This is the page that will make sure you're singing the right words
CAN YOU FEEL THE BEET
COME TO THE LINCON MARKET
UP THE CREEK IN ANDERBY
LINCOLNS PRIDE
RABBIT PIE
R.N.L.I.
DID THE EARTH MOVE FOR YOU DUCK
GOD SAVE THE FENS
CAN YOU FEEL THE BEET
SHE EATS CHINE
SANTA WAS A YELLOW BELLY
NONE BUT THE BRAVE
BLATHNAID MAUDE O'DOHERTY
SHACKLETON
I DON'T WANNA GO HOME
THE BAND PLAYED WALTZING MATILD
Daddy was a Coal miner
Now I was down in London town when I fancied me an ale.
So I sauntered to a tavern to see what was for sale.
The landlord plied me with his best, twas a headless watery mess.
I says 'you want to go to Lincoln if you think like your drinking, coz there you’ll find the best' mate!
(Chorus)
Batemans
Give me a Batemans )
I want a Batemans ) first verse only
Mines a Batemans )
If it's a good 'n' it's a good 'n'
If it's bad we think we'll pass
But there's nothing like a pint of tripple XB in your glass.
So wang it down your neck mate, and holler out with joy.
And that’s all that you need to do to be a Batemans boy.
George Bateman gave up his farm in 1874
And took up brewing beer, its the one that we adore
He gave it all to Harry, now Harry bought the mill
Who passed it on to his son George, the family’s brewing still.
(Chorus)
The Aussies they have Fosters, the Irish have their stout
But for us lads from the fens “well we can do wi’ out”
Our tipples in a windmill, in Wainfleet up by Skeg.
On a Friday night we’re on our knees and finishing a keg.
(Chorus)
Now some folk like to fantasize of girls and fancy cars
But you know you can find better things by hanging round in bars
Come October feast time, there's one thing that's divine.
In my right hand there's a Batemans in my left I’ve got stuffed chine
(not a good combination for the next morning mate)
(Chorus)
Combined harvest
Summer Swallow
Rosey Nosey
Hop bine beer
Salem porter
Tripple XB
It’s a good and honest beer
It’s Hooker and miss whiplash they're the ones that we enjoy........
If you've tried them all you're surely...... Truly a Batemans boy....
Slurp... Aaaah I’ve ‘ad Woss
It was late on August the post office closed
The date always stays in my mind
I was talking to a good friend who’d lived here for years
Does this mean our village has died
I took him across to church lane for a beer
And he started with stories of old
Of when there was three pubs two shops and a blacksmiths
What ever you wanted they sold
Chorus
All the deals and the pacts that were sealed with a beer
That are still holding so strong today
Go to work on the fen just to earn a few quid
For a beer at the end of the day
We’ve got to keep this place alive
Yes a village it dies when the pub dies
We’ve had landlords with no name, who’ve lasted just three days
Who come here to hide from their debts
Oh its more a refuge for drop-
Who look for a roof for their heads
With all good intentions of Knock-
And visions that no man can dent
But it all comes to nothing when after 6 months
The brewery they double the rent
It’s moved away from a respectable trade
Of a man and his wife who took time
To note all that was said, of the comings and goings
In a small fenland village called Kyme
We’re on the slippery slope to a ghost town
The school playground has seen its last game
He said people moved in who came from the towns
They still worked there and played there the same
As I looked around I believed what he said
At the grime in the carpets without any thread
With just us two the landlord and two passing trade
And an atmosphere fit for the dead
No matter where in the county you come from
This story will ring in your ears
I guess everything changes, we’ve got to face up
Its been happening around us for years.
Sitting on the bridge writing songs
Waiting for a tune to come along
Greatest county in our nation
Is all I need for inspiration
Friday nights we’d have a ball
Take our guitars down from the wall
Playing to faces we all new
Stumbling home in the morning dew
CHOROUS
We’re on our way to America
We’re going to play in America
This is our day…..
In the USA
We’re in America..
Autumn wind then came a call
Early morning flew long hall
Pouring our songs out line by line
35th and 79
Astoria, broadway, open mics
Sun shone bright on Jackson Heights
Played Manhatten, played the fen
New York London , home again
Bridge and chorus
In the city we made our stand
The Christmas market, drill hall band
Jingles on the radio
We were reaching beyond the bridge
Chorus Bridge and Chorus
It’s a long, long way from Billinghay to America
Long time ago in the land of the big sky
Men would work the land till the day that they die.
On our island rising out of the fen
Billinger roughs would fight ‘till the end.
Chorus
And we all drink our ale in the pub wi’ our ‘mayats
Then end the night wi’ a playat filled wi' tayats
We'll all raise a glass to a life that is tough
Cheers! to ya mayats, yer a Billinger Ruff!
As fortune would have it, the rain it did pour
The fowl they flew in, we were straight out the door
I picked up old Bessie, and sat there in wait
Had twenty two brace that I hung on me gate.
If people poach our fowl , they are looking for a fight
We’ll chase em, we’ll ‘ave ‘em, down by the old car dyke
With pikes and forks, back they all are driven
Past labour in vain they flee back o’er the Witham
Now Amos and me we are sons of the earth
We sweat on the land and bath in the skirth
If we say it! Hey!!! we'll do it!
In Digby we're feared
We're not ones for small talk
We call a spade a speeard
The feast it is coming, the chine’s on the stove
From Anwick and Kyme they stream down the drove
If they try for our girls, they'll meet with their fate
We don't care for outsiders, this is Billinger ma’et !!!
Just when you thought you’d never see it again
There’s a 5 o clock shadow all over the fen
On all the front pages of the farmers news
The whole of the fen, has got the black grass blues
Persistence, resistance, I’m down on me yield
The world is never good when you’ve got black grass in you field
Its no good for me, no way of containment
I guess ill make it up with my single farm payment
We got the black grass, the black grass blues
We got the black grass, no time to loose
Were at the end of our tether
My fields all black
We even thought spraying it with paraquat
Weve tried Atlantis, Parcifica and Broadway star
Fluoxopire, liberator, diesel from my car
At a hundred quid a litre, Blame it on inflation
When all you really need is crop rotation
Looked at my wheat, I gave it so much love
But what the hell is that sticking up above.
I’ve got a purple haze that shimmers on my robigus
Turned away at Padley’s, they don’t want the stuff
It used to be that wild oats, the bane of my life
You could hide ‘em in the trailer, you’d still get a price
I’ve pulled it, I’ve snipped it I’ve yanked it right out
Hold my head in my hands and I just want to shout
We got the black grass, the black grass blues
We got the black grass, no time to loose
Were at the end of our tether
My fields all black
We even thought spraying it with paraquat
Weve tried Axial, Parcifica and Broadway star
Fluoxopire, liberator, diesel from my car
At a hundred quid a litre, Blame it on inflation
When all you really need is crop rotation
Its 3 degrees, spitting rain and my collar’s getting tight
I’ve been half an hour on a 3 foot lead and my owners not in sight
Well I see my mum join the end of the queue, you’d think I’d get all sprightly
But half an hour in a Co-
Here comes someone I don’t like. I know she don’t like me
She sits upon her scooter, for her mobility.
Oh you can’t hear her coming as she’s giving it full power
The gin’s on sale, She’s over my tail at seven miles an hour
(Chorus)
Give me a treat, drop it at my feet, bring me something that I’d like
Coz it ain’t much fun for a little dog when I’m wrapped around a bike
Yapping, tugging pulling panting, waiting patiently
You’ll see me outside Co-
It’s getting dark, there’s a lot of noise, As the Hoodies start to hoard
Misunderstood, all well and good, they say they are ignored
Cigarettes, turn them away, coz they don’t look twenty one
They’re smoking joints forget the double points
If only I could run
Crying outside the co-
Coz the range of pet food’s not that great and the rest is full of beer
With puppy eyes its no surprise you always will admire
Between you and me, I’d rather be
Sat down beside a fire.
So finally the doors they slide, my tail it starts to wag
It’s a face I know, its time to go, and she’s carrying a bag
Is it sausage, is it chops, a tub of co-
(No) it’s a book of stamps, 20 Malborough Lights and a lottery scratch card (DOH!)
So off we go back to my home, oh If a little dog could grin
Cause I left a package by the co-
So next time you see me sitting there outside a co-
Please bend down, pat me on head and shake me by the paw
Aaaaaaaaand!
Harvest time down in the fens
There’s some thing that’s a stirring
That little wheat fly says to him self
Hey what’s that there occurring
Calls his friends, heads to the sky
There aint no stopping those thunder flies
Thrip Thrip going on a trip
Over the wolds and down the dip
See him there at the Heckington show,
The chap who’s where in yella
Covered in thrips from head to toe,
He’s not a local fella.
Shows his shirt turns his back
Next thing you know that yellow shirts black
Thrip Thrip going on a trip
Over the wolds and down the dip
Chorus
Don’t wear yellow in August
You know that colours to gay
No don’t wear yellow in August
You’ll be
Slapping itching scratching brushing shaking scrubbing flicking rubbing
Wiping turning Squirmin’ all day
Double glazing, picture frames
There’s nowhere they cant get
One got in my computer screen
Is that a virus, no, a thrip
In your ears and in your eyes
You’re never gonna stop those thunder flies
Thrip Thrip going on a trip
Over the wolds and down the dip
Ride my bike on a summers day
Up on Nocton heath
Give a smile to a pretty gThere’s a thrip between my teeth
She’s my girl, my romance
Together we’ll do the fenland dance.
Dad a dad a dad a dad a dad a da
Chorus
Thrip Thrip going on a trip
Over the wolds and down the dip
Inbred and Proud
Living in the Lincoln fens as happy as can be
Townsfolk tend to ridicule
We do things differently.
When looking for a likely wife
Well they’re very scarce you see
That’s why we try to keep these things in the family
We're inbred
We're inbred
We're inbred and proud you see
We're inbred
Oh we're inbred
Life is tough for a Billinger ruff
When you’re inbred and proud
In or fenland village we have a swimming pool
Its where the fenland folk do go, in summer to keep cool.
We won cups in every gala, opposition we did trance.
With pointy heads and our webbed feet, they didn’t stand a chance
In the fens there is no place for genealogy
Coz every bodies ancestors they’re all the same you see.
It makes an easy Project to draw your family tree
Just ask your mate if you can borrow his, and make a quick
copy !
Our Brother George gets good reports
At school he is quite able
Some struggle with their adding up
He's doing his 12 x table
Teacher said “But you’re a thicko George
You’re one of those who lingers”
He said, “that’s before I realised
I had these extra fingers”
Now there was a girl that I once loved
She was not the one for me
Coz she came from another village, and that’s no good you see
Stick with your own kind mate, me father said to me.
And he should know, he married his Cousin
That’s why we’re all inbred.
Now from all the names they call us
Its fairly plain to see
That turnip, fennie, yellow belly, swampy
They don’t bother me
That’s coz you don’t realise we are quite posh you see,
As we follow the tradition of the royal family.
It was along time ago, in ten hundred or so
An architect sat down and planned
And for one hundred years of blood sweat and tears
Our cathedral was built on this land
Every stone as been cut by the mason’s steady hand
And laid with the greatest of pride
And there in the mass stand the windows of glass
Between the lead they are placed side by side
Chorus
You can hear the echoes trip through the halls
Shadows like talons that run from the walls
There’s no mistaking time passes my friend
Our Cathedral will last to the end
By the end of it all stood a structure so tall
With pulpits and pipes there inlaid
For a thousand odd years through the famine and fears
Lincolns folk have knelt down here and prayed
Through wars of religion great fires and desiese
Through hardship summer and fall
‘Neath the shadows of stone generations did breathe
And an imp sat there watching it all
In the black of the night like a star shining bright
No matter where in the county I roam
To be seen by all through the mist of the morn
Just one look and I know I am home
It was a matter of time before Hollywood called
With a story of codes and a ploy
But the imp never flinched he was four hundred years old
While D’Vinci he still was a boy
And now as I sit by this mountain of stone
I know she bears witness to who’s come and gone
Through it all long after my days
Lincoln’s pride
Lincoln’s pride
Lincoln’s pride and joys stays
Amen
On Labour In Vain lived Michael Strong, a quiet farmers lad
He spent his life a riddling tates and up to his guts in squad.
But Michael was a dreamer, with one thing on his mind
One day he’d find the treasure that King John had left behind.
From books he knew in twelve sixteen John sailed across the Wash
The laden boat was over-
But since that time the Wash had shrunk, So pondering the matter
He was sure it lay on a river bed beneath the murky watter.
Chorus
He Searched the Witham, the Welland, the Neane, the Baine
Carr Dyke, Skel Dyke, Great Ouse, Foss dyke
Twelve foot, Forty foot, any drain the Wash took.
River, sandbank, dyke and drain. (repeat)
The old boy’s searches all in vain
When ploughing up on North Kyme fen he heard a shout from dad
“Keep your mind on the job mate, your furrows out of wad!!”
Though Michael made a living from the soil and the sheaf
His mind was always wondering, to what laid underneath.
As time passed by now middle aged, with bairns of his own
On weekends Michael dragged them out, turning every stone.
When came holidays the children asked. “Why aren’t we like the rest”
“Most kids go to Skeggy, and we look for a chest!!”
Aaw!, come on dad
Chorus (we’ve searched)
The years rolled on, we all get old, the land had took its toll
Michael now a frail old man, in the same house all alone.
His wife passed on, ooh, must be twenty years, and the children flew the nest.
He’d given up his childish search. There was no cursed chest.
It was in the winter of 85 when Michael passed away
In a damp dark room his gathered kin heard the words he chose say
Please bury me where I’ve toiled and ached, upon the land I’ve kept
His skin went pale and his eyes they closed as his children watched and wept
As the next sun rose the boys went out to dig their father’s grave
The frost lay thick on the well worked land ‘til evening they did slave
When 5 ft down the spade hit hard, and snapped the shaft off clean
A silver chest lay in the earth and a coin from 12 16
With pounding hearts but not a word they turned back to their home
And took old Michaels coffin back to the land he’d honed
They lay the coffin in the ground, til no lower it would sink
It came to rest on an old mans dreams, the grave they then filled in
But as soil rained on the coffin lid a voice began to sing
Twas that of a fenland farmer, laid upon the treasure of a king
Chorus
(I’ve searched)
(The treasure was his)