Here's a slightly earlier version: Same chorus.

Good master and missus, our worzel is thin,
So open your pantry and let us all in,
We'll sing you our song about trudgin in mire
If you give us some cheer as we stand by your fire.

Our worzel bowl's made from the good English oak,
And years of good ale have gin it a soak.
It's never bin washed and that is no bull,
Just one whiff of the bowl and you're out of your skull.

Our poor old orchard's had so many hits,
The trees are all shattered and all shot to bits,
The farmers all come and they stand there and shoot,
We'll be lucky next year if we get any fruit.

The worzellers come and the worzellers go,
No matter the ground is all covered in snow,
There's nowt in the cellar and nowt in the pot,
The worzellers came and they supped all the lot.


We know by the stars they'll be back the next day,
We know by the moon they'll be firing away,
The ice and the snow and the wind and the hail,
Won't put em off, they'll be there without fail.

Worzel!