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Alfie wrote this for the 1962 B.E.C song competition and it rightly won first prize. It is, in my opinion, possibly his finest effort.
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Come all ye odds and caving bods, and hearken to my song,
As ye quaff your ale, I'll tell this tale, of a damsel treated wrong,
And all ye gentle maidens, pray give ear to what I have to say,
And be ye warned, as well ye may. 'Cor! Bugger I fol-lol-lay.
For a walk one day that maiden gay went as far as Priddy Green,
And being tired, to rest desired adjacent to that scene,
When a caving lad his helmet doffed, said he "I know a comely loft,
All strewn with hay exceeding soft". 'Cor! Bugger I fol-lol-lay.
"Kind sir I fear to tarry here, what would my Father say?
For in truth I wont, he would like it not, cavorting in yon hay."
"O'h maiden sweet," said he, "you'll find, you may safely leave those fears behind,
It's not your Dad I've got in mind." 'Cor! Bugger I fol-lol-lay.
Some hours past and then at last, the maiden gave a moan,
"If my Father knew I was here with you, he'd like it ill, I own,
For I doubt if he would think it right, my being here so late at night,
And being shown that stalagmite". 'Cor! Bugger I fol-lol-lay.
At a later date, one evening late, returning from the spree,
The caver spied the maid, who cried, "I would have words with thee!
Me thinks I am with child," she spake, "and with worry long I've laid awake,
What steps doest thou propose to take?" 'Cor! Bugger I fol-lol-lay.
Though he turned quite pale, six pints of ale had sharpened up his wit,
For where e're he went he had no intent, of landing in the grit.
So he said "Fair maid, I shall not wait, to take steps that seem appropiate,
At an exceeding rapid rate!" 'Cor! Bugger I fol-lol-lay.
A local bloke from Rodney Stoke, once took that maiden out,
And her Father, grim, remembering him, said "he's the lad no doubt!
With shotgun will I go and seek that clumsy oaf and to him speak,
He almost broke my spade last week!" 'Cor! Bugger I fol-lol-lay.
In a distant part that caver smart, lay knocking back his beer.
While on Priddy Green, a wedding scene, was getting into gear.
And all up to the church did climb, and all the wedding bells did chime.
Folks say t'was only just in time! 'Cor! Bugger I fol-lol-lay.
A moral true I'll leave with you, to end this roundelay,
Of a caver keen on Priddy Green and a frolic in the hay.
That, if you do not wish your name to be involved in sin and shame,
Leave someone else to take the blame. 'Cor! Bugger I fol-lol-lay.
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