Oh, when I was a tiny boy
It used to be my greatest joy
To sit at Biddy Bullock’s knee,
Eyes wide open, for to see
Th’old girl making brawn.

Now, first she’d take a great pig’s head
From out the brine tub, whence ’t had bled,
She’d scrub the ears and then the nose
Pink and spotless as a rose
For Biddy Bullock’s brawn.

The old black pan to do the job
Was set a-simmering on the hob,
With clear spring water, freshly drawn,
Blade of mace and peppercorn
For Biddy Bullock’s brawn.

Of lemon balm she’d take a sprig,
Of garden thyme a little twig,
Parsley, sage and bay leaves three,
Ah, the smell was heavenly
Of Biddy Bullock’s brawn.

Then, when the boiling was complete,
She’d pick the bones and chop the meat,
And pack it into basins four,
Let them cool beside the door
For Biddy Bullock’s brawn.

Upon each one she’d set a plate
And, top of that, a five pound weight,
For else the jelly wouldn’t press,
T’would be instead a sloppy mess
Not Biddy Bullock’s brawn.

Next day you’d see old Bid and me
Sat in the parlour taking tea,
Of fresh brown bread a goodly hunk
And on the top a great thick chunk
Of Biddy Bullock’s brawn.

In all my life I’ve travelled free
To distant lands beyond the sea,
And tasted dishes strange and rare,
But none there be than can compare
With Biddy Bullock’s brawn.