RAMBLING SYD: This song tells the story of a country lass who sings to her
soldier sweetheart- "Oh soldier, soldier, when shall we be wed? For I'm tired of the single
life and besides, the neighbours are starting to talk and I can't keep telling 'em you've
come to read the gas meter." And he answers, "Oh winsome maid, oh pretty maid, fain would
I make thee my wife-o, but we cannot be wed for I have no boots to put on." So she goes and
buys him a pair of fine boots, and then she sings, "Oh soldier, soldier, when shall we be
wed?" And he sings, "Fain would I make thee my wife-o but I have no trousis to put on." So
she gets him a pair of fine trousis on over my boots, and anyway I cannot marry thee as I
have no belt." So she gives him one, and he goes, and as he runs off he sings this stirring
martial strain-
Fare thee well my apple-cheeked Betty-o,
RAMBLING SYD: Now my dearios, I'll tether my nadgers to a grouting pole for the old grey
mare is grunging in the meadow. Well, better there than here- it makes so much work for the
char. Tis about a fabled horse, the Somerset Nog- Punch and half Dachshund. It gets very
foggy on the moors. Anyway, the Nog is a strange looking creature- three-hands high and
eighteen-foot long. They're not pretty to look at- but the rhubarb in that part of the world
be magnificent. My song tells of a man who wants to go to the great fair at Ganderpoke Bog-
so he asks the farmer for a loan of the Nog, so he can take all his friends with him, and it proceeds
in this fashion. (TO THE TUNE OF "WIDDECOMBE FAIR") Reg Pubes, Reg Pubes
So they all get on-except Fat Alice, who don't get on with anybody,
and off they go, but sad to relate- the horse snaps in two and expires- but they do say
as how its ghost walks abroad- in two halves, and if you be passing Ganderpoke Bog at
midnight they say you can hear the two ghostly halves of the Nog singing in duet...
Reg Pubes, Reg Pubes
Twas on the good ship Habbakuk Then the mermaid sings to him in wheedling tones-
Come marry me my pretty lad Seduced by the siren's voice and the fact that he can only see the top
half of her sticking up out of the waves, the foolish sailor lad leaps over the side and
drowns, and as he goes down for the third time he sings-
Fair thee well my Sally O,
Fare thee well sweetheart.
(TO THE TUNE OF "WALTZING MATILDA" [ALMOST])
Once long ago in the shade of a goolie bush,
(TO THE TUNE OF "FOGGY FOGGY DEW")
THE BALLAD OF THE WOGGLER’S MOULIE (TO THE TUNE OF "CLEMENTINE")
Joe he was a young cordwangler,
RAMBLING SYD: This is a taddle gropers dance, sung by the villagers of Musgrove Parva and
it heralds the coming of the oak apple fairy of sanitary inspector, as he is known. The
taddle gropers grope round taddling each other while the turve maiden merrily whirdles her
splod. They dance to a roundelay that goes after this fashion:
(TO THE TUNE OF "HERE WE GO ROUND THE MULBERRY BUSH") So the turve maiden sings back:
Stove it with a gander hook
So he stoves it with a gander hook but it don't do no good as a stoat's nibbled the end off and
he's forgot to put anti-freeze in so plaintively he sings to her:
I stoved it with a gander hook
So she tells him what to do with his artifacts and he does it- and they dance off woggling and groping their taddles.
PEWTER WOGGLERS BANGLING SONG
Come fellows raise your fumbeljugs,
GOOD KING BOROSLAV
Good King Boroslav looked out, Background Information Series Credits Cast and Characters Scripts Messageboard Audio Cassettes Rambling Syd's Ganderbag Beyond Our Ken Obituaries
Fare thee well, fare thee well,
For I'm off to fight my country foes
So dry your eyes and wipe your nose
Nose-o, nose-o.
For Billy has gone to the wars-o
A rub a-dub dub, for the sabres clash
With a musket, fife and drum-adiddle eye do,
With my billycock hat on my billycock head
For I'm off to be a dragono-oooooooooooh!
Lend me your great Nog,
Rollock me fussett
and grindle me nodes.
For I want to go-o
to Gangerpoke Bog, with-
Len Possett, Tim Screevy,
the reverend Phipps,
Peg-leg Loombucket,
Solly Levy, Ginger Epstein,
Able Seaman Truefitt,
Scotch Lil,
Messrs. Cattermole, Mousehabit,
Neapthigh and Trusspot, solicitors
and Commissioners for Oaths,
Father Thunderghast, Fat Alice,
Con Mahony, Yeti Rosencrantz,
Foo Tong Robinson and Uncle Ted Willis an' all-
and Uncle Ted Willis and all.
you lent your great Nog-
Rollock me fussett
and grindle me nodes.
And now my remains are in
Ganderpoke Bog- with
(as quickly as possible)
Len Possett, Tim Screevy,
the reverend Phipps,
Peg-leg Loombucket,
Solly Levy, Ginger Epstein,
Able Seaman Truefitt,
Scotch Lil,
Messrs. Cattermole, Mousehabit,
Neapthigh and Trusspot, solicitors
and Commissioners for Oaths,
Father Thunderghast, Fat Alice,
Con Mahony, Yeti Rosencrantz,
Foo Tong Robinson and Uncle Ted Willis an' all-
and Uncle Ted Willis and all.
And I a mid ship mite,
When four days out of Liverpool
A mermaid did I sight.
Singing fare ye well my Betty O
Fare thee well I say.
Fare thee well my pretty young maid
My futtocks be bound away.
And live beneath the billow.
A coral reef shall be our bed
An octopus our pillow.
Singing Fare thee well my Mary O
Fare thee well to you.
Fare thee well my pretty young lass,
My futtocks be rusted through.
I am no use to you my love,
My futtocks have come apart-
Oh!
Toasting his splod by the faggots gleam,
Rested a gander man nobbling his woggle iron
And stuffing a sheep in the Old Mill Stream.
Then up came the troopers and hung him by the billabong,
They twisted his woggle irons one two and three-
(minor key)
Now his ghost sits and moans as it grunges in his gander can-
Who'll come a woggling his jumbuck with me...
Oh!
When I was a young man
I nadgered at my splod
as I nurked at the wogglers trade.
When suddenly I thought
while trussing up my groats,
I'd whirdle with a fair young maid.
We whirdled through the summer time
until the winter came,
and the only, only thing that I ever did wrong
was to tell her my foggy foggy name.
Now I'm married
and I've put away my splod
and my son's at the woggler's trade.
Though sometimes I still think
as I'm trussing up my groats
of whirdling with a fair young maid.
I'd whirdle her in the winter time
I'd whirdle her for dear life-
But the only, only thing that I'd have to do
Is to keep it from the foggy foggy wife-Oh!
Monging greebles he did go.
For he loved a bogler’s daughter,
By the name of Chiswick Flo.
Vain she was and like a grusset,
Though her ganderparts were fine.
But she sneered at his cordwangle,
As it hung upon the line.
So he stole a woggler’s moulie,
For to make a wedding ring.
But the Bow Street runners caught him,
And the judge said-"he will swing".
So they hung him by the postern,
Nailed his moulie to the fence.
For to warn all young cordwanglers,
That it was a grave offence.
There’s a moral to this story,
Though your cordwangle be poor,
Keep your hands off others moulies,
For it is against the law....Ohhhhh!
There's cordwangles in my possett bag,
What shall I do my May O-
And I can't woggle my artifacts
What shall I do my Darling?
That's what to do my Billy O-
Then you can woggle your artifacts
As good as new my darling.
That's what I've done me Mary O-
But now I've nadgered my artifacts
What shall I do my darling?
Until your cringe is plunging.
Come raise aloft your nut-brown grot,
For soon we’ll all be munging.
For tonight I’ll drain the posset dry,
Every man shall do the same as I,
If he don’t I’ll wurdle in his eye.
Tomorrow we’ll be grunging,
Tomorrow we’ll be grunging.
on the night of grungers.
Saw them wurdling round about,
Armed with rubber plungers.
Brightly shone their artefacts,
Red their possets glowing.
He did not know from whence they came,
But he knew where they were
going.
Out he went into the snow,
Loud his lummocks ringing.
With his moulies all aglow,
And his trousers clinging.
Back he brought those grungers bold
Warmed them by the fire dogs,
Saved them from the bitter cold
By thawing out their Yule logs.
Those who would a grunger be,
Take heed of this warning.
Or there is no guarantee,
You will live till morning.
If you wurdle in the snow
In a spot you’ve chosen.
Dawn’s first light is going to show
Your woggling irons are frozen