The Ball of Kirriemuir [ C ] 'Twas the gatherin' o' the clans, And a' the lads were there, A-feeling o' the lassies Amang their gowden hair. Chorus: Fa di' ye last nicht, Fa'll dae ye noo? The yin that di' ye last nicht Cannae dae ye noo. ** Rowland Berthoff, who contributed this version, explained: "Northeast dialect -- Kirriemuir is there, a village, not a 'region,' and not pronounced Kerry-more!"¯ There was firkin' in the parlor And firkin' in the ricks. Ye couldna hear the music For the swishin' o' the pricks. There was firkin' in the parlor And firkin' on the stairs. Ye couldna see the carpet For the cunts and curly hairs. The Laird o'Lanerkie rade oot Aboot his Gothic halls, To exercise his horses And reactivate his balls. The "C" text here was sent by Professor Emeritus Rowland Berthoff of St. Louis in a letter to the editor on Janaury 17, 1995, with the explanation he had learned it about 1940 while at Oberlin College, Ohio. He stated he had sung it while in the army, 1942-1946. [ D ] Chorus: Singin' who do ya las' nich, who do ya noor? The one who do ya las' nich, he cannot do ya noor. The ball o', the ball o', the ball o' Ballynoor Where your wife and my wife were doin' it on the floor. Balls to your partner, ass against the wall, If you ne'er been shagged on a Saturday night you ne'er been shagged at all. Oh, they did it in the parlor and they did it on the stairs. You could not see the carpet for the come and curly hairs. First they did it singles, then they did it he's and she's, But when the ball got rollin' they did it fives and threes. Four and twenty maidens came down from Inverness, And when the ball was over there were four and twenty less. The vicar's wife came into town, very surprised to see Four and twenty maidenheads a-hanging from a tree. The village vicar, he was there, dressed in a great white shroud, Swingin' from the chandelier and pissing on the crowd. The county sheriff, he was there, along with all the rest. The ladies flocked to him because he was the best. The village constable was there with his sword in his hand. He turned around so quickly that he circumcised the band. The deacon's wife, she was there, her butt against the wall. "Put your money on the table, boys, I've come to do you all." The deacon's daughter, she was there, her ass against a chair. The prettiest bum you ever [saw] was a-stickin' in the air. His other daughter, she was there, a-standing up in front, With the smile upon her face and a carrot up her cunt. The deacon himself, he was there, enjoyin' the ladies too. "I'll sin so much I'll go to Hell before this night is through." The village prostitute was there, a-lyin' on the floor. Ev'rytime she opened her legs the suction closed the door. The whalin' captain, he was there, a -standin' on the deck, But when the prostitute was through, he looked just like a wreck. Oh, she did the whaler's earlobes and she did th whaler's nose, But when she got to his harpoon, he hollered, "Thar she blows!" The queen was in the parlor, eating bread and honey. The king was in the chambermaid, and she was in the money. When the king was through with her, he sent her out to play. She met the Duke of Wales there and had another lay. The royal jester, he was there, performin' his favorite trick. He'd hypnotize the ladies with the swingin' of his prick. The letter-carrier, he was there, the poor man had the pox. He could not do the ladies so he did the letterbox. The village drunkard, he was there, an ale within his hand. He said he'd laid his way across the whole of Eng-e-land. Beneath the spreading chestnut tree the village idiot sat Amusing himself by abusing himself and catching it in his hat. When the ball was over ev'ryone confessed The music was exquisite, but the doin' it were the best. Furnished without tune by Pasadena, California, attorney Roger Gray, a parttime performer at the Renaissance Pleasure Faire. Gray has deliberately gathered songs from various sources, both oral and printed, to present as a "strolling minstrel" at the pageant. [ E ] Roger Gray also furnished these additional verses from a variant text: Do you remember the ball of Ballinoor, When your wife and my wife were doin' it on the floor? Chorus: Who did you last, lass? Who's doin' ya now? The one who did you last, lassie, Canna do ya now. They did it in the garden, they did it on the stones, You couldna hear the music for the wheezin' and the groans. They did it in the parlor, they did it in the halls. The double-backed beasties were rompin' wall-to-wall. Our own lord sheriff he was there and didna havbe much fun For ev'ry other person were his daughter or his son. He kissed the lady's hair, he kissed the lady's mouth. But she were pointin' northerly, and he were pointin' south. The Puritan's wife she was there, a-dancin' at the ball: "Put your money on the table, lads, I'm gonna do you all." The Puritan's wife she were there, her face white as a sheet. The line of men to try their luck wound out into the street! The shire shepherd he was there but we were all asleep. He couldna find a lady so he did it with his sheep. The village crier he was there, his hand upon his bell, And ev'ry time his lady came the whole wide world could tell. The village crier he was there, reading a proclamation, Crying the names of everyone involved in fornication. [ F ] Oh the ball, the ball of Ballyknure, Where your wife and my wife were doin' it on the floor, Chorus: Singing, "Wha' do ya, lassie? and wha' do y'noo? I'm the man what did y' last, lass, I canna do y'noo." [or] Singin' "Who hae ye, lassie? Who hae ye noo? The ane that had ye last time, he canna hae ye noo. The queen was in the parlour, eatin' bread and honey. The king was in the chambermaid and she was in the money. The village idiot, he was there, a-sittin' by the fire, Attempting masturbation with an India-rubber tyre. Oh, the village postman, he was there, the poor man had the pox. He couldna' do the ladies so he did the letter box. The queen of England, she was there, backed against the wall, "Put your money on the table, boys, I'm going ta do you all." The count and countess, they were, a-doin' on the stair. The bannister borke, and down they fell, they finished in mid-air. There was music in the garden; there was music in the sticks. You couldna hear the music for the swishin' o' the pricks. They were doin' it on the landing; they were doing it on the stairs. You couldna see the carpet for the wealth of public hairs. The board of directors, there were there; they were shocked to see Four and twenty maidenheads a-hangin' from a tree. John the blacksmith, he was there; he wouldna play the game. He did a lassie seven times, but wouldna see her hame. The village constable, he was there -- now whattaya think o' that? -- Amusin' himself, by abusin' himself, and catchin' it in his hat. The village pervert, he was there, scratchin' at his crotch. But no one minded him at all, he was only there to watch. The village cripple, he was there, but he didna shag too much. His old John Thomas had fallen off, so he did 'em with his crutch. It started out so simple-like: each lad and lassie mated, But pretty soon the doin's got so bloddy complicated. The village chimney sweep was there, a really filthy brute. For every time he farted, he covered 'em all with soot. The local Cavaliers were there, in elegance they sat, A-doin' things unusual with the feathers in their hat. The village carpenter, he was there, with his prick of wood. He made it when he lost his own, and it worked just as good. Madame Heidi Fleiss was there, procuring for the blal. "It's condoms all around," she said, "no llamas in the hall." The old fishmonger he was there, a dirty stinkin' sod. He never got a rise that night, so he diddled 'em with a cod. Four and twenty virgins went down to Inverness And when the ball was over, there were four and twenty less. There was doin's on the porches, and doin's on the stones. You couldna' hear the music for the loud and joyful moans. ____________, he was there, covered up with smiles. Doin' thirty-two at once, and in amazing style. ____________, she was there, covered al in sweat, Taking' on all comers, and she hasn't finished yet. And in the morning early, the farmer nearly shat, For four and twenty acres was nearly fuckit flat. The minister's wife, she was there, buckled tae th' front Wi' a wreath of rose around her arse, and thistles round her cunt. The village blacksmith, he was there, his balls were made of brass, And every time he laid a girl the sparks flew out his ass. The sheriff's dochter, she was there, and kept us all in fits By jumping off the mantlepiece and bouncing on her tits. The local surgeon, he was there, with his knife in hand, And every time he turned around, he circumsized a man. The village fireman, he was there, quenchin' lassies' fires. He diddled 'em in the fire truck, right beside the tires. There was doin's in the bedroooms; there was doin's in the tub 'Til every single pecker there was worn down to a nub. The bride was in the bedroom, explainin' to the groom, The vagina, not the rectum, is the entrance to the womb. They tried it on the garden path, and once around the park, And when the candles snotted out, they diddled in the dark. First, they did it simple; then they tired it he's and she's, But before the ball was over, they went at fives and threes. Santa Claus was also there, and very drunk, I fear. You'd be drunk there with him if you came just once a year. James the First and Sixth was there, a sight you should have seen. He was the king of England but preferred to be the queen. Anne Boleyn was also there, even tho' she's dead. She's terrific on her back, me boys, but better giving head. Pinocchio was also there, and quite a sight to see, The ladies sat upon his face and shouted, "Lie to me!" And when the ball was over, everyone confessed, The music was exquisite but the 'doin's' were the best. This apparently is an omnium gatherum rather than an actually sung version. It was downloaded from an unidentified Internet site -- probably English in view of the spelling of "parlour" and "tyre" -- and distributed on June 23, 1996, at the 16th Annual Summer Solstice Folk Music, Dance and Storytelling Festival, Calabasas, California. [ G ] Let me tell you a little story 'Bout the Ball of Ballinore. There were four and twenty pagans Lying on the floor . Chorus: Singing who had ye last night And who had you now, The man who had you last, lass, He cannae have you now. Four and twenty virgins Come down from Inverness , And when the ball was over There were four and twenty less . There was dancing in the courtyard, Dancing in the halls , But you couldn't hear the music Over the clapping of the balls . There was dancing in the ballroom, There was dancing on the Ritz But you couldn't hear the music Over the squishing of the tits . Oh, the village idiot he was there Who would have thought of that? Amusing himself by abusing himself And catching it in his hat . Oh, the court magician he was there , Up to his usual tricks , Pulling his foreskin over his head And disappearing up his prick , Oh, the village elders they were there But they were too old to work . So they sat in the corner And they had a circle jerk . Oh the village leper he was there , Sitting on a log , Pulling the pieces off of him And feeding them to his dog . The preacher's daughter she was there , Sitting right up front , With a wreath of roses on her head And a carrot up her cunt . Oh the queen was in the counting-house Eating bread and honey The king was in the chamber -- Maid, and the maid was in the money . In posting this on December 7, 1996, to the newsgroup bawdy-l (bawdy-l@bdragon.shore.net), Denise Paolucci (stk5215@loki.stockton.edu) noted that these verses of "Ball of Ballinore " were sung "at/near the New York Renaissance Faire." She recalled them "off the top of my head," then added, "but the last two verses we always sing are: And when the ball was over This sentiment was expressed: That the music was delightful But the fucking was the best . Balls to your partner, Ass against the wall If you can't get laid at the Pennsic Wars You can't get laid at all . (Spoken:) And you better just pop off and shoot yerself, laddie, 'cause you're fucking pathetic." [ H ] Farther west in Renaissance Faire and Society for Creative Anachronism circles, one version of "The Ball of Ballinour" [sic] runs: The Queen was in the parlor, Eating bread and honey. The King was in the chambermaid And she was in the money. Chorus: Balls to your partner, Ass against the wall, If you cannot get [fucked] on a Saturday night, You cannot get [fucked] at all. Four and twenty virgins Came down from Inverness And when the ball was over There were four and twenty less. There was doin' in the kitchen, And doin' it on the stones. Ya couldna' hear the music For the wheezin' and the groans. The village butcher, he was there, A cleaver in his hand. And everytime he turned around, He circumcised the band. The deacon's wife, well, she was there With her butt against the wall. "Put your money on the table, boys, 'Cause I'm going to do you all." The letter carrier, he was there. The poor man had the pox. He couldn't do the ladies, So he did the letter box. The village cripple he was there, Can you imagine that? Amusing himself by abusing himself, And catching it in his hat. The bride was in the bedroom Talking to the groom. "The front! The front! And not the back, Is the entrance to the womb!" When the ball was over Everyone confessed, "The doin' was exquisite, But the doin' was the best!" Electronically forwarded by Susan Johns of Austin, Texas, to the editor on June 22, 1996, this variant of "The Ball" was current among Renaissance Fair and Society for Creative Anachronism fanciers. It is printed in the "Black Book of Locksley," p. 66, compiled by Joseph Bethancourt of Phoenix, Arizona. [ I ] Four-and-twenty maidens came down from Inverness; On the way back from Kennemore, there was four-and-twenty less. Chorus: Singin' balls to your partner, arse against the wall, If ye canna get fucked on Saturday night ye'll ne'er get fucked at all. On the road to Kennemore, such a sight to see. Four-and-twenty maidenheads a-hangin' from a tree! The village nurse, she was there, and she had us all in fits, Jumpin' from the mantelpiece and landin' on her tits. The undertaker, he was there, wearing a long black shroud, Swingin' from the chandelier and pissin' on the crowd. The village carpenter, he was there, and doing pretty good; His John Thomas had fallen off, but he had one made of wood! The village idiot, he was there, playing his favorite trick: Pounding on his testicles and whistling through his prick. The village parson, he was there, can you imagine that? Amusin' himself by abusin' himself and catching it in his hat. There was fuckin' in the hayloft, fuckin' in the ricks; Ye couldna hear the band for the swishin' of the pricks. The village cripple, he was there, but it didn't hamper him much; He lined the women against the wall and fucked them wi' his crutch! The bride was in the kitchen explainin' to the groom, The cunt and not the rectum is the entrance to the womb. There was fuckin' in the parlors, fuckin' in the halls. Ye couldna hear the band for the bouncin' of the balls! Lee S. Billings posted this version of "Ball" on the usegroup bawdy-l with the explanation this is how he sang it in the Society for Creative Anachronism. He noted the name of the town had changed "by the time I got hold of it." [ J ] Four and twenty virgins Came down from Inverness, And when the ball was over There were four and twenty less. Chorus: Singing, balls to your partners, Arseholes against the walls, If you never got laid on a Saturday night, You'll never get laid at all. Four and twenty prostitutes Came up from Glockamore, **Probably intrusive from the popular song "How Are Things in Glockamora," from the musical Brigadoon, which is set in a fanciful Ireland.¯ And when the ball was over They were all of them double bore. The village cripple he was there, He wasn't up to much, He lined 'em up against the wall, And diddled 'em with his crutch. The Queen was in the parlor, Eating bread and honey, The King was in the chambermaid, And she was in the money. First lady forward, Second lady back, Third lady's finger Up the fourth lady's crack. The village policeman he was there, The pride of all the force, They found him in the stable, Wanking off his horse. The village plumber he was there, He felt an awful fool, He'd come eleven leagues or more And forgot to bring his tool. There was humping in the hallways And humping in the ricks, You couldn't hear the music For the swishing of the dicks. 'Twas ballocks in the kitchen, And ballocks in the halls, You couldn't hear the music For the clanging of the balls. 'Twas fellatio in the anteroom, Cunnilingus on the stairs, You couldn't see the carpet For the cunts and curly hairs. Sandy McPherson he came along, It was a bloody shame, He fucked a lassie forty times, And wouldna take her haim. The parson's daughter she was there, The cunning little runt, With poison ivy up her bum, And thistle up her cunt. The vicar's wife, well she was there, A-sitting by the fire, Knitting rubber johnnies Out of India rubber tire. The village idiot he was there, Sitting on a pole, He pulled his foreskin over his head And whistled through the hole. Mrs. O'Malley she was there, She had the crowd in fits, A-jumping off the mantelpiece And bouncing on her tits. The bride was in the kitchen Explaining to the groom, That the vagina, not the rectum, Is the entrance to the womb. The village magician he was there, Up to his favorite trick, Pulling his arsehole over his head, And standing on his prick. The village smithy he was there, Sitting by the fire, Doing abortions by the score With a piece of red hot wire. The blacksmith's brother he was there, A mighty man was he, He lined them up against the wall And buggered them three by three. Now farmer Giles he was there, His sickle in his hand, And every time he swung around He circumcised the band. The vicar's wife she was still there, Back against the wall, "Put your money on the table, boys, I'm fit to do ye all." The vicar and his goodly wife Were having lots of fun, The parson had his finger Up another lady's bum. The village doctor he was there, He had his bag of tricks, And in between the dances He was sterilizing dicks. Father O'Flanagan he was there, And in the corner he sat, Amusing himself by abusing himself, And catching it in his hat. The vicar's wife was yet still there, Dressed in a long white shroud, Swinging on the chandelier And pissing on the crowd. They was shagging in the couches, They was shagging in the cots, And lying up against the wall Were rows of grinning sots. Farmer Brown he was there, A-jumping on his hat, For half an acre of his corn Was fairly now fucked flat. Giles he played a dirty trick, We canna let it pass, He showed a lass his mighty prick, Then shoved it up her arse. Bayard Stockton he was there, Drunk beyond a doubt [pron: doot], He tried to stuff the parson's wife, But couldna get the root. Jockie Stewart did his business Right upon the moor, It was, he thought, much better Than pissing on the floor. A couple of Hashers they were there, A-looking for a fuck, But every cunt was occupied And they were out of luck. Mike McMurdock when he got there, His stand was long and high, But when he'd shagged her forty times, His balls were squeezed and dry. McTavish, oh yes, he was there, His piston long and broad, And when he'd stroked the furrier's wife She had to be rebored. McCardew-Roberts he was there, His flagpole all alert, But when half the night was done, It was dragging in the dirt. The chimney sweep he was there, They had to throw him out, For every time he passed his wind, The room was filled with soot. The doctor's daughter she was there, She went to gather sticks, She couldna find a blade of grass, For cunts and standing pricks. The village builder he was there, He brought his bag of tricks, He poured cement in all the holes, And blunted all the pricks. Little Jimmy he was there, The leader of the choir, He hit the balls of all the boys, To make their voices higher. Now little Tommy he was there, But he was only eight, He couldna root the women, So he had to masturbate. The village postman he was there, The poor man had the pox, He couldna shag the ladies, So he fucked the letterbox. The village idiot he was there, A-leaning on the gate, He couldna find a partner So he had to flatulate. The blacksmith's father he was there, A-roaring like a lion, He'd cut is rod off in the forge, So he used a red-hot iron. And so the ball was over, They all went home to rest, And the music had been exquisite, But the fucking was the best. ŽIP5,¯As "The Ball of Kerrymuir," this is in Paul Woodford's large compendium, "Hash Songs II" (Honolulu, Hawaii, 1994). [ K ] It is only appropriate to include one version of this well-known quatrain ballad from Scotland. It was posted to the newsgroup rec.music.folk on June 22, 1994, by Joseph C Fineman as learned in Scotland in 1959. Fineman noted, "The song usually goes by the title of 'The Ball of Kirriemuir' (or 'Ballynoor'). The first stanza goes : "Four and twenty virgins [or maidens] cam doon frae Inverness, And when the ba' wis over there wis four and twenty less. "The chorus is usually something like : "Singing, wha'll do ye this nicht, wha'll do ye noo? The ane that had ye last nicht, he canna do ye noo. "The number of stanzas is effectively infinite.... The last stanza in a session is usually : "When the ba' was over, they put it to the test: Of a' the fucking goings-on, the fucking was the best. " There are numerous analogues to this quatrain ballad. See, for example, Simpson, pp. 638-639; and Volume III of The Harp of Caledonia (Printed and Published by E. Khull, Glasgow: 1819), pp. 337-341, which offers "The Worton Wedding" sung to the tune "Dainty Davey": O' Sic a weddin' I've been at! And O! what cap'rin' fightin' vap'rin'! Priest and clerk, ad a' got drunk -- Rare doings then war there: The Thuirsby lads they fought the best; The Worton weavers drank the maist; But Brough-side lairds bang'd a' the rest, For braggin' o' their gear, And singing', -- Whurry whum, whuddle whum, Whulty, whalty, wha, wha, wha, And derry dyn duddke dyn Derry eyden dee. IX. The bride she cast up her accounts In Rachel's lap, then pou'd her cap; The parson's wig stood a' ajee; The clerk sang Andrew Car; Blin' Staig, the fiddler, gat a whack, The bacon fleck fell on his back, And neist his fiddle-stick they brak, 'Twas weel it was nae waur, For he sang -- Whurry whum, &c. X. Now on the midden some were laid, A' havey, scavey, and kelavy; The clogger and the taylor fought, Poor Snip gat twa black een: Dick Wawby he began the fray, But Jemmy Moffet ran away, And crap owre head amang the ay, Folk say nat verra clean; Then they sang -- Whurry whum, &c. XIII. The best on't was, the parson swore His wig was lost, a crown it cost, He belch'd and hiccupp'd in and out, And said it wasn't fair: Now daylight it began to peep, The bridegroom off to bed did creep, I trow he wadna mickle sleep, But whisht! -- I 'll say na mair. Only sing -- Whurry whum, &c. The Harp of Caledonia is reprinted on Reel 63, No. 523, of "Sex Research: Early Literature from Statistics to Erotica: Guide to the Microfilm Collection [of the Kinsey Institute, Indiana University]," (Woodbridge, Conn.: Research Publications, 1983). The melody usually associated with "Ball" is borrowed for other songs. See, for example, the sly quatrain "The Best Bed" in Gwen and Mary Polwarth, Folk Songs from the North (Newcastle-on-Tyne: Frank Graham, 1970), p. 21. Abby Sale of Orlando, Florida, offered "an anecdote relating to your comment [in Muse II] about the possible actual ball being easier to get started because few Scottish ladies wore panties at the time. A female friend from the Isle of Lewis (a professional folksinger, in fact) told me some tales of her remote village on that remote island: About 1950 came the advent of Pakistani house-to-house peddlers of whatever-you-need. This was a good and welcome service in the area of no local stores, regular deliveries, public transport or any facility f or casual shopping. The peddler, having failed to sell any pots, pans, clothes or anything that trip to my informant's 72-year old mother, finally tried the latest French panties. Mrs M. said no, she didn't need any. Peddler said, well, surely you must, these are brand new in the UK. No, she said, don't need them. Peddler pressed: surely you must need panties. Absolutely not, she laughed, and lifting her long black skirts clear over her head: "See? I never wear them."