Our song?
I remember my grandparents singing this song. They said that it summed up the estate very well.
Rhubbub
I feel like a fighting man not fat but fit and fine,
Since I’ve lived in a little garden subbub up the line.
To call it a suburb is the fashionable way,
But I call it “subbub” ‘cause it’s easier to say.
If town life is too fast for you and country life’s too slow,
Just make a bungle of your life and buy a bungalow.
Ch: In our little garden subbub,
Far away from the noise and hubbub.
If you’re tired of the pubbub, tired of the clubbub,
Take a little house in the garden subbub.
There you can grow stewed rubbub,
You can bath in an old rain tubbub.
So leave all the hubbub and the pubbub and the clubbub
And grow your own grubbub in the subbub.
We draw all our water from a well, well I say well,
Well, we call it a well although it doesn’t work so well.
And to judge by the smell, our tabby cat that wasn’t well
Said “All’s well that ends well” then got drowned down in the well.
Well, who wants a well, who the dickens wants a well.
As long as I’ve a barrel of Bass, the well can go to…
Our hens they lay eggs and they’re extraordinary eggs.
Oh, they’re exquisite eggs, oh they’re exceptional our eggs.
For example of eggs that are eggs, our eggs will excel
The excellent eggs that all the best egg sellers sell.
Now I’ll lay a bob that Mrs Thatcher couldn’t lay
The kind of eggs our cocks and hens are laying every day.
(recorded at Sudbury, Derbyshire by Mike Yates, 1984) George picked this one up from an old 78rpm recording, probably the version recorded in 1922 by the Music Hall singer Ernie Mayne, as In Our Little Garden Sub-bub, (Edison Bell Winner 3764). The song was written by Bob Weston and Bert Lee, and, I suspect, George himself in the final stanza.
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