Gower Wassail

One of the oldest forms of midwinter song in England is the wassail, traditionally sung in apple-producing regions where villagers would traipse off to their local orchard and serenade the trees in the hope of coaxing a rich harvest from them the following year. Though no contemporary historical sources exist to inform us how much of a knob-end the average farmer must have felt, freezing his balls off and warbling to a tree-trunk, it speaks volumes that as soon as industry and urbanisation came along, wassailers took the more sensible approach of going from house to house and singing in return for food and booze.

This old wassail, performed by Cupola:Ward, was a popular seasonal song throughout the West Midlands and South Wales.


A-wassail, a-wassail throughout our town,
Our cup it is white and our ale it is brown.
Our wassail is made of the good ale and true,
Some nutmeg and ginger, it's the best we can brew.

Fol-dee-dol, lol-dee-dol-dee-dol,
Lol-dee-dol-dee-dol, lol-dee-dol-dee-dee,
Fol-dee-derol, lol-dee-der-dee,
Sing too-ra-li-doh.

Our wassail is made of the elderberry bough,
And so my good neighbours, we'll drink unto thou,
Besides all on earth, you'll have apples in store,
Pray let us come in for it's cold by the door.

There's a master and a mistress sitting down by the fire
While we poor wassail boys do wait in the mire.
And you pretty maid with your silver-headed pin,
Please open the door and let us come in.

We know by the moon that we are not too soon,
And we know by the sky that we are not too high.
We know by the stars that we are not too far,
And we know by the ground that we are within sound.

There's our wassail boys growing weary and cold,
Drop a bit of small silver into our old bowl,
And if we're alive for another New Year,
Perhaps we may call and see who do live here.