Occupations

Here’s a health to the jolly blacksmith, the best of all fellows
Who works at his anvil while the boy blows the bellows

Chorus
Which makes his bright hammer to rise and to fall.
To the old Cole and the young Cole and the old Cole of all,
Twanky dillo, twanky dillo, twanky dillo, dillo, dillo, dillo,
And a pair of roaring bagpipes made from the green willow.

If a gentleman calls with his horse to be shoed
He’ll make no denial to one pot or two
Which makes his bright hammer …

Here’s a health to the pretty girl, the one I love best
Who kindles her fire all in my own breast,
Which makes his bright hammer …

Here’s a health to our King and likewise our Queen
And to all the Royal Family wherever they’re seen,
Which makes his bright hammer …

Green willow, green willow, green willow, willow, willow, willow,
And a pair of roaring bagpipes made from the green willow.

Come all jolly fellows who delight in being mellow,
Attend unto me and sit easy,
For a pint when it’s quiet, come lads let us try it,
Dull thinking can drive a man crazy.

Chorus (after every other verse):
I have lawns, I have bowers, I have fruit, I have flowers
And the lark is my morning alarmer
So my jolly boys now here’s good luck to the plough
Long life and success to the farmer

Draw near to my table, my lads, if you’re able
Let me hear not one word of complaining
For the tinkling of glasses all music surpasses
And I love to see bottles a-draining

For here I am king, I will dance, drink and sing
Let no man appear as a stranger
And show me the ass who refuses a glass
And I’ll treat him to hay in a manger

Let the wealthy and great roll in splendour and state,
I envy them not, I declare it
For I eat my own ham, my own chicken and lamb
I shear my own fleece and I wear it

By ploughing and sowing, by reaping and mowing
Kind nature affords me aplenty
I’ve a cellar well stored and a bountiful board
And my garden affords every dainty

My name is Jim, the carter lad
A jolly man am I.
I always am contented
Be the weather wet or dry.
I crack me fingers at the snow
And whistle at the rain,
And I’ve braved the storm for many a day
And I’ll do it all again.

Chorus
O
crack, crack, goes me whip
I whistle and I sing.
I sit upon me wagon
I’m as happy as a king.
My horse is always willing
And for me, I’m never sad,
There’s none can lead a jollier life
Than
Jim, the carter lad.

My father was a carrier
Many years e’er I was born;
He used to rise at daybreak
And would go his round each morn.
He’d often take me with him
Especially in the spring.
When I loved to sit upon the cart
And hear me father sing:

It’s now the girls all smile on me
As I go driving past,
The horse is such a beauty
As we jog along so fast.
We’ve traveled many a weary miles
But happy days we’ve had;
And there’s none can use a horse more kind
Nor Jim, the carter lad.

Now friends, I bid you all: Adieu
‘Tis time I was away.
I know my horse will weary here
If we much longer stay.
To see your smiling faces here
It makes me feel so glad
And I know you’ll grant wave a fond farewell
To Jim, the carter lad.

‘Twas of a brisk young ploughboy, come listen to this refrain
And join with me in chorus and sing the ploughboy’s praise.
My song is of the ploughboy’s praise and unto you I’ll relate the same,
He whistles and sings and drives his plough, the brave ploughboy.

So early in the morning the ploughboy he is seen
All hastening to the stable his horses for to clean.
Their manes and tails he does comb straight, with chaff and corn he will them bate
And he’ll endeavour to plough straight, the brave ploughboy.

When he goes out in the morning to harrow plough or sow
And with a gentle cast, my boys, he’ll give his corn a throw.
All this I’ll have you understand is just to fill the reaper’s hand,
Likewise I’ll have you understand, it comes from the ploughboy.

Now seedtime being over the fields look fresh and gay
There’s merry lads to mow the grass while damsels make the hay.
The small birds sing on every tree, the cuckoo joins sweet harmony,
All welcome here as you may see, the brave ploughboy.

Then haying being over and harvest does draw near,
Our Master he does welcome us with plenty of beef and beer.
We all sit round to drink our beer while Peace and Plenty fill the year
And we’ll be happy while we are here and drink to the ploughboy.

Now harvest being over we start the plough once more,
Our Master has invited us unlocks his cellar door.
With cake and ale we have our fill because we’ve done our work so well
And there’s no one can despise the skill of the brave ploughboy.

Here’s a health unto the jolly woodcutter who sits at home at ease
He takes his work a slight in hand, and leaves it when he please
He takes the withe and he winds it, he lays it on the ground
Around the faggot he binds it, drink round my boy, drink round.
Drink round my boys, drink round my boys, ’til it does come to me,
The longer we sit here and drink, the merrier we shall be!

Here’s a health unto the ploughman, who toils beneath the sun
He takes a ploughshare on his back, and sings for everyone
He treads the meadows gaily, whatever the weather may be
And takes his quart pot daily, a hearty drinker he.
Drink round my boys, drink round my boys, and see you do not spill
For if you do, you shall drink two, for that is our masters will.

Here’s a health unto the blacksmith, who swings his hammer fine
He has such strength at hand my boys, I wish as such were mine
His anvil rings a merry peal, sweet music for to hear,
Until the landlord calls him for drinking of strong beer.
Drink round my boys, drink round my boys, and see you do not spill
For if you do, you shall drink two, for that is our masters will.

Here’s a health unto our master, the founder of the feast
I wish him well with all my heart that his soul in heaven may rest
That all his works might prosper whatever he takes in hand
For we are all his servants and all at his command.
So drink boys drink, so drink boys drink, and see you do not spill
For if you do, you shall drink two, for that is our masters will.

And now we’ve drunk our master’s health, why should our missus go free
Why shouldn’t she go to heaven, to heaven as well as he?
She is the best provider, so broad as well as so tall
So take up your cup and sup it all up for it is your harvest home.
Drink round my boys, drink round my boys, and see you do not spill
For if you do, you shall drink two, for that is our masters will.

Our maid she would a hunting go, she’d never a horse to ride
She mounted on her master’s boar and spurred him in the side
Chink Chink Chink Chink, the bridle went, as she rode oe’r the down
So here’s unto our maidens’ health, drink round my boys drink round
Drink round my boys, drink round my boys, and see you do not spill
For if you do, you shall drink two, for that is our masters will.

Drink round my boys, drink round my boys, ’til it does come to me,
The longer we sit here and drink, the merrier we shall be!

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