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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.
 
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