> Folk Music > Songs > On Monday Morning

On Monday Morning (I Married a Wife)

[ Roud 433 ; Laws Q6 ; Ballad Index LQ06 ; VWML RoudFS/S269594 , GG/1/17/1073 ; Wiltshire Roud 433 ; trad.]

William Alexander of Cliddesdon, Hampshire, sang the awful On Monday Morning, a song of a man beating his scolding wife to death, to Ralph Vaughan Williams in 1909. This version was printed in 1959 in Vaughan Williams' and Lloyd's The Penguin Book of English Folk Songs, which commented:

Baring Gould, who describes this as a song “relished by married men”, found an early set in a collection of stall balladry, West Country Garlands, date about 1760. He obtained a version from the singing of Robert Hard of South Brent, Devon, which he called A Week's Work Well Done. Our version is sung to a variant of the well-known Turpin Hero tune. Frank Kidson had information that the song was sung by Grimaldi the clown, about 1820.

Mick Ryan sang On Monday Morning in 1978 on his and Jon Burge's The Leader Tradition album Fair Was the City.

Lyrics

William Alexander sings On Monday Morning

On Monday morning I married a wife,
Thinking to live a sober life;
But as she turned out, I'd better be dead,
The remarkable day that I was wed,
To me rite fol-lol-liddle-lol-le-day.

On Tuesday morning I goes to the wood,
I cut a stick both fine and good.
The finest stick that ever you did see,
I cut him out of a holly, holly tree,
To me rite fol-lol-liddle-lol-le-day.

On Wednesday morning then home I goes,
Thinking a battle I must try.
I beat her about her back and her wig
Until I'd a-broke my holly, holly twig,
To me rite fol-lol-liddle-lol-le-day.

Oh Thursday morning my poor wife,
She was sick and like to die.
If she isn't better tomorrow to be
The devil may have her tomorrow for me,
To me rite fol-lol-liddle-lol-le-day.

On Friday morning the sun did shine
And I walked out in the midst of my prime.
Oh, the devil he's come in, in the midst of the game
And he took her away, both blind and lame,
To me rite fol-lol-liddle-lol-le-day.

On Saturday morning it's five days past,
My poor wife is dead at last.
The big bell shall ring and the little one shall toll
Ad I'll go home as a jolly old soul,
To me rite fol-lol-liddle-lol-le-day.

On Sunday morning I died without,
I had ne'er a wife to scold me about.
Here's good luck to my pipe, to my bottle and my friend,
And here's good luck to a week's work end,
To me rite fol-lol-liddle-lol-le-day.