On a Friday it fell in the month of Avril
O'er the hill came the morn with the blythe sunny smile
And the folks they were throngin' the roads everywhere
Makin' haste to be in at Copshawholme Fair.
I've seen 'em a' comin' in from the mountains and glens
Those rosy-faced lasses and strappin' young men
With a joy in their heart and unburdened o' care
A' meetin' old friends at Copshawholme Fair.
There are lads for the lasses there's toys for the bairns
There tumblers and jugglers and folks with no arms
There's a balancing act here and a fiddler there
There are nut-men and spice-men at Copshawholme Fair.
There are peddlers and potters and gingerbread stands
There are peepshows and puff and darts and the green caravans
There's fruit from all nations exhibited there
With kale plants from Harwich at Copshawholme Fair.
And now 'bout the hiring if you want to hear tell
You shall ken it as far as I've seen it mysel'
What wages they addle it's ill to declare
The muckle they vary at Copshawholme Fair.
The first I saw hired was a strapping young queen,
He asked what her age was and where she had been;
What work she'd been doing, how long she'd been there,
What wages she wanted at Copshawholme Fair.
Just then the pit lass stood a wee while in gloom
And she flushed and she scraped with her feet on the ground
Then she clutched at her heart and did stoutly declare
"I'll have five pound and ten at Copshawholme Fair."
Says he, "But m'lass that's a very big wage."
Then he turned him about like he'd been in a rage
Says "I'll give ye five pounds but I'll give you nae mair
And I think ye maun tak' it at Copshawholme Fair."
He took out a shilling for to hold the pit wench
In case it might enter her head for to flinch
But she grabbed at it muttering "I should o' had mair
But I think I will tak' it at Copshawholme Fair."
When the hirin's, o'er off they all sprang
Into the ballroom for to join in the throng
And "I Never Will Lie With My Mammy Nae Mair"
The fiddles play briskly at Copshawholme Fair.
Now this is the fashion they thus pass the day
Till the night coming they all hurry away
And some are so sick that they'll never go mair
With the fighting and dancing at Copshawholme Fair.
As sung by Tim Hart and Maddy Prior (approx.)