A Music Hall song from the singing of Jack Lane 1915.


One day when I was out of work a job I went to seek,
To be a farmer's boy.
At last I found an easy job at half-a-crown a week,
To be a farmer's boy.
The farmer said, "I think I've got the very job for you.
Your duties will be light for this is all you've got to do:

Rise at three every morn,
Milk the cow with the crumpled horn,
Feed the pigs, clean the sty,
Teach the pigeons the way to fly,
Plough the fields, mow the hay,
Help the cocks and hens to lay,
Sow the seed, tend the crops,
Chase the flies from the turnip tops,
Clean the knives, black the shoes,
Scrub the kitchen and sweep the flues,
Help the wife wash the pots,
Grow the cabbages and carrots,
Make the beds, dust the coals, mend the gramophone,
And if there’s no more work to do, the rest of the day's your own."

I scratched my head and thought it would be absolutely fine
To be a farmer's boy.
The farmer said, "Of course you'll have to do some overtime
When you're a farmers boy."
Said he: "The duties that I have given you you'll be quickly through,
So I’ve been thinking of a few more things that you can do:

Skim the milk, make the cheese,
Chop the meat for the sausage-es
Bath the kids, mend their clothes,
Use your dial to scare the crows,
In the milk put the chalk,
Shave the knobs of the pickled pork,
Shoe the horse, break the coal,
Take the cat for his midnight stroll,
Cook the food, scrub the stairs,
Teach the parrot to say his prayers,
Roast the joint, bake the bread,
Shake the feathers up in the bed,
When the wife has the gout, rub her funny bone,
And then if there’s no more work to do, the rest of the day's your own."

I thought is was a shame to take the money, you can bet,
To be a farmers boy,
And so I wrote my duties down in case I might forget.
I was a farmer's boy.
It took all night to write 'em down, didn't go to bed,
But somehow I got all mixed up and this is how they read:

Rise at three every morn,
Milk the hen with the crumpled horn,
Scrub the wife every day,
Teach the nanny goat to lay,
Shave the cat, mend the cheese,
Fit the tights on the sausage-es,
Bath the pigs, break the pots,
Boil the kids with a few carrots,
Roast the horse, dust the bread,
Put the cocks and the hens to bed,
Boots and shoes, black with chalk,
Shave the hair on the pickled pork.
All the rest I forgot; somehow it had flown,
But I got the sack this morning so the rest of my life's my own.


Taken from the book "The Song and the Story: Songs of Isla St Clair.”