If pigeons’ wings are plucked, and peacocks’ tails refuse to grow, friend! In spring; you may depend upon’t in autumn they will shew, friend! If feathers hang about your fowls in drooping style and spare, friend! Both cocks and hens will get their pens to Barnstaple Fair, friend! Then, friend leave off your wig, and Barum’s privileges share too, Where everything grows once a year, wing-feathers, tails and hair, too! If winter wear and summer dust call out for paint and putty, sir! And Newport coals in open grates make paper-hangings smutty, sir! And rusty shops and houses fronts most sadly want repair, sir! Both shops and houses will be smart, to Barnstaple Fair, sir! And Barum is a handsome town, and every day improving, sir! Then drink to all who study its improvement to keep moving, sir! King George the Third rode out of Staines, the hounds to lay the stag on; But that was no great thing of sport for mighty kings to brag on; The French, alas! go _à la chasse_ in _von po shay_ and pair; But what’s all that to Button Hill? to Barnstaple Fair? For we will all a hunting go, on horse, or mule, or mare, sir! For everything is in the field to Barnstaple Fair, sir! To Button Hill, whose name to all the sporting world sure known is, Go bits of blood, and hunters, hacks, and little Exmoor ponies; When lords, and ladies, doctors, parsons, farmers, squires, prepare To hunt the stag, with hound and horn, to Barnstaple Fair. Then up and ride for Chillam Bridge or on to Bratton Town, sir! To view the rouse, or watch the yeo, to see the stag come down, sir! There’s nothing else in jollity, and hospitable fare, sir! That ever can with Barnstaple, in Fair time, compare, sir! And guests are very welcome hospitality to share, sir! For beer is brew’d, and beef is brought, to Barnstaple Fair, sir! Then sing of merry England, and roast beef, old English fare, sir! A bumper to “the town and trade of Barum and its Mayor,” sir! Boiled beef, roast beef, squab pie, pear pie, and figgy pudding plenty, When eight or nine sit down to dine, they’ll find enough for twenty; And after dinner, for dessert, the choicest fruits you’ll share, sir! E’en walnuts come from Somerset, to Barnstaple Fair, sir! Then sing of Barum, jolly town, and Barum’s jolly Mayor too, No town in England can be found, old Barum to compare to. I will not sing of Bullock Fair, and brutes whose horrid trade is, To make us shut our window blinds, and block up all the ladies: Nor of the North Walk rush and crush, where fools at horses stare, sir! When Mister Murray brings his nags to Barnstaple Fair, sir! But sing of Barum, jolly town, and Barum’s jolly Mayor too, No town in England can be found old Barum to compare to.