Copshawaholm Fair Songtext
von Maddy Prior & Tim Hart

On a Friday, it fell in the month of Avril,
Over the hill came the morn′ with the blithe sunny smile.
And the folks were a-thronging the roads everywhere,
Making haste to be in at Copshawholme Fair.

I've seen them a-coming in from the mountains and glen,
Both rosy-faced lasses and strapping young men
With a joy in their heart and unburdened of care,
When meeting old friends at Copshawholme Fair.

There′s lads for the lasses, there's toys for the bairns,
There's jugglers and tumblers and folks with no arms,
There′s a ballad-singer here and a fiddler there,
There are nut-men and spice-men at Copshawholme Fair.

There are peddlers and there′re 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 about the hiring if you want to hear tell
You should ken it as a far as I′ve seen it myself.
What wages they addle, it's ill to declare,
The muckle they vary at Copshawholme Fair.

Just the gal I have seen she′s 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 blushed and she scraped with her feet on the ground.
Then she plucked up her heart and did stoutly declare,
"I'll have five pound and ten at Copshawholme Fair."

Says he, "But my lass, that's a very big wage."
Then he, turning about like he′d been in a rage,
Says, "I′ll give ye five pounds but I'll give ye nae mair,
And I think you 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."


Now the hiring's over and off they all sprang
In to 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 on they all hurry away,
And some are so sick that they′ll never go more
With the fighting and dancing at Copshawholme Fair.