The Twelve Days of Christmas
• Traditional 1780
On the twelfth day of Lostness, my father gave to me:
Twelve bags of coinage;
Eleven cards a-gambling;
Tender embraces;
Nein funds remaining;
Ate nothing daily;
Seven pigs a-grunting
Sixth sense arising;
I’ve gold rings;
Four manly kisses;
Three button coat;
Two sandals fair;
And a fat calf-a-roasting-party!
One Man went to Mow
• Traditional
One son went to go, went to go to spend all
One son and his cash, splash!,
went to go to spend all.
One son went to go, went to go to spend all
One son, two girls and his cash, splash!,
went to go to spend all.
One son went to go, went to go to spend all
One son, two girls, three meals and his cash, splash!,
went to go to spend all.
One son went to go, went to go to spend all
One son, two girls, three meals, and his cash, splash!,
a bottle of pop, a gambling den, a famine strike,
when hunger hit, found that he had spent all.
One son went to go, attitude to appall
One son, less girls, no meals, and no cash, crash!,
when hunger hit, sat down with pigs,
got pod envy, went green round the eyeball.
One son went to go, with his empty holdall
One son, two pigs, three pods, and no cash, crash!,
a rumbling tum, and senses come,
decided that he’d go home.
One son went to go, had to be inspired
One son, two shoes, three days, and his sense: hence!
his dad’s hired men, unworthy son,
hoped that he’d be welcome.
One son went to go, tried to be so humble
One son, two miles, three miles, and his dad: glad!,
a long way off, Dad ran to greet, he kissed his boy,
pleased that he ‘s alive-o.
One Dad went to go, went to greet his lost boy
One son, two shoes, three coats, and his ring, ding!,
a calf on a spit, all celebrate, my boy was lost,
but now he’s found, we thought him dead, but he’s alive,
he went but now he’s back home!
The Owl and the Pussy Cat
• Edward Lear 1871
The foul son of farming man went to see
How inheritance makes a float.
Boy took some honey and most of Dad’s money
To a faraway city of note;
The boy made friends of a suspect sort
And dined, bet and owned the bar
‘Oh lovely lady, oh lady of love,
What a shallow companion you are, you are, you are
Yes, a vapid companion you are!’
Money said to the foul ‘Now your tummy will growl
For famine will strike you and I!’
Son sought out employ, and found with no joy
A task tending down in the sty.
He longed away to the end of the day
As hunger (within, without) grows
Envied (no one should) a piggy-wig stood
With poor pods at the end of his nose, his nose, his nose
Stinking pods at the end of his nose.
‘Dear Lord, are you telling me this job is killing me?’ ‘No!
But your father’s hired men
Eat well everyday, so arise now and say
You’ll be no son but work there again.
He walked so far, but was seen by pa
Who came running with gifts and a half
And coat in hand, wearing father’s gold band
They spit-roast the fatted young calf, young calf, young calf,
They ate all the roast fatted calf.
The Quartermaster’s Stores
• adapted by Box, Cox and Bert Read circa 1940
There was cash, flash, piled up in a stash
In the barn, in the barn;
There was Dad, sad, the boy took all he had
From a Certainman’s Home Farm.
My eyes are wet, they cannot see
I have not got my son with me;
I have not got my son with me.
There’s a child, wild (by sin he was beguiled)
In the town, in the town;
There’s a stack lack, can’t afford a snack
As the famine sweeps on down.
My guts hollow, my clothes not neat
I have not got much food to eat;
I have not got much food to eat.
There’s a sly sty, with chummo sitting by
In the slops, in the slops;
There’s a bright light, his mind’s eye has a sight
And a smile across his chops.
My father’s men eat well each day
I shall arise and humbly say;
Don’t call me son, or send me away
With a cough, boff! Still a long way off
There’s my boy, there’s my boy!
Now my ring, bring, and shoes & coaty thing
For I kiss my son with joy!
My calf is fat, the fire is lit
Cook beef upon this rustic spit;
Not lost nor dead: just the opposite!
Old MacDonald had a Farm
• Traditional 1917
Old Certainman had a farm (nearly lost it, though)
For on that farm he had a son, who wrecked his cashflow:
With a cash stash here and a cash stash there
Here a stash, taking cash –
Dissipated in a flash;
Old Certainman had less farm, sadly watched son go.
Young Certainman blew the dosh
(reckless youth, you know).
Wildly spending, gambling too, dwindled to zero;
With a poor man here, a poor girl there,
Here deprive, there contrive,
Famine struck: barely alive!
Young Certainman took a job, aiming rather low.
On the pig farm there were hogs, rummaging through slops
Eating pods not fit for dogs; young boy thinks of Pops
‘With a hired man here, some welfare there;
Hard life shun, lunch at one; not worthy I to be a son;
I’ll arise and ask for work, hope dad throws no strops.’
While son’s still a long way off, Certainman was bold
And ran to greet him with a hug; gave coat, shoes and gold;
With a kiss kiss here, and welcome there;
‘Join my staff, for the laugh; spit roast beef from fatted calf!
Son was dead but now’s alive: let joy be uncontrolled!’
Hey Diddle Diddle
•Traditional c1765
Hey diddle diddle, the boy’s on the fiddle
The cash jumped not all that far;
Four little pigs laughed when senses came –
Boy humbly went home; ate fat calf!
The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God
• J Milton Hayes 1911
There’s a farmer with no money to the north of Dissipate
His young son has taken all inheritance;
There’s some wildly wanton spending:
bars and gambling dens can’t wait
For his cash to be all wagered on a chance.
He was known as Splurge McGowan
by the ladies of the town
As they helped themselves to drink and having fun
But the money quickly dwindled so the boy began to frown
As the famine struck so fiercely: every one.
He sat upon a log as he watched a skinny hog
Rooting round among the mouldy, rotting veg;
Was close to actual yearning – realised next step: returning -
Work for dad? Yet having wasted all his wedge…
He was feeling awkward, rather,
when he noticed that his father
Ran with energy and vim and arms outstretched
He tried to say his thing but was greeted with a ring
And coat and kisses; also, shoes were fetched.
‘Well, we won’t do this by half; kill our only fatted calf
For we’ll celebrate ‘til morning comes around;
This son was dead but now I’ve /realised that he is alive;
He was lost, you know, but look! He has been found!’
Jack and Jill went up the Hill
• Cullen Boltey c1765
Jack and Jill spent cash on thrill
But found they’d dissipated.
Envied swill and bent his will;
Was humbly animated.
Up Jack got, and home did trot,
As fast as he could caper,
To husbandman, who greeted ran;
Cooked fat calf with spit and taper.
No comments:
Post a Comment