!
Our future king well fills her lace,
Though she is beloved by all our race,
She still prefers to hide her face, Far Far Away!


Josser: one who begs for loans, a "sponger"
Prosser: an idler or a pimp; 
"Prossers’ Avenue in London’s Gaiety Theatre, the theatre bar where the more raffish elements of society were wont to promenade.
[Green's Dictionary of slang]


Version #2 from Frank Kidson Broadside

There is a pious band, Far Far Away!
Where a drink they never stand, Far Far Away!
Although they prose till all is blue
Where'er you go you'll find a few
Will drink, but what they'll stand for you ..
Is Far Far Away!

I wish my mother-in-law, Far Far Away!
You can hear her blessed jaw, Far Far Away!
When she speaks the house it shook,
Always bringing me to book,
I shall quickly take my hook, Far Far Away!

Where's my dear, dear wife gone, Far Far Away!
I'm left with 17 babes to mourn, Far Far Away!
For drink most everything she'd sell,
The truth at last I'm forced to tell,
The young man lodgers gone as well, Far Far Away!

Where is a Bobby found, Far Far Away!
It's ten to one he's off his round, Far Far Away!
Should you do wrong and hold the pelf,
And tip to some blue-coated elf
Where does he take himself? Far Far Away!

Where are my Sunday clothes? Far Far Away!
Resting in sweet repose, Far Far Away!
They'll take care of them there's no doubt,
For they are all gone up the spout;
But where's the cash to get them out? Far Far Away!

The Roud Index currently classifies song as a traditional one, as it appeared in the list of songs that Henry Burstow remembered singing the late 19th and early 20th century. However, there are several songs with the same title, and it is not entirely clear which one Burstow was remembering.

The song explored here, which was a big success in the music halls of the 1880s, is probably a parody of a reasonably well-known hymn from 1838: There Is a Happy Land (Far Far Away) RN13784 which starts:

There is a happy land, far far away,
Where saints in glory stand,
Bright bright as day,
Oh how they sweetly sing,
Worthy is our savior king,
Loud let his praises ring.

The hymn is still popular in the Sacred Harp tradition and (I think) is still sung in by the Salvation Army . It’s been parodied many times , including There is a boarding house far far away RN7636.

Slade Murray (1859-1913) was born in London, and in his early life worked as a printer and ship store foreman. He performed at amateur concerts before his Music Hall debut in 1883, and immediately had a big hit with Far Far Away. After 1889, he worked for long periods in Australia and later New Zealand.

I went to Blaydon Races
'Twas on the ninth of June
Eighteen Hundred and Sixty Two
On a summer's afternoon
I took the bus from Balmbras
And she was heavy laden
Away we went along Collingwood Street
That's on the Road to Blaydon

Oh me lads, you should've seen us gannin',
Passing the folks along the road,
And all of them were starin',
All the lads and lasses there.
They all had smilin' faces,
Gannin' along the Scotswood Road,
To see the Blaydon Races.

We flew past Armstrong's factory
And up by the Robin Adair
But gannin' ower the Railway Bridge
The bus wheel flew off there
The lasses lost their crinolenes
And veils that hide their faces
I got two black eyes and a broken nose
In gannin' to Blaydon Races

Now when we got the wheel back on
Away we went again
But them that had their noses broke
They went back o'er hyem
Some went to the dispensary
And some to Doctor Gibbs's
And some to the infirmary
To mend their broken ribs's

We flew across the Tyne Bridge
And came to Blaydon Toon
The barman he was calling then
They called him Jackie Broon
I saw him talking to some chaps
And them he was persuadin'
To gan and see Geordie Ridley's show
At the Mechanics' Hall in Blaydon

Now when we got to Paradise
There were bonny games begun
There were four and twenty on the bus
And how we danced and sung
They called on me to sing a song
So I sang 'em 'Paddy Fagan'
I danced a jig and I swung me twig
The day I went to Blaydon

The rain it poured down all the day
And made the ground quite muddy
Coffee Johnny had a white hat on
Shouted 'Wee stole the cuddy?'
There were spice stalls and monkey shows
And old wives selling ciders
And the chap on the ha'penny roundabout
Saying 'Any more lads for riders?'

Aa's a brokem hairted keelman and as's ower heed in luv
Wiv a young lass in Gyetsid and Aa caall hor me duv
Hor nyem's Cushie Butterfield and she sells yalla clay
And her cousin is a muckman and they caall 'im Tom Gray.

She's a big lass an' a bonnie lass an' she likes hor beor
An' they caall hor Cushie Butterfield and Aa wish she was heor.

Hor eyes is like two holes in a blanket bornt throo
An' hor broos iv a mornin' wad spyen a yung coo
An' wnen Aa heer hor shoutin' - 'Will ye buy ony clay?'
Like a candyman's trumpet, it steals me yung hart away.

Ye'll oft see hor doon at Sangit when the fresh harrin comes in
She's like a bagfull o' saadust tied round wiv a string
She wears big galoshes tee, an' hor stockins once was white
An' hor bedgoon it's laelock, an' hor hat's nivver strite.

When Aa axed hor to marry us, she started te laff
'Noo, nyen o' you monkey tricks, for aa like nee sic chaff.'
Then she started a' bubblin' an' roared like a bull
An' the cheps on the Keel ses Aa's nowt but a fyuel.

She ses the chep 'et gets us 'ill heh te work ivvery day
An' when he comes hyem at neets he'll heh to gan an' seek clay
An' when he's away seekin' Aa'll myek baals an' sing
O weel may the keel row that ma laddie's in.

A less "regional" version:
I's a broken-hearted keelman and I's over head in love
With a young lass in Gateshead and I call her my dove.
Her name's Cushie Butterfield and she sells yellow clay,
And her cousin is a muckman and they call him Tom Grey.

She's a big lass and a bonny lass and she likes her beer
And they call her Cushie Butterfield and I wish she was here.

Her eyes is like two holes in a blanket burnt through
Her brows in a morning would spyen a young cow
And when t' hear her shouting Will you buy any clay?
Like a candyman's trumpet it steals my heart away

You'll oft see her down at Sandgate when the fresh herring come
She's like a bag full of sawdust tied round with a string
She wears big galoshes too and her stockings once was white
And her petticoat's lilac and her hat's never straight

When I axed her to marry me she started to laugh
Now none of your monkey tricks for I like ne such chaff
Then she started a blubbing and she roared like a bull
And the chaps on the quay says I's nought but a fool

She says the chap that gets her must work every day
And when he comes home at nights he must gang and seek clay
And when he's away seeking she'll make balls and sing
O well may the keel row that my laddie's in.

*yellow clay was used for polishing doorsteps
**Spyen = dry up a cow's milk

Oh, my love stood under the walnut tree,
Over the garden wall,
She whispered and said she'd be true to me,
Over the garden wall,
She'd beautiful eyes and beautiful hair,
She was not very tall so she stood in a chair,
And Many a time have I kissed her there,
Over the garden wall.
    
Over the garden wall,
The sweetest girl of all.
There never were yet such eyes of jet,
And you can bet I'll never forget
The night our lips in kisses met,
Over the garden wall.

But her father stamped and her father raved,
Over the garden wall,
And like an old madman he behaved,
Over the garden wall,
She made a bouquet of roses red,
But immediately I popped up my head,
He gave me a bucket of water instead,
Over the garden wall.

One day I jumped down on the other side,
Over the garden wall,
And she bravely promised to be my bride,
Over the garden wall,
But she screamed in a fright, "Here's father, quick,
I have an impression he's bringing a stick."
But I brought the impression of half a brick,
Over the garden wall. 

But where there's a will, there's always a way,
Over the garden wall,
There's always a night as well as the day,
Over the garden wall ;
We hadn't much money, but wedding's are cheap,
So while the old fellow was snoring asleep,
With a lad and ladder, she managed to creep
Over the garden wall. 

I feel like a fighting man, I'm fit and fat and fine
Since I've lived in a little garden sub-bub up the line
Though to call it a suburb is the fashionable way
But I call it a sub-bub 'cos it's easier to say
If town life's too fast for you and country life too slow
Don't make a bungle of your life but build a bungalow

In our little garden sub-bub
Far away from the noise and the hub-bub
When you've tired of the pub-bub
Tired of the club-bub
Take a little house in the garden sub-bub
There you can grow stewed rub-bub
And you can bath in an old rain tub-bub
So leave all the hub-bub, and the pub-bub and the club-bub
And grow your own grub-bub in the sub-bub.

Our hens lay our eggs and they're eggs-traordinary eggs
Oh they're egg-squisite eggs oh they're  egg-sceptional eggs
As examples of eggs that are eggs, our eggs will eggs-cel 
The eggs-cellent eggs that all the best egg sellers sell. 
Well, I'll lay a bob that Tommy Lipton couldn't lay 
The sort of eggs our cocks and hens are laying every day....

We draw all our water from a well. Well, I say well
Well, we call it a well, though it doesn't work so well
And to judge by the smell our tabby cat that wasn't well
Said all's well that ends well and got drowned down in the well
But who wants a well, ay? Who the dickens wants a well?
While I've a barrel full of bass the well can go to...

[Final chorus]
Well in our little garden sub-bub-bub-bub-bub
Far away from the noise and the hub-bub-bub-bub-bub
When you've tired of the pub-bub
And you're tired of the club-bub-bub-bub
Take a little house in the garden sub-bub-bub-bub-bub
There you can grow stewed rub-bub-bub-bub-bub
And you can bath in an old rain tub-bub-bub-bub
So leave all the hub-bub, and the pub-bub and the club-bub
And grow your own grub-bub in the sub-bub.

I once knew a man and he was an encyclopedia
He could tell you the weight of the moon to an ounce
And the name of every star
He'd stand on a slope with a big telescope and squint at Venus hard
Till all the Pa's of the girls in Mars complained at Scotland Yard
He used to say that the Milky Way was at Cowes in the Isle of Wight
He anlaysed fogs from the Isle of Dogs, and set the Thames alight
They had to admit he'd got the wit and learning in his mind
Of Europe, Ireope, Lorop, Stirrup, and Jalop all combined.

And he knew all about etymology,
Hebrew, Shebrew, ju-ju-ology
Syntax, tintacks, hobnails and boot-jacks
He was as full as a Pickford's van
Those who cracked and backed up Edison
Swore his jaw was more than medicine
Simply because people said he was
A durned learned scientific man.

He could jaw for a week in Ancient Greek
And spout on the ages dark
He'd pinch your watch to indulge in Scotch
And Welsh you at Kempton Park
He'd bolt and bunk like a chinese junk
And dance a German Waltz
And inflate his lungs with various tongues
From Dutch to Epsom Salts
He'd a beak like a parrot, the colour of a carrot
With a Roman wart on top
A swan-like throat, like an old mud boat
And a breath like a chemist shop
A long moustache like weeds in a marsh
And a temper sour and crabby
He'd nap and scrap with Russian or a Jap
And swear like a London cabby.


He could tell from a speck of mud upon your neck
The place where you were born
And just from the touch he could say how much
Your bags would fetch in pawn
He'd guess your weight by the size of your pate
And what seemed still more strange
He'd boldly assert by the wrinkles of your shirt
That you required a change
He was nearly as quick at arithmetic
As a Chatham and Dover train
He had grammar and addition, and bunk-a-doodleition
And division and collision on the brain
He collared a degree at a University
And all the Dons did frighten
By winning a prize for a book that size
On 'Insect life in Brighton.'


He could draw a map, a barrow, or a trap
And square a circle or a slop
And he could swear, from the colour of the air
To the nearest fried-fish shop
Around his room a sweet perfume
Invariably did dwell
That scent one night to the house set light
And blew the town to Halifax
When the coroner was told the place was cold
He came up to the scratch
They found one rib that looked like a squib
And smelt like a brimstone match
They sniffed and yelled and an inquest held
Those gentlemen in fustian
Said they, 'By gom! - he's busted from
Spontaneous combustion.'

Farmer Giles had lots of ani-miles
And sold them all ‘cos farming didn’t pay
All his ducks and pigs started to disappear
When suddenly someone cried out “Mr auctioneer!”
 
What are you going to do about Mary
The cow on comical farm
Don’t want your ducks, don’t want your pigs
Don’t want your fowls or your other thingamajig’s
Don’t want your ox, don’t want your cocks
Or the dog that goes bowwow
What are you going to do about Mary
The poor old cow

 
Listen here, said Mr auctioneer
I’ll be glad if you will explain the reason why
Pardon me old chap, the other fellow cried
I’ve milked her since she was a baby, I’m dissatisfied
 
Chorus x2

Since first I copped a tidy lump of swag
I've always kept a decent little nag
But one as I shall sing to you now
Was worth a million jimmies in a bag
I matched her against the best that could be found
Four owners made a stake of sixty pound
So the race was duly run
And I'll tell you how I won
With brave Polly my old pony world renown.

Down the road, away went Polly
With a step so jolly
That I knew she'd win
Down the road, the pace was killing
But the mare was willing
For a lightning spin
All the rest were licked
And might as well ne'er been born
Whoa mare, Whoa mare,
You've earned your little bit of corn.

Tom Jones the butcher thought that form untrue
Says he “Look here, I'll tell you what I'll do
My cob shall trot your mare again next Monday
And fifty more bright sovereigns I will blue
If you prove she can beat him once again
I'll never more in this world touch a rein”
Though I knew he'd got no chance
He insisted on the dance
So now I must tell you how we slew the slain.

Soon after that she reached the final goal
(I'd had the little wonder from a foal)
And grief too keen to talk about was mine, when
Poor Polly was carted off to fill a hole.
My missus and the kids all went with me
The last of poor pet pony Poll to see;
And our neighbours shared the grief,
That was felt beyond belief
When the little mare was buried R.I.P.

Sung by Sam Collins at the Marylebone Music Hall
I'm a simple Irish lad, I've resolved to see some fun, sirs,
And, to satisfy my mind, to Limerick faith, I come, sirs,
Oh, what a glorious place, and what a charming city. 
Where the girls are all so fair, and the boys are all so witty. 

Musha ring a ding  a da 
Ri tooral looral laddy, oh! 
Musha ring a ding a da, 
Ri too ral laddy,  Oh ! 

Twas on the first of May, when I began my rambles:
Everything looked gay, there was jauntings, cars and gambols 
I looked along the road, it was lined with smiling faces,
All driving in their traps, and going to Limerick races.

So I resolved to go, and that you all may say sir,
And I behind a coach and four, so neatly took my seat, sir:
A man cried "Whip behind!" and the coachman dealt the blow, sir,
And he hit me just as fair, as if his eye'd been in the pole, sir.

So then I had to walk, and make no great delay, sir,
Until I reached the course, where everything look'd gay, sir,
I spied a wooden house, and on the upper storey,
The band struck up a tune, it was "Garry Owen and Glory!"

There was fiddlers playing jigs, and lads and lasses dancing, 
And gentlemen on their their nags around the course were prancing.
They were drinking whiskey-punch, and others shouting gayly:
"Hurrah for the Shamrock green, and the splinter of shillelagh:"

There was betting men to and fro, to see which horse would won the race, sir, 
And some of the knowing the men of the racers came to me, sir:
Says one:  "I'll bet you a thousand and put it down this minute." 
Says I "I'll bet you ten to one, the horse that comes in first will win it." 

Then players came to town, and a funny lot they are, sir,
I paid my thirteens to go and see the play, sir,
There was cobblers, kings and queens, and columbine and fairy-
But I thought myself at home when they struck up: "Paddy Carey".