As I rode on the limber
Through the old French market-square,
There were bricks and fallen timber
And shell-holes everywhere.

The place was blank as Sunday,
But something seemed to say:
'Today is surely Monday,
And Monday's market day.'

'Oh, all along the by-road
That goes by Three Maids Down,
And the long, straight Roman high-road,
They're driving in to town.'

'They drive the colt in the gig now
I'd just begun to ride,
And the setter pup's grown big now,
And maybe runs beside.'

'The gentry use 'The Garter,'
The farmers use 'The Plough,'
And the rest 'The Jolly Carter,'
Or else the old 'Brown Cow.''

'There are crowds o' horses baiting -
There's one in every stall -
And the carriers' carts stand waiting
Outside the Market Hall.'

'There's a fellow selling halters,
And another hawking cloam,
For nothing ever alters
On market day at home.'

Oh, I'll shake a leg and go there,
When leave time comes round once more,
And all the folks I know there
Will stand in every door.

And strolling down the street there,
On the sunny side o' the way,
There's a lass I'll maybe meet there
At home on market day.