Old Molly Metcalfe by Jake Thackray Lyrics
(Spoken)
In Swaledale, North Riding of Yorkshire, sheep farmers used to, and some of them still do, count their sheep in a curious fashion; not in the English way - one, two, three, four five - but thus:
Yan, tyan, tether, mether, pip,
ayzar, sayzar, akkar, contar, dick
yanadick, tyanadick, tetheradick, metheradick, bumfit,
yanabum, tyanabum, tetherabum, metherabum, jiggit.
Having thus reached twenty, they then take a stone in the hand, representing the sheep thus counted, and if they have more than twenty sheep to count, they begin again: Yan, tyan, tether, mether, pip, ayzar, sayzar, akkar, contar, dick.
Another twenty, another stone, and again: yan, tyan, tether, mether pip. Another twenty, again a stone, and so they go: yan, tyan, tether, mether, pip.
Not a right long time ago there was a shepherdess on a moor in Swaledale. Well, a shepherdess. Shepherdess is a word for a woman in a pretty pinafore, with petticoats, with a complexion and a cleavage. No, this woman was a sheep-minder. She was sent to mind sheep up on the moor as soon as she was able - the age of eight. She scarcely left the cruel place, and was found rotting with her ghastly sheep at about the age of twenty-eight. Here is a song for her.
Old Molly Metcalfe counting sheep
Yan tyan tether mether pip she counted
Up upon Swaledale steep and bleak
Yan tyan tether mether pip she said
Grow little sheep come hail come snow
Yan tyan tether mether pip she counted
Fine warm wool for a gentleman's shoulderblades
Yan tyan tether mether pip she said
Over the heather when the weather is cold
Yan tyan tether mether pip she counted
Stiff Molly Metcalfe goes bow-leggedly
Yan tyan tether mether pip she said
Grow little sheep, come wind come rain
Yan tyan tether mether pip she counted
Fine warm wool for a lady's counterpane
Yan tyan tether mether pip she said
On her back in the bracken with frozen bones
Yan tyan tether mether pip she counted
Daft Molly Metcalfe singing alone
Yan tyan tether mether pip she said
Grow little sheep, come death come dark
Yan tyan tether mether pip she counted
No such wool for old Molly Metcalfe
Yan tyan tether mether pip she said
In Swaledale, North Riding of Yorkshire, sheep farmers used to, and some of them still do, count their sheep in a curious fashion; not in the English way - one, two, three, four five - but thus:
Yan, tyan, tether, mether, pip,
ayzar, sayzar, akkar, contar, dick
yanadick, tyanadick, tetheradick, metheradick, bumfit,
yanabum, tyanabum, tetherabum, metherabum, jiggit.
Having thus reached twenty, they then take a stone in the hand, representing the sheep thus counted, and if they have more than twenty sheep to count, they begin again: Yan, tyan, tether, mether, pip, ayzar, sayzar, akkar, contar, dick.
Another twenty, another stone, and again: yan, tyan, tether, mether pip. Another twenty, again a stone, and so they go: yan, tyan, tether, mether, pip.
Not a right long time ago there was a shepherdess on a moor in Swaledale. Well, a shepherdess. Shepherdess is a word for a woman in a pretty pinafore, with petticoats, with a complexion and a cleavage. No, this woman was a sheep-minder. She was sent to mind sheep up on the moor as soon as she was able - the age of eight. She scarcely left the cruel place, and was found rotting with her ghastly sheep at about the age of twenty-eight. Here is a song for her.
Old Molly Metcalfe counting sheep
Yan tyan tether mether pip she counted
Up upon Swaledale steep and bleak
Yan tyan tether mether pip she said
Grow little sheep come hail come snow
Yan tyan tether mether pip she counted
Fine warm wool for a gentleman's shoulderblades
Yan tyan tether mether pip she said
Over the heather when the weather is cold
Yan tyan tether mether pip she counted
Stiff Molly Metcalfe goes bow-leggedly
Yan tyan tether mether pip she said
Grow little sheep, come wind come rain
Yan tyan tether mether pip she counted
Fine warm wool for a lady's counterpane
Yan tyan tether mether pip she said
On her back in the bracken with frozen bones
Yan tyan tether mether pip she counted
Daft Molly Metcalfe singing alone
Yan tyan tether mether pip she said
Grow little sheep, come death come dark
Yan tyan tether mether pip she counted
No such wool for old Molly Metcalfe
Yan tyan tether mether pip she said