(Verse 1) My Lord Cardinal wears the scarlet gown, He walks on silk through London town. He builds at Hampton, he plans at York, While I count the ditchers and watch the fork. Four under-gardeners up at dawn, Eight heavy lads on the rolling lawn, And two-and-twenty women in a ragged row, Pinching out chickweed, slow and low. (Chorus) For it's sixpence for a clever hand, And fourpence for the heavy sand, And threepence dry for a weeder’s day, To keep the Cardinal’s rot at bay. The mighty tumble, the bells will break, But the world stays tied to the master’s rake. (Verse 2) They come from Westminster, through the frost, Counting the pennies that their porridge cost. No meat at the buttery, no palace beer, Just a crust in a rag and a bitter tear. They think I’m hard when I bid them crawl, From the water-gate to the privy wall, But if groundsel sprouts where the princes tread, The auditor docks it from my own bread. (Chorus) For it's sixpence for a clever hand, And fourpence for the heavy sand, And threepence dry for a weeder’s day, To keep the Cardinal’s rot at bay. The mighty tumble, the bells will break, But the world stays tied to the master’s rake. (Bridge) Now Wolsey’s fallen, his hat's grown cold, The King comes riding in spurs of gold. They strip the arras, they change the crest, The great ones gamble and hang the rest. The King looks down at the gravel clean, And asks who keeps all the borders green: I touch my bonnet, I hold my spade— A king is a customer, mine is a trade. (Guitar/Cittern break – jaunty, unsentimental, rhythmic rake-scrape) (Verse 3) Let Marlowe scheme in a tavern brawl, Let bishops sweat in the council hall. My back will stiffen, my eyes will dim, I’ll leave the orchard to little Jim. No golden tomb where the trumpets blow, Just a quiet patch where the leeks will grow. (Final Chorus) For it's sixpence for a clever hand, And fourpence for the heavy sand, And threepence dry for a weeder’s day, To keep the Cardinal’s rot at bay. The crowns will shatter, the earth will take, And the ground stays true to the master’s rake. (Outro – Single boot step, spade struck into dirt, lingering cittern pluck)
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