On a Friday it fell in the month of April,
O'er the hill came the morn' with the blythe sunny smile,
And the folks they were throngin' the roads everywhere,
Makin' haste to be in at Copshawholme Fair.
I've seen 'em a-comin' in from the mountains and glen,
Both rosy-faced lasses and strappin' young men,
With a joy in their heart and unburdened o' care,
A-meetin' old friends at Copshawholme Fair.
There are lads for the lasses, there's toys for the bairns,
There are jugglers and tumblers, folks with no arms,
There's a ballad-singer here and a fiddler there,
With the nut-men and spice-men at Copshawholme Fair.
There are peddlers and potters and gingerbread stands,
There are peepshows and puff and darts and the green caravans,
There's fruit from all nations exhibited there,
With kale plants from Harwich at Copshawholme Fair.
When the hirin's o'er, off they all sprang
In to the ballroom for to join in the throng,
And "I Never Will Lie With My Mammy Nae Mair"
The fiddles play briskly at Copshawholme Fair.