[Verse 1] Cheapside wakes with flowers in its hair, Garlands wilting from the Bunhill air, Three young prentices come swaggering home, Sticks on shoulders, itching to roam. A-Maying's done — that's dancing round the May fields, Now the morning turns to wooden-sword yields, Harry, Robin, Kit, and maybe one more, Cudgels clacking on the cobbled floor. [Chorus] "Come, lay down the cudgels," let the bout begin, A prentice, mind you, is a bound apprentice — learning the trade he's in. Cudgels are the sticks we swing instead of steel, Fighting "at blunt" means nobody bleeds for real. Cheapside morning, backsword bragging rings, Watch what a careless boast can bring. [Verse 2] Harry struts and talks of London's schools, Fencing masters teaching fancy rules, Says there's a man who's quicker than the rest, "He's the best backswordman in England," he professed. Robin nods along, admiring the claim, But Kit stands bristling, hearing his own name Left out of the praise, left out in the cold, Pride in his chest starts rising, getting bold. [Verse 3] "Why, I am a prentice as thou art" — Kit spits the line, No better blood, no fancier pedigree, no finer sign. He'll prove his arm right here with sticks today, Blunted wood for sport, a friendly fray, But if Harry wants it sharpened, truly dire, Moorfields awaits them, edges set like fire — Swords instead of cudgels, honor on the stake, A second bout tomorrow for pride's own sake. [Chorus] "Come, lay down the cudgels," let the bout begin, A prentice, mind you, is a bound apprentice — learning the trade he's in. Cudgels are the sticks we swing instead of steel, Fighting "at blunt" means nobody bleeds for real. Cheapside morning, backsword bragging rings, Watch what a careless boast can bring. [Bridge] Right there the old page tears, the ink runs dry, The scribe stopped writing, left us wondering why — But history fills the gap the parchment missed: Fifteen-seventeen, when tempers turned to fists, Sir John Mundy, alderman, tried to make them stop Their game in Cheapside — and got wounded for his swap. That's how the bigger riot got its start, From boys with sticks and a prideful heart. [Verse 4] The city simmers past the break of day, Prentices muttering of foreigners' sway, Cheapside's cobbles hold more than games of stick, Whispers of riot grow restless and thick, Harry's boast was just a spark in the dry straw, Kit's pride a kindling for London's old law, By Mayday's end, the city's torn apart, A cudgel's clack became a kingdom's smart. [Outro] So mind your words among your fellow men, A boast tossed loose might ask for swords again, Cheapside remembers prentices at play, Cudgels at dawn on a long-gone May.
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