And did you not hear of a mirth that befell
The morrow after a wedding day,
At carrying a bride at home to dwell?
And away to Twiver, away, away!

The quintain was set and the garlands were made,
'Tis pity old custom should ever decay;
And woe be to him that was horsed on a jade,
For he carried no credit away, away!

We met a consort of fiddle-de-dees,
We set them a-cockhorse, and made them to play
The Winning of Bullen and Upsiefrees;
And away to Twiver, away, away!

There was ne'er a lad in all the parish
That would go to the plough, to the plough that day
But on his forehorse his wench he carries;
And away to Twiver, away, away!

The butler was quick and the ale he did tap,
The maidens did make the chamber full gay;
The serving men gave me a fuddleing cap,
And I did carry it away, away!

The smith of the town his liquor so took
That he was persuaded the ground look'd blue;
And I dare boldly to swear on a book
Such smiths as he there are but a few.

A posset was made and the women did sip,
And simpering said they could eat no more;
Full many a maid was laid on the lip:
I'll say no more but so give o'er.