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When Brum met Ben Rhydding with disaterous results 
They moved to the country
To fresh air without fumes
But what they didn’t reckon on
Was the contryside brews
The silage and slurry
Muck out in t’midden
The chickens a cluckin
Cows gently mooing
They moved to the country
For peace and well being
For sunrise and sunset
You know what I’m meaning
One morning they awoke
To a terrible din
As if the Almighty
Was trying to break in
Two rumbling great combines
In t’field next their house
The thumping of balers
And dust blowin about
He’d paid 800,000
To join country set
And weren’t moving
back to town
At least not just yet
A petition to his MP
The farmer and all
Our Urban Country Gent
Set his back to the wall
These peasants need teaching
He said to his wife
We left the great city
For a much quieter life
Now down in the local
The air was quite blue
There was utterins
and mutterins
At petition on view
He’d have been hung,
drawn and quartered
Had he walked in
But Vicar came first
And quieted the din
Remember the commandments
He said with a grin
Love thy neighbour
Afore fightin begins
A local farm labourer
Then said in the pub
I love the bloke’s daughter
Is that any good
That night Vicar wrote
After prayers to the lord
A letter to new man
Farmers and all
Requesting himself
And wife to join Vicar
For cocktails at eight
In t’bar by the river
He omitted to tell him
That locals and friends
Would join mine host
To talk on new trends
The locals weren’t bothered
With cocktails at eight
Twas pints they could sup
Before end of night
From five until eight
They supped and they supped
In order to show new gent
There’s muck and there’s MUCK!
Resplendant he looked
In Norfolk and Tweed
While sheepdog just stood
Cocked leg and then peed
The titters erupted
From full pints of bitter
Some coughing, some choking
‘cepting the Vicar
The gent’s charming wife
Had the fright of her life
As poacher’s dog Flicker
Made a dive for her…..
The Vicar decided
Enough was enough
And stalked from the bar
In a terrible huff
Twas then Urban Gent
Fell down on his luck
As locals joined forces
debating the muck
For there in the distance
His local MP
Driving tractor and spreader
Singing Rose of Tralee
All of a sudden
there wasn’t a sound
Till Landlord called
I believe it’s your round
That’s eighteen bitters
Nine double scotch
A large gin in the corner
Is there any I’ve forgot
He opened his wallet
and offered a cheque
One look from our Landlord
He was out on his kneck
The moral of this story
Don’t stir up the MUCK!
There’s more to the country
Than a moo and a cluck!
By A Country Lad
The above is based on fact and a copy was sent to
HRH The Princess Royal after her speech to
The Country Landowners Association
08.04.96
They moved to the country
To fresh air without fumes
But what they didn’t reckon on
Was the contryside brews
The silage and slurry
Muck out in t’midden
The chickens a cluckin
Cows gently mooing
They moved to the country
For peace and well being
For sunrise and sunset
You know what I’m meaning
One morning they awoke
To a terrible din
As if the Almighty
Was trying to break in
Two rumbling great combines
In t’field next their house
The thumping of balers
And dust blowin about
He’d paid 800,000
To join country set
And weren’t moving
back to town
At least not just yet
A petition to his MP
The farmer and all
Our Urban Country Gent
Set his back to the wall
These peasants need teaching
He said to his wife
We left the great city
For a much quieter life
Now down in the local
The air was quite blue
There was utterins
and mutterins
At petition on view
He’d have been hung,
drawn and quartered
Had he walked in
But Vicar came first
And quieted the din
Remember the commandments
He said with a grin
Love thy neighbour
Afore fightin begins
A local farm labourer
Then said in the pub
I love the bloke’s daughter
Is that any good
That night Vicar wrote
After prayers to the lord
A letter to new man
Farmers and all
Requesting himself
And wife to join Vicar
For cocktails at eight
In t’bar by the river
He omitted to tell him
That locals and friends
Would join mine host
To talk on new trends
The locals weren’t bothered
With cocktails at eight
Twas pints they could sup
Before end of night
From five until eight
They supped and they supped
In order to show new gent
There’s muck and there’s MUCK!
Resplendant he looked
In Norfolk and Tweed
While sheepdog just stood
Cocked leg and then peed
The titters erupted
From full pints of bitter
Some coughing, some choking
‘cepting the Vicar
The gent’s charming wife
Had the fright of her life
As poacher’s dog Flicker
Made a dive for her…..
The Vicar decided
Enough was enough
And stalked from the bar
In a terrible huff
Twas then Urban Gent
Fell down on his luck
As locals joined forces
debating the muck
For there in the distance
His local MP
Driving tractor and spreader
Singing Rose of Tralee
All of a sudden
there wasn’t a sound
Till Landlord called
I believe it’s your round
That’s eighteen bitters
Nine double scotch
A large gin in the corner
Is there any I’ve forgot
He opened his wallet
and offered a cheque
One look from our Landlord
He was out on his kneck
The moral of this story
Don’t stir up the MUCK!
There’s more to the country
Than a moo and a cluck!
By A Country Lad
The above is based on fact and a copy was sent to
HRH The Princess Royal after her speech to
The Country Landowners Association
08.04.96
