THE WOAD SONG

To the tune of Men of Harlech

Vests and pants and boots with laces

Spats or hats you buy in places

down on Brompton Road

What's the use of shirts of cotton

Studs that always get forgotten

These affairs are simply rotten

Better far is Woad

Woad's the stuff to show, men...

Woad to scare your foemen...

Boil it to a brilliant blue,

Rub it on your back and your abdomen.

Ancient Briton never hit on

anything as good as Woad to fit on

necks, or knees or where you sit on,

tailors, you be blowed.

Romans came across the Channel

all wrapped up in tin and flannel.

Half a pint of Woad per man'll dress us more than these.

Saxon you can waste your stitches

building beds for bugs in breeches.

We have Woad to clothe us which is not a nest for fleas.

Romans keep your armour...

Saxon your pyjamas...

Hairy coats were meant for goats, gorillas, yaks, retriever dogs and llamas.

Tramp up Snowdon with your Woad on

Never mind if we be rained or blowed on.

Never want a button sewed on.

Go it Ancient B's