ON THE ROAD TO WIGAN BAY
by Bernard Newman By the old fried fish shop 'neath the spreadin' chestnut tree There's a bonny girl a-settin', and I know she thinks of me For the wind is from the market and it's scent just seems to say "Come back to the fish and chip shop, come you back to Wigan Bay Come you back to Wigan Bay, where the cockerels don't lay Can't you hear the cockadoodle from Bacup to Wigan Bay." On the road to Wigan Bay Where the fryin' fishes pay And the roses grow like rhubarb In the fields of new-mown hay On the road to Wigan Bay. 'Er petticoat was mottled and 'er little cap was green 'Er eyes were crossed, so she could see two noses in between I seed 'er first a-peelin' spuds for makin' into chips And before she spoke I rushed at 'er and kissed 'er on the lips Then I turned so very red as she hit me on the head "You're a low-down rotten thievish good-for-nowt," she said. On the road to Wigan Bay Where the fryin' fishes pay And the roses grow like rhubarb In the fields of new-mown hay On the road to Wigan Bay. When the mist rolled from the chip shop and it happened trade was slow I'd put pennies in the organ and she'd sing me, "Old Black Joe". And we'd sit there in the moonlight... at the fish shop, oldin' 'ands And I'd ask 'er to walk out with me towards St Helen's Sands. Then 'er father turned me out - 'is foot caught me such a clout With my love unpledged, although my watch was up the spout. On the road to Wigan Bay Where the fryin' fishes pay And the roses grow like rhubarb In the fields of new-mown hay On the road to Wigan Bay. But that was in the bygone times that seemed so far away And there are buses runnin' now from Bacup to Wigan Bay Yes, all the old spot's altered... and she's altered, as time bids For she's fat and married now, with three chins and thirteen kids. On the road to Wigan Bay Where the fryin' fishes pay And the roses grow like rhubarb In the fields of new-mown hay On the road to Wigan Bay.
The end