They’re out of sorts in Sunderland
|
And terribly cross in Kent
|
They’re dull in Hull
|
And the Isle of Mull
|
Is seething with discontent
|
They’re nervous in Northumberland
|
And Devon is down the drain
|
They’re filled with wrath
|
On the firth of Forth
|
And sullen on Salisbury Plain
|
In Dublin they’re depressed, lads
|
Maybe because they’re Celts
|
For Drake is going West, lads
|
And so is everyone else
|
Hurray-hurray-hurray!
|
Misery’s here to stay
|
There are bad times just around the corner
|
There are dark clouds hurtling through the sky
|
And it’s no good whining
|
About a silver lining
|
For we know from experience that they won’t roll by
|
With a scowl and a frown
|
We’ll keep our peckers down
|
And prepare for depression and doom and dread
|
We’re going to unpack our troubles from our old kit bag
|
And wait until we drop down dead
|
From Portland Bill to Scarborough
|
They’re querulous and subdued
|
And Shropshire lads
|
Have behaved like cads
|
From Berwick-on-Tweed to Bude
|
They’re mad at Market Harborough
|
And livid at Leigh-on-Sea
|
In Tunbridge Wells
|
You can hear the yells
|
Of woe-begone bourgeoisie
|
We all get bitched about, lads
|
Whoever our vote elects
|
We know we’re up the spout, lads
|
And that’s what England expects
|
Hurray-hurray-hurray!
|
Trouble is on the way
|
There are bad times just around the corner
|
The horizon’s gloomy as can be
|
There are black birds over
|
The grayish cliffs of Dover
|
And the rats are preparing to leave the B.B.C
|
We’re an unhappy breed
|
And very bored indeed
|
When reminded of something that Nelson said
|
While the press and the politicians nag nag nag
|
We’ll wait until we drop down dead
|
From Colwyn Bay to Kettering
|
They’re sobbing themselves to sleep
|
The shrieks and wails
|
In the Yorkshire dales
|
Have even depressed the sheep
|
In rather vulgar lettering
|
A very disgruntled group
|
Have posted bills
|
On the Cotswold Hills
|
To prove that we’re in the soup
|
While begging Kipling’s pardon
|
There’s one thing we know for sure
|
If England is a garden
|
We ought to have more manure
|
Hurray-hurray-hurray!
|
Suffering and dismay
|
There are bad times just around the corner
|
And the outlook’s absolutely vile
|
There are Home Fires smoking
|
From Windermere to Woking
|
And we’re not going to tighten our belts and smile, smile, smile
|
At the sound of a shot
|
We’d just as soon as not
|
Take a hot water bottle and go to bed
|
We’re going to untense our muscles till they sag sag sag
|
And wait until we drop down dead
|
There are bad times just around the corner
|
We can all look forward to despair
|
It’s as clear as crystal
|
From Bridlington to Bristol
|
That we can’t save democracy and we don’t much care
|
If the Reds and the Pinks
|
Believe that England stinks
|
And that world revolution is bound to spread
|
We’d better all learn the lyrics of the old 'Red Flag'
|
And wait until we drop down dead
|
A likely story
|
Land of Hope and Glory
|
Wait until we drop down dead
|
There Are Bad Times Just Around The Corner
|
They’re nervous in Nigeria
|
And terribly cross in Crete
|
In Bucharest
|
They are so depressed
|
They’re frightened to cross the street
|
They’re sullen in Siberia
|
And timid in Turkestan
|
They’re sick with fright
|
In the Isle of Wight
|
And jittery in Japan
|
The Irish groan and shout, lads
|
Maybe because they’re Celts
|
They know they’re up the spout, lads
|
And so is everyone else
|
Hurray! |
Hurray! |
Hurray!
|
Trouble is on the way
|
There are bad times just around the corner
|
There are dark clouds hurtling through the sky
|
And it’s no use whining
|
About a silver lining
|
For we KNOW from experience that they won’t roll by
|
With a scowl and a frown
|
We’ll keep our sprits down
|
And prepare for depression and doom and dread
|
We’re going to unpack our troubles from our old kit bag
|
And wait until we drop down dead
|
There are bad times just around the corner
|
The horizon’s gloomy as can be
|
There are black birds over
|
They grayish cliffs of Dover
|
And the vultures are hovering round the Christmas tree
|
We’re an unhappy breed
|
And ready to stampede
|
When we’re asked to remember what Lincoln said
|
We’re going to untense our muscles till they sag sag sag
|
And wait until we drop down dead |
They’re morbid in Mongolia
|
And querulous in Quebec
|
There’s not a man
|
In Baluchistan
|
Who isn’t a nervous wreck
|
In Maine the melancholia
|
Is deeper than tongue can tell
|
In Monaco
|
All the croupiers know
|
They haven’t a hope in Hell
|
In far away Australia
|
Each wallaby’s well aware
|
The world’s a total failure
|
Without any time to spare
|
Hurray! |
Hurray! |
Hurray!
|
Suffering and dismay
|
There are bad times just around the corner
|
We can all look forward to despair
|
It’s as clear as crystal
|
From Brooklyn Bridge to Bristol
|
That we CAN’T save Democracy
|
And we don’t much care
|
At the sound of a shot
|
We’d just as soon as not
|
Take a hot-water bad and retire to bed
|
And while the press and the politicians nag nag nag
|
We’ll wait until we drop down dead
|
There are bad times just around the corner
|
And the outlook’s absolutely vile
|
You can take this from us
|
That when they Atom bomb us
|
We are NOT going to tighten our belts and smile smile smile
|
We are in such a mess
|
It couldn’t matter less
|
If a world revolution is just ahead
|
We’d better all learn the lyrics of the old 'Red Flag'
|
And wait until we drop down dead
|
A likely story
|
Land of Hope and Glory
|
Wait until we drop down dead |