[Verse 1]
Cheapside morning, cobblestones ring,
Lincoln the broker watching everything,
George and Ralph Betts lean by the stall,
Francis de Bard comes dragging Doll —
Williamson's wife, pulled by the wrist,
while Caveler's hand closes like a fist
round a pair of doves her husband bought,
feathers and feed, snatched for naught.
[Verse 2]
Sherwin stands quiet, he's lost his own —
his wife, his silver, de Bard's long flown
off with both, and nobody paid,
now a pigeon pair's the next trade.
The strangers smirk, call it a Lombard's right —
Lombard, old slang for any foreign trader's might —
they say their ambassador will bend the knee
of the Mayor, and punish any Englishman who disagrees.
[Chorus]
It is hard when Englishmen's patience
must be thus jetted on by strangers —
jetted on, that's trampled, strutted over, scorned,
while a family's dinner and marriage are torn.
This is where the story starts,
not with crowds but broken hearts,
one wife, one meal, one feathered pair —
that's how the riot gets its air.
[Verse 3]
The men hold back — obedience to the law
binds their hands though their blood runs raw,
but Doll won't bow to borrowed pride,
she turns and scolds them, fire in her eyes:
"if men's mild hearts dare not strike a stranger,
yet women will beat them down" — no danger
scares her tongue, while the foreigners jeer,
strutting off with contumely — contempt dressed as a sneer.
[Verse 4]
When they're gone, Lincoln pulls out a bill,
names of the wronged, written with care and skill,
to be read aloud when Easter comes round
at the Spital sermons, open-air ground
where London gathers to hear the preacher —
he'll make their wrongs a public teacher,
reading how "aliens and strangers eat
the bread from the fatherless children" in the street.
[Verse 5]
George Betts catches fire at the plan,
"on May Day we go out as every man
and maid goes Maying, blossoms in hand —
but we'll turn the game, we'll make our stand,
make it the worst May day for the strangers
that ever they saw" — forget the dangers,
they swear it secret over a cup,
one bill, one vow, one London stirred up.
[Chorus]
It is hard when Englishmen's patience
must be thus jetted on by strangers —
jetted on, that's trampled, strutted over, scorned,
while a family's dinner and marriage are torn.
This is where the story starts,
not with crowds but broken hearts,
one wife, one meal, one feathered pair —
that's how the riot gets its air.
[Bridge]
Before you judge the mob that's coming,
hear the doves, hear the drumming
of a husband's pocket, a wife's torn sleeve —
grievance first, before you grieve
the blaze that follows. Every storm of men
began as one wronged citizen.
[Outro]
Cheapside quiet now, the strangers gone,
but the bill is written, the plan sworn on,
Lincoln, Betts, and Doll's own fury —
watch how London writes its story,
one stolen pair of doves to start,
a pair of doves in Cheapside's heart.