FAIRLOP FAIR.
AIR,—“The Maypole.”
BY JOHN LABERN.
LAST Fairlop Fair—to drive away care,
To toddle there we swore—
There was ugly Bob, and Sam the snob,
And five and twenty more.
Pat Murphy promised Fair,
So him we couldn’t doubt—
And what was pleasant, I declare,
Our mothers let us out. Tol lol, &c.
A cart and horse we hired, in course,
Of Costermonger Joe—
Who swore the nag was like a stag,
A regular good ’un to go.
We took him at his word,
And paid a suvverin down,
And away we toddled, toddled, toddled,
And hook’d it out of town. Tol lol, &c.
Sam wore whites, and Bob wore tights,
With a spicy long-tail’d blue,
While all the rest were up and drest
In toggery “petter as new.”
Besides, it was agreed
By Sam and ugly Bobby,
A nosegay we should wear apiece,
To make us all look nobby. Tol lol, &c.
Away we went, on pleasure bent,
As hard as we could trot—
The horse look’d bold, no wives did scold,
But the sun was werry hot.
The perspiration roll’d,
The ladies’ colours run,
Which clearly proved, and no mistake,
They’d all been in the sun. Tol lol, &c.
A treat, I’m blow’d, ’twas, down the road,
To see him gallop hard,
When all at once, the stupid dunce,
He wouldn’t stir a yard.
We give it him over the nob,
And whopp’d him on the flank—
But, lord! you might as well have tried
To move the precious Bank. Tol lol, &c.
The people laugh’d, and jeer’d and chaff’d,
As down the road they pass’d—
Though we were first, says Bob, I’m cursed
If we shan’t be the last.
We shoved away behind,
And so did Bob’s fat mother—
But as fast as we could shove one way,
The hunter shoved the other. Tol lol, &c.
At last, cried Sam, “I’ve got a plan!”
Then a bunch of carrots ties
To the end of a stick—an artful trick—
And fix’d ’em afore his eyes.
Away the hunter went
With his precious livin’ load,
When all at once the tail fell down,
And spilt us in the road. Tol lol, &c.
The women bawl’d—the babbies squall’d,
We book’d ourselves for dead—
Some were hurt, and choked with dirt,
And some pitch’d on their head.
The grub got spoilt, on which
Our hopes did so depend;
And the goosegog pie had all got jamm’d
By Bobby’s latter end. Tol lol, &c.
By the time we’d quite got o’er our fright,
The folks were coming back,—
So we got done out of our fun,
Through the precious lazy hack.
Next time we pleasuring went,
We swore with all our rage,
If we couldn’t get a better horse,
We’d go by the Marrowbone stage. Tol lol, &c.
Tatham: Printed at Charles Clark’s Private Press.