Rest of the day’s your own (The)

AKA To be a farmer’s boy
Lyrics Worton David Music JP Long Roud RN1485

Music Hall performers Jack Lane 1915
Folk performances Cyrill Phillips, 1960
George Belton, ca 1972		 

One day when I was out of work a job I went to seek
To be a farmer's boy
At last I found an easy job at half-a-crown a week
To be a farmer's boy
The farmer said, 'I think I've got the very job for you
Your duties will be light, for this is all you've got to do.

Rise at three every morn,
Milk the cow with the crumpled horn
Feed the pigs, clean the sty,
Teach the pigeons the way to fly
Plough the fields, mow the hay,
Help the cocks and hens to lay
Sow the seed, tend the crops,
Chase the flies from the turnip tops
Clean the knives, black the shoes
Scrub the kitchen and sweep the flues
Help the wife, wash the pots
Grow the cabbages and carrots
Make the beds, bust the coals
Mend the gramophone
And then if there's no more work to do
The rest of the Day's your own.

I scratched my head and thought it would be absolutely prime
To be a farmer's boy
The farmer said you'll have to do some overtime
When you're a farmer's boy
Said he, 'The duties that I've given you, you'll be quickly through
So I've been thinking of a few more things that you can do'

'Skim the milk, make the cheese,
Chop the meat for the sausagees
Bath their kids, mend their clothes
Use your dial to scare the crows
In the milk put the chalk
Shave the nobs off the pickled pork
Shoe the horse, break the coal
Take the cat for his midnight stroll
Cook the food, scrub the stairs
Teach the parrot to say his prayers
Roast the joint, bake the bread
Shake the feathers up in the bed
When the wife's got the gout
Rub her funny-bone
And if there's no more work to do
The rest of the Day's your own.

I thought it was a shame to take the money, you can bet
To be a farmer's boy
And so I wrote my duties down in case I should forget
I was a farmer's boy
It took all night to write 'em down, I didn't go to bed
But somehow I got all mixed up, and this is how they read.

Rise at three, every morn
Milk the hen with a crumpled horn
Scrub the wife every day
Teach the nanny-goat how to lay
Shave the cat, mend the cheese
Fit the tights on the sausagees
Bath the pigs, break the pots
Boil the kids with a few carrots
Roast the horse, dust the bread
Put the cocks and hens to bed
Boots and shoes, black with chalk
Shave the hair on the pickled pork
All the rest I forget, somehow it had flown
But I got the sack this morning
So the rest of the Day's my own.

This song is sometimes described as a parody of “The Farmer’s Boy”, one of the most popular and widely collected English folk songs (Roud 408). The line “to be a Farmer’s boy” appears in both songs, with a similar melody, but the rest of the song is quite different, so its certainly not a parody in any straightforward sense.

Collected from traditional singers in the South of England: by Ken Stubbs from the singing of Cyril Phillips, 1960, and by Keith Summers from the singing of George Belton, ca 1972. Cyril Phillips described it as perhaps:

“the oldest song in my repertoire … a song about a boy working on a farm. A man named Kemp Scott used to sing it at the village smoking concerts in the twenties. He was a good entertainer and I remember him from Eastbourne.”

Mudcat.org

Despite this, its pretty clear that Kemp Scott got it directly or indirectly, from the Halls.

The lyrics were written by Worton David (1872-1940), a writer who churned out hundreds of songs, working with a variety of composers. As a young man he worked in a solicitors office, but his skill at writing stories and drawing cartoons saw him employed by the Leeds Mercury, a position which required him to regularly attend the Leeds Empire. This was the beginning of his relationship with the Halls. His songwriting and financial acumen were such that he eventually set up his own publishing company.

Jack Lane appears to have been a music Hall performer who was initially successful in the North and Midlands. But other than this I have found out little about him, so far.

Sources:

As Jack Lane sang it: