I have this in my archive among some lyrics that I got FROM Miles Wootton many years ago. I don't know the answer to the authorship, but I have always believed it was Miles.


We've got a new landlord in our village pub
And of him we are not very fond,
And one of these days, if he don't mend his ways,
He'll end up one dark night in the pond.
He's put up "oak" beams where no beams ever was,
And he's cluttered the place up with brass.
He's got bits of old stables and cartwheels for tables.
He's trying to "give it some class."

He don't want no swearin', no spittin', no singin',
No dirt on your boots and no darts,
He's banned poor old Bert for his colourless shirt,
And he.'s banned poor ol' Ted 'cause he farts.
He looks down his nose at the state of your clothes,
And remarks "You could do with a wash",
But he hands them out fags when they turn up in jags
And they all stand around looking posh

He's got saddles and stirrups all over the walls,
And some spurs where you hang up your coats;
And you sit down to dine with a nosebag of wine
Through a door that's marked "Fodder and Oats".
He brews Huntsman's Punch and serves Dick Turpin's Lunch
Which consists of a pint and a sandwich,
And the reason he says that he barred Dick and Ted
Is because he don't hold with bad language.

There's a door that's marked "Fillies" that makes them look sillies
Because of the period bolts.
Which frequently stick if they don't know the trick
And they have to climb out through the "Colts."
It's an Eighteenth Century Coaching Inn
Says the signpost that marks the approaches,
But the last sign of all is hung up on the wall
And that one says "Sorry No Coaches!"

When we has our Saturday folk club upstairs
I likes to oblige with a song
And if I'm invited werll I'm quite delighted
To take me old guitar along
Well he takes just one look as I walks in the door
And says "Sorry, no hippies in here"
Which offended I slightly so very politely
I fetched him a thump round the ear

Well it cost me ten quid in the Magistrates court
And some hasty remarks from the Beak
But the landlord's black eye makes I laugh 'till I cry
Though there won't be no folk club next week.
Well he don't want our custom and he don't want our trade
There's no profit in serving the locals
It's those with big cars that he wants in his bars
He refers to us as "they damn' yokels"

You can see by his grins and the size of his chins
He imagines that he is in clover
But we're hanging on 'til the tourists have gone
And the holiday season is over.
Well we sits in his bar on a Saturday night
'Cos there's nowhere to drink if we don't
But if you think we're going to see him through the winter
You've got it! We bloody well won't.