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Copshawholme Fair 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.) AF OCT98Download the song in PDF format for printout etc.