Ballad of the Travels - though there are some inaccuracies.
For the Singers club 'sing songs from your own tradition policy' please see Peggy's letter to The Living tradition as indicated by MtheGM - that was how I remember it from the 15 years I served on the organising committeee of the club and the time I spent in the Critics Group.
Jim Carroll

Ballad of the Travels

King Arthur's knichts they socht the grail,
And whiles they'd meet their nemesis;
But we have had oor problems tae
In the search for decent premises.

There was Peggy, Fitzroy, Bert and me
And piper Seamus Ennis;
When he was sober he was great,
But Christ, he liked his Guinness!

The Princess Louise was oor first hamc
And a' oor needs it suited;
But the landlord moaned, "You lower the tone."
So oot o't we were booted.

We moved abode to Tottenham Court Road
Hard by the auld Dominion;
But the landlord's son, said, "Dad, they're bums,
Beatniks," was his opinion.

From Paddington Green to Bloomsbury
From the Plough to Covent Garden,
Lamb's Conduit Street tae Soho Square'
We bore oor heavy burden.

The Pindar it became oor hame
For twa lang years we kept it;
Till the landlord there gave us the air
And then, by Christ, we left it.

Week aifter week, ye followed us
And brocht your lasses wi' ye;
And rallied tae the clarion ca'
Of "Tak' your glasses wi' ye!"

Oor next stop was at Warren Street
At the Prince o' Wales's Feathers,
Whaur wide-boys went and city gents
And suchlike folk foregaithers.

The place it was owre sma' for us,
More traivels were afore us;
There wasnae room tae swing a cat
Or get a decent chorus.

So tae a Watney's pub we gaed
Near Berwick Street located;
A wee red lights and chandeliers.
And noise! Christ, we were fated.

The bloke that kept the place wi' us
Soon broke off good relations;
He said oor clientele was rough
And spoiled the decorations.

So like Ulysses we gaed
To see what fate would bring us;
It brought us tae New Merlin's Cave
The next hame o' the Singers'.

We settled doon in that big room
But alas, we were nae able
To be heard abune the jukebox tunes
And the clatter o' pin-tables.

And whit was worse, the beer was bad,
For the maist part quite undrinkable.
To stay there and be deafened
(al¬so poisoned) was unthinkable.

The shabbiest room in London toon
Next became oor haven,
Ten years o' Saturdays we spent
In that auld Union Taivern.

We sweated there and gasped for air
Mair times than I remember.
Folks used to queue for drinks in March
And get served in September.

At times auld Dennis staggered doon
Just wearin' his wee doin's:
At ither times he lay supine,
And slept while folk were queuin'.

For ten lang years we pleaded for
Some form o' ventilation,
Folks couldnae breathe and often needed
Artificial respiration.

At last we couldnae stand it mair
Frae Dennis then we pairted;
And we went back tae the auld Louise
The place frae which we started.

Twa weeks were scarcely past and gane
When builders and shopfitters
Cam' in and occupied the place
We didnac ken whit hit us.

Week aifter week the wark went on,
The room got wee'er and wce'er,
Till at the end you scarce could bend
Your arm to drink your beer.

So once again we were cast oot,
Rejected and forlorn,
Condemned to face cauld winter's blast.
The orphans o' the storm.

We traivelled east, we traivelled west,
To find a new location,
And found a howff. the Bull and Mouth,
No far frae Holborn Station.

The landlord raised and raised the rent
Beyond oor expectation.
He turned us oot, gave us the boot,
The victims o' inflation.

The wheel o' fortune gaed full turn;
At last in desperation
We gaed back to oor haven, the Union Taive
No far from Kings Cross Station.

Ae nicht a ghost, that's rarely seen,
As rare as Halley's Comet,
Cam' in and sat doon at the back.
"By Christ!" says I, "that's ."Dunnett".

"You're richt," he said. "My name is Bruce,
Why should I no' admit it?"
He said, "This place is a damned disgrace,
I think it's time ye flitted."

He said, "I'll swear by my grey hair
And Rabbie Burns's bonnet,
I'll find a room unlike this tomb,
Or my name is no' Bruce Dunnet!"

He found a room fit for tycoons
In a howff they ca'd the Cora;
We thought we'd stay until doomsday
Or at least till ninety-four-a.

There was mirrors braw and fancy drapes
And bonny chandelier-us.
And though some did groan aboot microphon
At least ye a' could hear us.

But O my friends, ye let us doon!
Ye werenae good at boozin';
The bar receipts when doon and doon
And the Cora sent us cruisin'.

Then, due to superhuman toil
BY Ian, Bruce and Tony,
The Singers' Club and the Marquis pub
Were entering matrimony.

Every week a new landlord,
And chairs kept disappearing;
And the marriage wi' the Marquis
Soon upon the rocks was steerin'.

Landlords came and stayed a week
Then departed - banished.
Receptacles for beer were scarce
And more and more chairs vanished.

Ae week the room had vanished tae
And we were maist emphatic,
Protesting when we had to move
Upstairs intae the attic.

St. Paul's trip tae Damascus toon
Provoked a' kinds o' heresies;
But Trevor Smith gaed just as far
Lookin' for new premisies.

Haunting pubs and boozing kens
Became his sole activity,
Orpheus was nae mair resolved
When searching for Euridice.

He lookit east, he lookit west,
While drinking quarts o' beer-O,
And then Tom Paley nipped in smart
And found the Belvedere-O.

It was a dump, an awiu' dump.
That dark and drearv boozer.
We'd reached rock-bottom in that hole
But beggars can't be choosers.

The walls were diarrhoelic brown.
The ceilings were the same, O;
The floor was dirty spinach soup
But at least we'd found a hame-O.

The second week that we were there
A wall it went a-missin';
We'd have had mair comfort doon the road
In a cell in Holloway Prison.

So Trevor's on the road again.
Frae Battersea to Highbury,
And a room he found deep underground
Beneath the Finsbury Library.

This place was camouflaged, weel-hid
Frae the prying eyes of strangers;
And the road to that wee iron door
Was sair beset wi' dangers.

Many a ballad buff was lost—
For weeks on end they wandered,
Roond and roond that library
Till strength and youth were squandered.

When Theseus trod the labyrinth
He didnae dae sae badly;
But folks couldnae find the Singers' Club
They hadnae Ariadne.

London toon is fu' o' rooms
Some guid and some richt stinkers;
But if we want to keep this place
We need some heavy drinkers.

So for God's sake, keep your glasses filled
Spend a' that's in your purses;
Let's settle doon and keep this room
And write nae mair daft verses.