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Skinny Lister
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Forty Pound Wedding
Well, as I walked down the metal road,
With all but forty pounds,
Only the bells around my waist,
The cut-throats to confound.
No sharp-eyed rogue would rob me,
No vagabond likewise,
And I bet my hide I'll win my bride with the flashing bright-blue eyes.
Well, the first I met was a tinker,
With gold rings to sell.
Each one cost a tenner,
But some looked twice as well.
And I said, 'That's lucky for me,'
And parted with some cash
To take a golden wedding band
To my deserving lass.
Well, as I walked down the metal road,
With all but thirty pounds,
Only the bells around my waist,
The cut-throats to confound.
No sharp-eyed rogue would rob me,
No vagabond likewise,
And I bet my hide I'll win my bride with the flashing bright-blue eyes.
Well, the next I met was a gypsy,
She had a yard of Honiton lace,
Eyes as brown as berries,
With an honest, open face.
And I said 'That's lucky for me,'
And parted with some cash,
To take a beautiful wedding veil
To my deserving lass.
Well, as I walked down the metal road,
With all but twenty pounds,
Only the bells around my waist,
The cut-throats to confound.
No sharp-eyed rogue would rob me,
No vagabond likewise,
And I bet my hide I'll win my bride with the flashing bright-blue eyes.
Well, the next I met was an urchin,
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He had orchids by the score.
Blues and reds and yellows,
To make the sun feel sore.
And I said 'That's lucky for me,'
And parted with some cash,
To take a rare wedding bouquet
To my deserving lass.
Well, as I walked down the metal road,
With all but ten pounds,
Only the bells around my waist,
The cut-throats to confound.
No sharp-eyed rogue would rob me,
No vagabond likewise,
And I bet my hide I'll win my bride with the flashing bright-blue eyes.
Well, the last I met was a farmer,
He had a Magnum of champagne,
He wanted fifteen guineas,
But I clinched it just the same.
And I said, 'That's lucky for me!
Now we can raise a glass,
And drink a sparkling wedding toast
To my deserving lass!'
Well, as Father Reed's an ignorant man,
You can hear him loudly call,
'It's a curtain ring on her finger,
And her veil's a gypsy's shawl,
And what a fine bunch of wayside weeds,
Fresh-picked from down the lane,
And a wedding cup of cider sets us on the road again.'
Well, as I walked down the metal road,
With never a weary pound,
Only the bells around my waist,
The cut-throats to confound.
No sharp-eyed rogue would rob me,
No vagabond likewise,
And I kept my hide and I won my bride with the flashing bright-blue eyes.
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