In 19-hundred & 74 me father he taught me the score, he gave me a joint & gave me a beer, it left me feeling rather queer: he took me off to Bromyard to hear them sing folk songs, The days were good the night s were too it just went on & on
Chorus: With Fol-de-rols, & do-dah-days, With Fol-de-rols, & do-dah-days, With Fol-de-rols, & do-dah-days, With Fol-de-rols, & do-dah-days,
In a field this Piper stood with pipes across his arm, The tune he played in welcome had a certain Galic charm he marched us up to the top of the hill for beer & local fare, but we got such a shock when we found 10 accordians there!
Now accordians me father sez are a party by themsel's but more than 2 inside one room is my idea of hell I've had enough of this he sez, it's got beyond a joke I'm off down to the campsite to roll another smoke.
Next we went along to see the 'Young Tin Whistle Pest'* join in with the chorus he said and I did me level best, but I was pissed & I was wrecked and as he sang his songs I joined in with the choruses & got them Bloody Wrong!
On the last night of the festival, sittin; round a fire, singing 'Martin Said to His Man' I was pissed & Stoned & tired, But I joined oin with the singing of this famous old folk song And when it came to my turn I got it Bloody wrong;
The Folks around the camp fire turned & stared at me, It seemed that I had roo-eye-ind their 5 part harmonie-ies: I snuck off like a thief in the night but then thought: wot the hell I will wright my own folk songs ... (and get them wrong aswell)!
So if you're a Folkin' Virgin @ a festival of song, and you get an urge, like you wanna sing along; take my advice sit near the back, sing quietly as you go, then if you get the bugger wrong, nobody will know!