Skip to main content

Songbook

DUSA Songbook

A collection of songs from previous decades.

The Hard Caver

DUSA’s version of this classic caving song, sung to the tune of “The Wild Rover”. This version was found in an old log book, and also appears in the one and only DUSA journal.

I’ve been a hard caver for many a year
And spent all my money on carbide and beer
But now I’m hungover with bruises galore
So I’ll be a hard caver no never, no more

And it’s no, nay, never,
No, nay, never no more,
Will I play a Hard Caver,
No never, no more.

My first day in Durham, a fresher so neat
Some boozy old cavers I happened to meet
I asked to go caving, they answered me, “Nay –
Such idiots as you we can find any day!”

And it’s no, nay, never,
No, nay, never no more,
Will I play a Hard Caver,
No never, no more.

I brought out my cheque book so new and so bright
The treasurer’s eyes opened wide at the sight
“With pleasure we’ll greet you as one of our rank –
as soon as your cheque has been cleared at the bank”

And it’s no, nay, never,
No, nay, never no more,
Will I play a Hard Caver,
No never, no more.

They sold me a Nife cell at a hell of a price
And a old cardboard helmet, so soft and so nice
They took me out caving: Great Douk was the place
Three men were castrated and two lost with out trace

And it’s no, nay, never,
No, nay, never no more,
Will I play a Hard Caver,
No never, no more.

Now I’ve been to Yorkshire, to Mendip and Wales;
I’ve been down the pots and I’ve sampled the Ales
And now I’m returning with stories to tell
Of waters that rose and of boulders that fell

And it’s no, nay, never,
No, nay, never no more,
Will I play a Hard Caver,
No never, no more.

The pitches in Yorkshire all end in dead sheep
To find them you wander through snow ten feet deep
We set off for Swinsto, found Easegill instead
So we free dived the sumps to get out at Leck Head

And it’s no, nay, never,
No, nay, never no more,
Will I play a Hard Caver,
No never, no more.

There’s no caves in Mendip, or so runs the tale
So bottoming prowess is measured in ale
Now Swildons is deep and quite wet, I’ll admit
The streamway is sporting, but shatter is ****

And it’s no, nay, never,
No, nay, never no more,
Will I play a Hard Caver,
No never, no more.

Now Wales is speleophilologist’s delight
The names are so long that you cant say them right
So dont blame the types who say O.F.D.
For its simpler to say than Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch

And it’s no, nay, never,
No, nay, never no more,
Will I play a Hard Caver,
No never, no more.

Now all I have left is a tattered wetsuit
A clappedout old Nife cell and half of a boot
My clothes are all ragged, my knees are still sore
So I’ll be a hard caver, no never, no more.

And it’s no, nay, never,
No, nay, never no more,
Will I play a Hard Caver,
No never, no more.

Caving Matilda

To the tune of “Waltzing Matilda”.

Once a jolly caver camped out by a swallet hole,
Under the shade of an old rowan tree,
And he sang as he tied his ladder to a stalagmite
“Who’ll come a caving Matilda with me?”

Caving Matilda, Caving Matilda
Who’ll come a’caving Matilda with me?
And he sang as he tied his ladder to a stalagmite
“Who’ll come a caving Matilda with me?”

Deep beneath the surface,
Far inside a bedding plane,
Where oh where can the way on be?
And he sang as he listened to the murmur of the waterfall
“Who’ll come a caving Matilda with me?”

Caving Matilda, Caving Matilda
Who’ll come a’caving Matilda with me?
And he sang as he tied his ladder to a stalagmite
“Who’ll come a caving Matilda with me?”

Up popped a cloudburst and flooded down the swallet hole,
Down into that bedding plane, a turf brown sea.
And he sang as the water flowed into the bedding plane
“Who’ll come a caving Matilda with me?”

Caving Matilda, Caving Matilda
Who’ll come a’caving Matilda with me?
And he sang as he tied his ladder to a stalagmite
“Who’ll come a caving Matilda with me?”

Up drove Cave Rescue, seated in an ambulance,
Out jumped the wardens, one, two and three.
And they sang as they sat and waited for the tea to brew,
“Who’ll come a’caving Matilda with me?”

Caving Matilda, Caving Matilda
Who’ll come a’caving Matilda with me?
And he sang as he tied his ladder to a stalagmite
“Who’ll come a caving Matilda with me?”

Deep beneath the surface, far inside a bedding plane,
There lies a caver, never to be seen.
And you might hear him singing, should you wander by that swallet hole
“Who’ll come a’caving Matilda with me?”

Caving Matilda, Caving Matilda
Who’ll come a’caving Matilda with me?
And he sang as he tied his ladder to a stalagmite
“Who’ll come a caving Matilda with me?”

Cave Oddity

Sung to the tune of “Space Oddity” by David Bowie, lyrics addapted by Anthony, Duncan, and probably lots of other people in CUCC.

Pitch control to Caver Tom,
Pitch control to Caver Tom,
Eat your Tunnock’s Bar and put your helmet on

Pitch control to Caver Tom,
Start traversing, cows tails on.
Try your clicker,
and may Sod’s luck be with you

This is pitch control to Caver Tom,
You’ve really pushed the grade.
Caves & Caving wants to know
whose pants you wear.
Now it’s time to leave the belay if you dare.

This is Caver Tom to pitch control,
I’m nowhere near the floor,
and I’m dangling in a most peculiar way,
and I’m feeling quite indifferent today.

For here am I hanging from a small thread.
Far above the floor,
The rope is rubbing through,
And there’s nothing I can do.

Now I’m past 1000 metres down,
I’m feeling very small,
But the water seems to know which way to go,
Now I need a piss so very much you know.

Pitch control to Caver Tom,
Your belay’s failed there’s something wrong,
Can you hear me Caver Tom…
Can you hear me Caver Tom…
Can you hear… Am I lying on a small ledge,
Far above the floor,
Lying on my back, twenty feet beneath my rack.

Creak goes the Marlow Rope

Sung to the tune of “Green Grow the Rushes oh”. Words adapted by someone I dont know, from Reading??

I’ll sing you one oh,
creak goes the Marlow rope.
What is your one oh?

1 for the bolt at the head of the pitch,
Never to be trusted.

I’ll sing you two oh,
creak goes the Marlow rope.
What is your two oh?

2, 2, the jumars, oh!
All clogged up with mud, ho ho!
1 for the bolt at the head of the pitch,
Never to be trusted.

I’ll sing you three oh,
creak goes the Marlow rope.
What is your three oh?

3, 3, the jammers we forgot doh!
2, 2, the jumars, oh!
All clogged up with mud, ho ho!
1 for the bolt at the head of the pitch,
Never to be trusted.

I’ll sing you four oh,
creak goes the Marlow rope.
What is your four oh?

4 for the knackered ladders.
3, 3, the jammers we forgot doh!
2, 2, the jumars, oh!
All clogged up with mud, ho ho!
1 for the bolt at the head of the pitch,
Never to be trusted.

I’ll sing you five oh,
creak goes the Marlow rope.
What is your five oh?

5 for the bars on the worn-out rack,
4 for the knackered ladders.
3, 3, the jammers we forgot doh!
2, 2, the jumars, oh!
All clogged up with mud, ho ho!
1 for the bolt at the head of the pitch,
Never to be trusted.

I’ll sing you six oh,
creak goes the Marlow rope.
What is your six oh?

6 for the pools of vomit.
5 for the bars on the worn-out rack,
4 for the knackered ladders.
3, 3, the jammers we forgot doh!
2, 2, the jumars, oh!
All clogged up with mud, ho ho!
1 for the bolt at the head of the pitch,
Never to be trusted.

I’ll sing you seven oh,
creak goes the Marlow rope.
What is your seven oh?

7 for the pints in the Marton Arms,
6 for the pools of vomit.
5 for the bars on the worn-out rack,
4 for the knackered ladders.
3, 3, the jammers we forgot doh!
2, 2, the jumars, oh!
All clogged up with mud, ho ho!
1 for the bolt at the head of the pitch,
Never to be trusted.

I’ll sing you eight oh,
creak goes the Marlow rope.
What is your eight oh?

8 for the twisted braidline,
7 for the pints in the Marton Arms,
6 for the pools of vomit.
5 for the bars on the worn-out rack,
4 for the knackered ladders.
3, 3, the jammers we forgot doh!
2, 2, the jumars, oh!
All clogged up with mud, ho ho!
1 for the bolt at the head of the pitch,
Never to be trusted.

I’ll sing you nine oh,
creak goes the Marlow rope.
What is your nine oh?

9 for the sumps in Swildons.
8 for the twisted braidline,
7 for the pints in the Marton Arms,
6 for the pools of vomit.
5 for the bars on the worn-out rack,
4 for the knackered ladders.
3, 3, the jammers we forgot doh!
2, 2, the jumars, oh!
All clogged up with mud, ho ho!
1 for the bolt at the head of the pitch,
Never to be trusted.

I’ll sing you ten oh,
creak goes the Marlow rope.
What is your ten oh?

10 for the cavers lost on the moor,
9 for the sumps in Swildons.
8 for the twisted braidline,
7 for the pints in the Marton Arms,
6 for the pools of vomit.
5 for the bars on the worn-out rack,
4 for the knackered ladders.
3, 3, the jammers we forgot doh!
2, 2, the jumars, oh!
All clogged up with mud, ho ho!
1 for the bolt at the head of the pitch,
Never to be trusted.

I’ll sing you eleven oh,
creak goes the Marlow rope.
What is your eleven oh?

11 for the Sunday jackers.
10 for the cavers lost on the moor,
9 for the sumps in Swildons.
8 for the twisted braidline,
7 for the pints in the Marton Arms,
6 for the pools of vomit.
5 for the bars on the worn-out rack,
4 for the knackered ladders.
3, 3, the jammers we forgot doh!
2, 2, the jumars, oh!
All clogged up with mud, ho ho!
1 for the bolt at the head of the pitch,
Never to be trusted.

I’ll sing you twelve oh,
creak goes the Marlow rope.
What is your twelve oh?

12 for the seats on the minibus,
11 for the Sunday jackers.
10 for the cavers lost on the moor,
9 for the sumps in Swildons.
8 for the twisted braidline,
7 for the pints in the Marton Arms,
6 for the pools of vomit.
5 for the bars on the worn-out rack,
4 for the knackered ladders.
3, 3, the jammers we forgot doh!
2, 2, the jumars, oh!
All clogged up with mud, ho ho!
1 for the bolt at the head of the pitch,
Never to be trusted.

Cavers

To the tune of “the Wombles”. This adaption was found in an old logbook from the mid 90’s

Underground – overground speleoling free,
the cavers of Durham Uni are we.
Making good use of the gear that we find,
gear that incompetent clubs leave behind.

Speleology

We don’t cave for fame or fortune,
We don’t cave for glory,
We just cave for recreation,
And for speleology.
Speleology! Speleology!
Balls to Oxford Pothole club&helips;
Balls to Oxford Pothole club!

Old Farmer Bastard

To the tune of “Old McDonald”

Farmer Bastard had a farm,
EIEIO
And on that farm he had some caves,
EIEIO
With a dig dig here and a dig dig there,
Here a dig, there a dig,
Everywhere a dig dig!

Farmer Bastard had a farm,
EIEIO
And on that farm he had some Dobermanns,
EIEIO
With a rip rip here and a rend rend there,
Here a rip, there a rip,
Everywhere a snarl snarl!

Farmer Bastard had a farm,
EIEIO
And on that farm he had some shotguns,
EIEIO
With a bang bang here and a bang bang there,
Here a bang, there a bang,
Everywhere a bang bang!

Farmer Bastard had a farm,
EIEIO
And on that farm he had some Lawyers,
EIEIO
With a sue sue here and a sue sue there,
Here a writ, there a writ,
Everywhere a writ writ!

Farmer Bastard had a farm,
EIEIO
And on that farm he had a minefield,
EIEIO
With a boom boom here and a boom boom there,
Here a boom, there a boom,
Everywhere a boom boom!

The SRT Song

To the tune of “When this war is over”

When this fucking pitch is over,
no more prussiking for me,
I will buy electron ladders,
you can stuff your SRT.

I will get a hauling party,
they will haul with all their might,
and the climbing of those ladders,
will be a positive delight.

When this bloody crawl is over,
no more bedding planes for me,
I will get a blasting license,
and open it with T.N.T.

No more struggling through squeezes,
no more flat-out bedding crawls,
I will make them big and easy,
so you can walk right through them all.

When this fucking cave is over,
no more potholing for me,
I will go to Bernie’s cafe,
and have a pint mug full of tea

DUSA Tackle Store

To the tune of “Yellow Submarine”

In the land where I was born,
Lived a man who used to cave.

And he told me of his tales,
Under those hills, the Yorkshire Dales.

And we walked up to the fell,
Dressed in plastic, now we all smell.

Can’t find the cave we’re looking for,
So home we’re going now, to the tackle store.

We all live in the DUSA tackle store,
the DUSA tackle store, the DUSA tackle store.
We all live in the DUSA tackle store,
the DUSA tackle store, the DUSA tackle store.

And our freshers are all cold,
Our president is very old.
The mountaineers are very gay,

We all live in the DUSA tackle store,
the DUSA tackle store, the DUSA tackle store.
We all live in the DUSA tackle store,
the DUSA tackle store, the DUSA tackle store.

And we live a life of ease,
As we phaff around drinking teas.

Hearing tales of brave and yore,
In the place we call the tackle store.

We all live in the DUSA tackle store,
the DUSA tackle store, the DUSA tackle store.
We all live in the DUSA tackle store,
the DUSA tackle store, the DUSA tackle store.

We all live in the DUSA tackle store,
the DUSA tackle store, the DUSA tackle store.
We all live in the DUSA tackle store,
the DUSA tackle store, the DUSA tackle store.

Yesterday

Yesterday, all this squallor seemed so far away,
but now I know it’s here to stay,
it seems like I’ve been here all day.

Suddenly, mud is coming way over my knees,
I wish that I was in Bernies,
If I was there I’d be so pleased.
But now, I am stuck down here,
in this squalid shite-hole.
I think, that coming down here,
was a big own goal

Yesterday, things were not looking nearly so grey,
but now there seems no other way,
to get back to the light of day.

Suddenly, all this limestone is surrounding me,
the squeeze is an impossibility,
I wish I was in a grade III.
But now, I am stuck down here,
in this squalid shite-hole.
I think, that coming down here,
was a big own goal.

Rickety Tickety Tin

About a maid I’ll sing a song,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
About a maid I’ll sing a song,
who didn’t have her family long.
Not only did she do them wrong,
She did ev’ryone of them in, them in
She did ev’ryone of them in.

One morning in a fit of pique,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
One morning in a fit of pique,
she drowned er father in the creek.
The water tasted bad for a week,
and they had to make to with gin, with gin.
They had to make do with gin.

Her mother she could never stand,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
Her mother she could never stand,
and so a cyanide soup she planned.
The mother died with a spoon in her hand,
And her face in a hideous grin, a grin.
Her face in a hieous grin.

She set her sister’s hair on fire,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
She set her sister’s hair on fire,
and as the smoke and flame rise high’r,
Danced around the funeral pyre,
Playin’ a violin, -olin.
Playin’ a violin.

She weighted her brother down with stones,
Rickety-tickety-tin,
She weighted her brother down with stones,
and sent him off to Davy Jones.
All they ever found were some bones,
and occasional pieces of skin, of ksin,
Occasional pieces of skin.

One day when she had nothing to do,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
One day when she had nothing to do,
She cut her baby brother in two.
And served him up as an irish stew,
and invited the neighbors in, -bors in,
Invited the neighbors in.

And when at last the police came by,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
And when at last the police came by,
Her little pranks she did not deny.
To do so she would have had to lie,
and lying, she knew, was a sin, a sin,
Lying, she knew, was a sin.

My tragic tale, I won’t prolong,
Sing rickety-tickety-tin,
My tragic tale I won’t prolong,
and if you do not enjoy the song.
You’ve yourselves to blame if it’s too long,
you should never have let me begin, begin,
You should never have let me begin.

The Ballad of Alum Pot

A poem by Grant Davies (with apologies to Showell Styles)
First heard at the DUSA dinner, 1977 and repeated at the DUSA dinner 1999 (and 2019!)

I’ll tell you the tale of a caver,
A drama of love underground
A tale to pluck at your heartstrings
And start your tears rolling down.

He was tall, he as fair, he was handsome,
Graham Charles Veale was his name.
The grade five severes nearly bored him to tears
And he felt about girls much the same.

‘Til one day while caving in Kingsdale,
He fell… (Just a figure of speech!)
For his club President’s beautiful daughter
Named Naughty Jane… what a peach!

His eyes were as dark as Black Shiver,
Her skin as fair as a flowstone wall,
A real hard one, she’d been down Lost John’s…
Dome Route with no wet suit at all!

Now Jane had several suitors
But with none would she take the step,
Though it seemed that she favoured one fellow –
A villain named William Shep.

Now this Shep was a cad used dynamite,
And wore a long bushy beard,
Which he used, so they say, as an extra belay
But perhaps that’s a little absurd

Now Graham took Jane caving in Simpson’s
And proposed at the top of Slit Pot.
It had taken three pitches to do it,
For at chatting he wasn’t so hot.

He said “Delay amoment,
There’s a small rawl bolt just down by your knee,
And tell me fair maid, when you’re properly belayed,
Would you care to hitch up with me?”

Said Jane “It’s only a toss up
Whether it’s you or Bill Shep that I take,
But the man that I am to marry
Must perform some great deed for my sake.”

“I will marry whichever bold caver
Shall excel at the following feat –
To climb head first down Alum Pot, wearing only dry grots,
At our very next caving club meet.”

When the proposal was put to the committee,
They had little occasion to bitch
For she was as fair as a dry resting place,
On a two hundred foot wet pitch!

The committee ratified the proposal,
The President had to agree,
He was fond of his daughter, but felt that she oughta
Get married, between you and me.

There was quite a large crowd for the contest
Lined up at the foot of the big slab
The mobs came from Bernie’s in buses
The nobs came from Clapham in cabs

There were Red Rose and ULSA and Mouldywarps
And DUSA – all wearing top hats,
And a sight to remember, a CRO member
Wearing very large carbide – and spats!

The weather was fine for a wonder,
The rocks were dry as a bone.
Shep arrived with a crowd of his backers,
But GV strode up, quite alone.

A rousing cheer greeted the rivals
A coin was produced and they tossed
“Have I won?” Graham frowned, as the penny came down.
“No you fool,” hissed his rival, “you’ve lost!”

So Bill Shep had first go at the contest,
He walked over to the big tree root,
And only the closest observer
Would have noticed a slight bulge in each boot.

Head first he came down the top ladder rungs
Using his beard as a brake on each step,
And he didn’t relax ’til he passed the twin cracks
And the crowd shouted “Attaboy Shep!”

At the bottom of the pitch Bill stood sneering
And draining a bottle of Scotch
“Your time was ten seconds.” the President said,
Consulting the Treasurer’s watch

“Now Veale, if you’d win you must beat that!”
– Our hero’s sang froid showed no hitch.
He took one look at Jane, then like a man insane,
Ran up to the top of the pitch.

Now though Shep had made such good going,
Graham wasn’t discouraged a bit.
For that he was the speedier caver
Even Bill Shep would have to admit.

So, smiling as though for a snapshot,
Not a hair on his head out of place,
GV set off down, still wearing college gown
But look – what a change on his face!

Prepare for a shock, gentle ladies,
Gentlemen – check the blasphemous word,
For the villainy I am to speak of
Is such as you never have heard!

Bill Shep had cut holes in the toes of his boots
And filled up each boot with soft soap
As he slid down the rungs, he smeared them with gunge
That left our hero GV with no hope!

Conceive if you can the tense horror
That gripped that vast concourse below
When they saw Jane’s lover slip downwards
Like an arrow that’s shot from a bow!

“He’s fone for!” gasped twenty score voices
“Get from under!” roared Graham from above
As he shot down the wire, though his future looked dire,
He was fighting for life and for love.

Like lightning he flew past the top wall
In a flash he had passed the twin cracks
The friction was something terrific
There was smoke coming out of his keks!

He bounced off the ledge in the middle of the pitch
And bounded clean over its step
And a cry of “He’s gone!” came from all except one,
And that one, of course, was Bill Shep.

But it’s not the expected that happens,
Not in this kind of story at least,
For just when Graham thought he was finished,
He found that his motion had ceased.

His braces (pre-war and elastic)
Had caught on a small rocky knob
And so, safe and sound, he came gently to ground
Amidst the deadening cheers of the mob.

“Your time was FIVE seconds!” the President cried,
“She’s yours my boy, take her, you win!”
“My hero!” breathed Jane and kissed him,
While Bill Shep gulped a bottle of gin.

And tugged his beard as he whispered,
“Aha! My advances you spurn,
Curse a chap who wins races by using his braces!”
And he slunk away ne’er to return.

They were married at the church of St. Theakston
And the vicar, quite carried away,
Did a bridging traverse into the pulpit,
And said “Let us belay.”

Graham put the ring on Jane’s finger
A screwgate it was, made of steel,
And they walked side by side, neath an arch of carbides
As all the bells started to peel

The morals we draw from this story
Are several, I’m happy to say
It’s virtue that wins in the long run,
Long bushy beards just don’t pay.

Keep the head uppermost when laddering,
Better still – use a single rope
Steer clear of the places that sell you cheap braces
And the fellow who use soft soap.

Bring Back My Ladders To Me

Tune: Bring Back My Bonny To Me

My Y-hang lies over my bollards,
With back-up bolts one, two and three,
And each has a pretty red washer,
Oh bring back my ladders to me.

Bring back, bring back
Oh bring back my ladders to me, to me.
Bring back, bring back,
Oh bring back my ladders to me.

Just over the edge it’s rebelayed,
But still the rope doesn’t hang free,
So we’ll put in a few deviations,
Oh bring back my ladders to me.

Bring back, bring back
Oh bring back my ladders to me, to me.
Bring back, bring back,
Oh bring back my ladders to me.

From out of the walls an obstruction,
It’s just over there can’t you see,
So I’ll fit this damn rope protector,
Oh bring back my ladders to me.

Bring back, bring back
Oh bring back my ladders to me, to me.
Bring back, bring back,
Oh bring back my ladders to me.

I’d just reached the seventh rebelay,
When four feet below me I see,
The floor and another rebelay,
Oh bring back my ladders to me.

Bring back, bring back
Oh bring back my ladders to me, to me.
Bring back, bring back,
Oh bring back my ladders to me.

Ric’s undergone Elliot training,
Won’t use one bolt when he can use three,
So we reach the last pitch with no bolts left,
Oh bring back my ladders to me.