Lyrics Forty Pound Wedding - Skinny Lister
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,
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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