La première chanson écrite par Kevin Sheldon et moi-même, racontait Trevor. Elle marqua le début d'un partenariat qui devait rivaliser avec Rodgers & Hart, Swan & Edgar, Jekyll & Hyde, Mild  & Bitter etc. etc.

Well I've never been to school, never been to college
Sooner be dead that stuff me head with a load of useless knowledge
I never couldn't see no point in history
'Cos I weren't there, so I don't care,
So don't tell I, tell 'E!

Chorus: Don't tell I, tell 'E, that's my philosophy
When folks do swear, and tear their hair,
Don't tell I, tell 'E!

Young Sarah Jones one day, got in the family way
Her father come, with a gurt big gun, said he "You'll have to pay."
He chased I up a tree, and I hollered "Leave I be,
'Cos I happen to know it were your son Joe,
So don't blame I, blame 'E!

Repeat Chorus

While cyclin' out one night, a PC came in sight,
He'll make it hot, 'cos I ain't got no brakes, no bell, no light.
"I'll sling the book at thee," that copper said with glee,
I said "Sling all you like, 'tis your Dad's bike,
So don't blame I, blame "E!"

Repeat Chorus

Now we got a lift to town, with good old Farmer Brown
On a ten ton truck, with a load o' muck, and when he set us down
A drink we did agree, it would be good for we,
The barmaid rose, she 'eld 'er nose, I said,
"Don't smell I, smell 'E!"

Repeat Chorus

Old vicar came along, he said "You know, 'tis wrong,
That you gets tight on a Friday night," I answered he real strong.
"Now vicar you'll agree, the Lord created me,
And I'm afraid, that's how I'm made,
So don't tell I, tell 'E!"

Repeat Chorus (twice)



(Trevor Crozier- Kevin Sheldon)

In the year of sixteen forty-two in a little cider mill,
A poor old dog lay down to rest 'cos he were feeling ill
He chose a most precarious perch above the apple press
And in his sleep he tumbled in and he perished in distress.

Which caused his master for to grieve, likewise his mistress too
Until their sorrows to relieve, they sampled of the brew
'Odzoons', cried Farmer Atwater, 'the like I ne'er did sup
Go summon all the neighbors in, and bid them take a cup'

So the neighbours came from far and near, the parson and the squire
The blacksmith and the gamekeeper and daft old [Obediah ?]
They wished the farmer health and wealth and the parson played his fife
And the squire he filled three flagons up for to take home to his wife

Now every man that drank that night got drunk as drunk could be
And wondered how the scrumpy had acquired such potency
The farmer kept his counsel as he took another drop,
When suddenly the poor old dog come a-floating to the top

Now a silence fell upon the room, and every man did frown,
They recognised old Bendigo though he were upside down;
The parson changed his colour and collapsed upon the floor,
And the squire he lost his britches in the fight to reach the door

'Fear not', shouts Farmer Atwater, 'for in all his life I vow,
He never bit nor man nor child and he'll not bite no one now
And this shall be his epitaph, 'Here lies poor faithful Ben
Who perished in the scrumpy vat and quickly rose again

So if you're down to Devon, and you goes into a bar,
Ask for Dead Dog Cider, it's the best there is by far;
Refuse all imitations and you'll sleep like a log,
You can always recognise it by the hair of the dog


If the Piddlethentride Jug Band Hits the Charts

[Trevor Crozier, Kevin Sheldon]

Tony Rose a créé ce titre en concert à Cheltenham en 1971. Il fait partie de son album posthume. The Yetties l'ont également enregistré sous le titre de The Charlton Mackerel Jug Band. Enfin il a été repris par Adge Cutler & The Wurzels, puis The Dancing Ferrets' a Tribute Band to the 'Adge Cutler and the Wurzels.

I always planned to make this band
The very finest in the land,
So I got to hold auditions
For the fine, the best musicians.
Some what played, they made the grade;
Some they played like hell,
I picked the best in all the West,
And here's the personnel:
There was Bernard Mace on the old string bass,
Made from a girt big packing case.
Next to he comes Amos Draper,
Wizard on the comb and the paper.
Arnold Slugg, what blows the jug,
He's barred from all the locals;
And I'm the star with my guitar,
Harmonica and vocals.

Now what were worse and made I curse
Were finding somewhere to rehearse.
Neither of the pubs would wear us,
For it seemed they couldn't bear us.
Folks all laughed, they called I daft.
I took it on the chin.
I were always fond of the old duck pond,
Till they jugged I in.
Then Bernard Mace, he sailed through space,
Followed by his own-made case.
Amos Draper, he did try
To keep his roll of paper dry.
Arnold Slugg went “glug, glug, glug”
And very quickly sank,
And my gumboots was full of newts
When I reached the other bank.

Now we'd not been barred from the old churchyard
And there one night we practised hard.
Every man were full of cider,
Doing his best with the C.C. Ryder,
When a figure in white then come in sight;
We thought we'd waked the dead,
But Parson Stirt in his nightshirt
Said we waked he instead.
So Bernard Mace took his old string bass,
And he said we'd better had leave this place.
Off he flew with Amos Draper,
Trailing yards of Bronco Paper.
Arnold Slugg with his two-gallon jug
For speed were not designed,
And I ran like a fox with the parson's box
He were following close behind.

But then one day old Farmer Grey
Come up to me and this did say:
All his beasts like music played 'em.
Would we kindly serenade 'em?
So off we sped to the old cowshed,
Them cows they did adore us.
They wagged their tails and they banged their pails
And joined in every chorus.
Then Bernard Mace with his old string bass,
And a girt big Guernsey licked his face.
Another got attached to Amos Draper,
Chewed up all his pale pink paper,
Filled the jug of Arnold Slugg,
His kindness to acknowledge;
And I got a kiss of a perty little miss
From the Agricultural College.

So in one week we quite uniquely
Made the chart in The Farmer's Weekly.
Play your cows our Rhythm'n'Blues, you'll
Get three times more milk than usual.
We've got plans, a lots of barns,
No rivals do we fear,
'Cause every cow loves Mama Don't Allow,
No Jug Band music in here.
Now Bernard Mace has a shirt of lace
And his hair completely hides his face.
Likewise that of Amos Draper,
Getting in between his comb and paper.
Arnold Slugg's got a Pop Art jug
What broke his mother's heart.
We look so queer in all this gear,
Since we made the charts.


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