by Sam Fitton
John Howarth vocal & banjo; Gerry Kearns guitar; Larry Kearns mandolin
To yo’ who read as weel as run,
Eawr little town’s a treat,
An’ if yo’ want to see some fun
Come reawnd a’ th’ Market neet,
For if yo’ll view eawr Market Square,
An’ walk abeawt a while
Yo’ll see some things to mak’ yo’ smile.
They’ll sell yo’ owt, eawr Market folk--
They’re cute, as I con tell--
An’ if yo’ dunno’ watch these blokes
Yo’ll soon get sowd yo’rsel’.
They sell blackleads ‘at winno’ write,
Herb-beer ‘at winno pop;
There’s apples, too, yo’ conno’ bite,
Wi’ th’ ripe ‘uns o’ on t’ top.
There’s kettle-stands ‘at winno’ ston’,
Gowd rings ‘at are no’ gowd;
There’s Stilton cheese wi’ whiskers on,
Cock chickens ten year owd;
There’s Champagne too ‘at’s nobbut sham,
There’s bacon ‘at con creep,
There’s turnips labelled apple jam,
An’ lamb ‘ats turned to sheep;
We han’ a Doctor Quack an’ o’;
He’ll cure yo’ in a flash;
He’ll ease yo’ o’ yo’r gouty toe,
Yo’r colic, or yo’r cash;
He’ll diagnose yo’r aches and pains,
He’ll mak’ yo’ think yo’r bad.
An’ then he’ll shift yo’r muddled brains,
An’ those yo’ never had;
He’ll put yo’ reet fro’ top to toe,
He’ll cure yo’r corns an’ warts.
He’ll shift yo’ warchin’ yed an’ o’
Browt on wi’ suppin’ quarts;
He’s shifted boils i’ barrowfuls--
It’s true, yo’ con tell,
He’s scores o’ testimonials
He’s written eawt hissel:
He’s stuff for makkin’ whiskers grow
Wheer whiskers never grew;
It’s printed on a papper, so,
Of course, it must be true.
So come an’ visit Doctor Quack--
He looks a gradely gawk--
An’ if he canno’ cure yo’r back,
It’s grand to yer him talk.
We han’ a fortune-teller too!
He’s clever yo’ con see,
He’ll tell yo’ o’ yo’r beawn to do,
An’ who yo’r wife ‘ull be:
He’ll warn to be careful as
Yo’ tak’ a walk i’th’ park:
He’ll say yo’ll meet a gypsy lass
Who’s rather tall an’ dark;
He’ll say yo’ll ha’ some childer too--
He fancies yo’ll ha’ three--
But if he knows yo’n kids enoo,
He’ll tell yo’ when they’ll dee:
He has blue goggles o’er his een,
An’ wears a cap an’ gown;
He coes hissel “Professor Green.
The Seer of world renown”:
But then he’s one o’ th’ best o’ liars--
The beggar’s killed wi’ cheek--
He carries bobbins up at Squires
For nineteen bob a week.
So do come up an’ stop a bit,
An’ see eawr little teawn;
I’ll bet yo’r takken up wi’ it,
Unless yo’r takken down:
An’ bring yo’r wives an’ childer too;
Eh, mon: it’s quite a treat:
But lads, whatever else yo’ do,
Yo’ mun’ come a’ th’ Market neet.
Sam Fitton
Arrangement © Oldham Tinkers.
To yo’ who read as weel as run,
Eawr little town’s a treat,
An’ if yo’ want to see some fun
Come reawnd a’ th’ Market neet,
For if yo’ll view eawr Market Square,
An’ walk abeawt a while
Yo’ll see some things to mak’ yo’ smile.
They’ll sell yo’ owt, eawr Market folk--
They’re cute, as I con tell--
An’ if yo’ dunno’ watch these blokes
Yo’ll soon get sowd yo’rsel’.
They sell blackleads ‘at winno’ write,
Herb-beer ‘at winno pop;
There’s apples, too, yo’ conno’ bite,
Wi’ th’ ripe ‘uns o’ on t’ top.
There’s kettle-stands ‘at winno’ ston’,
Gowd rings ‘at are no’ gowd;
There’s Stilton cheese wi’ whiskers on,
Cock chickens ten year owd;
There’s Champagne too ‘at’s nobbut sham,
There’s bacon ‘at con creep,
There’s turnips labelled apple jam,
An’ lamb ‘ats turned to sheep;
We han’ a Doctor Quack an’ o’;
He’ll cure yo’ in a flash;
He’ll ease yo’ o’ yo’r gouty toe,
Yo’r colic, or yo’r cash;
He’ll diagnose yo’r aches and pains,
He’ll mak’ yo’ think yo’r bad.
An’ then he’ll shift yo’r muddled brains,
An’ those yo’ never had;
He’ll put yo’ reet fro’ top to toe,
He’ll cure yo’r corns an’ warts.
He’ll shift yo’ warchin’ yed an’ o’
Browt on wi’ suppin’ quarts;
He’s shifted boils i’ barrowfuls--
It’s true, yo’ con tell,
He’s scores o’ testimonials
He’s written eawt hissel:
He’s stuff for makkin’ whiskers grow
Wheer whiskers never grew;
It’s printed on a papper, so,
Of course, it must be true.
So come an’ visit Doctor Quack--
He looks a gradely gawk--
An’ if he canno’ cure yo’r back,
It’s grand to yer him talk.
We han’ a fortune-teller too!
He’s clever yo’ con see,
He’ll tell yo’ o’ yo’r beawn to do,
An’ who yo’r wife ‘ull be:
He’ll warn to be careful as
Yo’ tak’ a walk i’th’ park:
He’ll say yo’ll meet a gypsy lass
Who’s rather tall an’ dark;
He’ll say yo’ll ha’ some childer too--
He fancies yo’ll ha’ three--
But if he knows yo’n kids enoo,
He’ll tell yo’ when they’ll dee:
He has blue goggles o’er his een,
An’ wears a cap an’ gown;
He coes hissel “Professor Green.
The Seer of world renown”:
But then he’s one o’ th’ best o’ liars--
The beggar’s killed wi’ cheek--
He carries bobbins up at Squires
For nineteen bob a week.
So do come up an’ stop a bit,
An’ see eawr little teawn;
I’ll bet yo’r takken up wi’ it,
Unless yo’r takken down:
An’ bring yo’r wives an’ childer too;
Eh, mon: it’s quite a treat:
But lads, whatever else yo’ do,
Yo’ mun’ come a’ th’ Market neet.
Sam Fitton
Arrangement © Oldham Tinkers.
Northern mill-town markets are still lively and important affairs. Friday night, pay night, weekend shopping night was always the great time. The poem here is by the dialect writer Sam Fitton. The Oldham Tinkers say he clearly had a particular market in mind, but which one – Oldham, Rochdale, Bury ? When singing the song they always imagine it’s about Yommyfield, Oldham’s own market.
First recorded and published by Topic Records 1974
Album: OLDHAM’S BURNING SANDS. 12TS 206 STEREO
Recorded at Tin Pan Alley Studios
Produced by A. L. Lloyd
Re-released in 2003 on CD “Best O’T’ Bunch” PIERCD 506
Pier Records is a Wooden Hill Recordings Ltd label