Hello my deary-os, and tonight I have plucked from my ganderbag a few songs telling something of my peregrinations, which go jovially but painfully:


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,
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!


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
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.

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
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.


Twas on the good ship Habbakuk
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.

Then the mermaid sings to him in wheedling tones-

Come marry me my pretty lad
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.

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.
I am no use to you my love,
My futtocks have come apart-
Oh!


(TO THE TUNE OF "WALTZING MATILDA" [ALMOST])

Once long ago in the shade of a goolie bush,
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!


(TO THE TUNE OF "FOGGY FOGGY DEW")
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!


THE BALLAD OF THE WOGGLER’S MOULIE

(TO THE TUNE OF "CLEMENTINE")

Joe he was a young cordwangler,
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!


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")
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?

So the turve maiden sings back:

Stove it with a gander hook
That's what to do my Billy O-
Then you can woggle your artifacts
As good as new my darling.

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
That's what I've done me Mary O-
But now I've nadgered my artifacts
What shall I do my darling?

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,
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.


GOOD KING BOROSLAV

Good King Boroslav looked out,
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


Email me at a.del-manso@virgin.net

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