On Appleby top, you will find an old fair,
Which draws all the Travellers year after year
You’ll see all the Diddies, dealers and liars
Sat cooking their scran, round smokey wood fires.

There’ll be Piebalds, Skewbalds, and flea-bitten Greys
Like most of their owners they’ve seen better days.
With a greasy leg here, a bog spavin there
They’ll take knacker price for these at the fair.

Now here meet ‘Bob Forest’ who owns ‘Allen West’
A genuine trotter that’s bred off the best
In company with ‘Cheeky’ who smokes a cigar
He speaks of his daughter who drives a stock car.

Along comes Fred Pickard a man who is game
He owns trotting horses that have bought hi fame
With him is Stan Mallam well known all around
And gents such as these so seldom are found.

But hang on a minute, we nearly forgot
There’s Gatenby, Coily, Smasher an’t lot
Come up from Bradford to buy us some beer
So keep off o’t whisky don’t make it so dear.

Our pay Davy Jones will still have a go
And Shaftoe from Byker will toss out his dough
There may be some ruttlers that’s now doing stir
But they will be thinking of Appleby Fair.

The Gascons, Tom Lister and young Billy Brough
Have all had it off, and sold some good stuff
Wilf Wagget and Windle are looking for gries
To fee Irish navvy’s, or fill some meat pies.

The publics are full, they’ve been open for hours
Our pal Terrence Lee sings the boys April Showers
Jacko and Buffer now lean on the bar
They’ve just spivied Yorkshire with creosote and tar.

There must be some trouble for in comes a cop
A man had a scut with an old kettle prop
But no one says nothing for Travellers won’t talk
And the culprit is missing, he’s half way to York.

Paddy Murphy from Preston is spinning his cracks
While Billy Hill’s quoting the price of old sacks
So what with his stack sheets and second hand bags
No one is bothered about the old nag.

Larry Howard the chanter sings to Joe Brown
Who sups all the whisky that’s inside the town
So ‘Order’ is given through the length of the bar
While Larry bursts forth with ‘Mother Ma Grai’.

Gold earrings and watch chains gleam in the light
And a man over eighty is wanting to fight,
A bloke selling laces is sorting his cash
As he wipes off the froth from the ends of this tash.

With all due respect through the course of the day
We drink to old timers who’ve now passed away,
T’was only by them this fair was kept going
And thanks to these lads every Traveller is owing

Each time the door opens you smell the wood fires
And it’s time ofr a song from young ‘Sonny Tyers’
‘So it’s my mother’s birthday’ that now fills the air
And everyone’s happy at Appleby Fair.

From the highways and byways the clans have now met
So win, lose, or draw, no one will fret
It’s been a great pleasure to put them in verse
You’ll never see better but often see worse.