He stands at the corner of old Bevington Bush
Astride of an old packing case
And the dolls at the end of the board were dancing
As he crooned with a smile on his face:
Chorus
Come day, go day
Wish in me heart it was Sunday
Drinking buttermilk all the week,
And a whisky on a Sunday”
His tired old hands worked the wooden spoon
As the puppets they danced up and down
A far better show than you never will see
In the fanciest theatre in town
In 1902 old Seth Davie died
His voice it was heard no more
The three dancing dolls in the dustbin were thrown
And the board went to mend a back door
If your ever down by old Bevington bushÂ
With the wind howling in from the sea
You can still hear the voice of old Seth Davie
As he croons to his dancing dolls three