Songs, Poems and Curses of the BCC

B.C.C. Curses

Number One

Hellfireruddybuggerf*!@shitdamn

This may well be the largest single swearword in recorded history, and is well worth remembering.

Number Two

For someone who drops a ladder down a 130' entrance shaft as you're just making ready to get to the pub, then argues with you when you tell him he's got to climb back down for it.

You pugnacious promiscuous polyspermous puff, you've procrastinated the progress of this piddling party!!!

(It helps if you say it in anger)

Number Three

A general, all-purpose, curse which will be found to fit most occasions, situations, predicaments and other diverse occurences which befall speleologists.

You infertile bastard son of a homosexual whoremonger, may your orgasms ever decrease,* and may such seed as you may produce bear cloven feet and purple goatees until the end of the world.

*It will be noted by the discerning reader that the part of this curse up to the * is more widely applicable - both to animate and inanimate objects (sometimes with humourous results) - and therefore it is possible to use this separately.

B.C.C.

(To the tune of 'The Red Flag')

We are the Burnley Caving Club,
We do our caving in a pub,
Of deepest caves we have no fear,
We'll always have our pint of beer,
So raise your foaming tankards high,
Lift them up and drink them dry,
For of those caverns we've no fear,
We'll always have our pint of beer.

                     By Past Cavers.

The Burnley Singers Song

(To the tune of 'On Top Of Old Smokey')

We are all from Burnley,
We form quite a crowd,
And when we are singing,
Our songs they are loud.

We sing them with gusto,
We sing them with might,
Because when we're singing,
We're usually tight.

Come sing all you cavers,
Come sing all you males,
Let's all sing with Burnley,
The best Club in the Dales.

            By Geoff Barber.

The Digging Song

Chorus:
We'll dig dig dig dig dig dig dig,
And dig until we're through,
We'll dig dig dig dig dig dig dig,
If I dig so will you.

Ken Williams is a digging man,
He tells us what to do,
But the only time you'll see him dig,
Is when he thinks we're through.

Chorus.

Well digging is a dirty game,
You're all souped up in mud,
The only thing that makes you dig,
Is finding something good.

Chorus.

We're digging in a hole just now,
The like you've never seen,
The only thing that doesn't move,
Is the dead sheep in the stream.

Chorus.

And when at last the digging stops,
The hole gapes open wide,
You'll find it's someone else that's dug,
And broken through inside.

                     By D.Shepherd.

Cave Song

(To the tune of 'Wild Mountain Thyme')

Oh the weekend is a-coming,
And the plans they are all laid,
And we'll all go together,
Up to Yorkshire's finest caves.

Chorus:
Far away, beneath the ground,
Far away, beneath the ground.

We will climb up to the moor,
Leaving cities far behind us,
And there we will go down,
Where the traffic cannot find us.

Chorus.

We'll go down beneath the hills,
Where no wars can ever flourish,
Where no armies ever march,
And where peace can never perish.

Chorus.

But alas we must return,
To the world with all its worries,
Leaving caverns far behind us,
Back to cities must we hurry.

                  By D.Shepherd.

The Wonders Of Yorkshire's Underground

(To the tune 'Lily Marlene')

People say we're foolish, why do we ever go?
Risking life is stupid, but little do they know,
Of all the pleasures that we meet,
When in the world beneath their feet,
In Yorkshire's Underground,
In Yorkshire's Underground.

A curtain waved by nature, a golden stalagmite,
The grotesque, twisted fingers that form the helictite,
White slender straws above us grow,
Reflected in a pool below,
In Yorkshire's Underground,
In Yorkshire's Underground.

Splashing spray that sparkles beneath the waterfall,
The tinkling of electron against a cavern wall,
Plunged into darkness far below,
In secrecy, the waters flow,
In Yorkshire's Underground,
In Yorkshire's Underground.

The price we pay to see them is sometimes very high,
That tragedies will happen, this I can't deny,
And risks must be taken for to find,
The treasures left to all Mankind,
In Yorkshire's Underground,
In Yorkshire's Underground.

                 By Garth.

Old King Cole

Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he,
He called for his pipe in the middle of the night,
And he called for his fiddlers three,
Now every fiddler had a very fine fiddle,
And a very fine fiddle had he,
Fiddle-diddle-fiddle-diddle-dee said the fiddlers,
Very fine men are we,
But there's none so fair as can compare,
With the boys of the B.C.C.

                       By Past Members.

Thrutching Song

(To the tune of 'British Grenadiers')

Some talk of Happy Wanderers,
And some of N.P.C.,
Of Craven and of Bradford,
And such great clubs as these,
But of all the World's great caving clubs,
There's none that can compare,
With a thrutch and a Thrutch,
And a THRUTCH and a THRUTCH,
To the Burnley Caving Club.

                By G.Wadge, D. Shepherd.

Speleology

(To the tune of 'Guide Me Oh Thou Great Redeemer')

We don't cave for adoration,
We don't cave for charity,
We just cave by inclination,
And for SPELEOLOGY.

SPELEOLOGY? SPELEOLOGY, all for SPELEOLOGY,
All for SPELEOLOGY.
                           By past members.

We Don't Dig (or Speleology Verse 2)

We don't dig for adoration,
We don't dig for charity,
We just dig from masochism,
And for Speleology.
              By D.Shepherd.

The Happy Holer

(To the tune of 'The Happy Wanderer')

I
I love to go a potholing,
In caverns deep and dark,
I love to see the wonders there,
By the Nife cell on my back.

Chorus:
Balls to me, Balls to you,
Balls to me,
Balls to you-o-o-o-o etc.,
Balls to me, Balls to you,
With a Nife cell on my back.

I love to crawl in bedding planes,
Between the rocky jaws,
But something always wedges me,
It's the Nife cell on my back.

Chorus.

I love to climb a ladder thin,
In shafts so huge and black,
But something always fails on me,
It's the Nife cell on my back.

Chorus.

I'm sick and tired of getting wedged,
And climbing in the dark,
I think I'll try a carbide lamp,
If the bloody flint will spark.

                By D.Shepherd.

The Yellow Garter

Around her leg she wore a yellow garter,
She wore it in the Springtime in the merry month of May,
And if you asked her, why the hell she wore it,
She wore it for her caver who was far, far away.

Chorus:
Far away (Not far enough!) Far away,
She wore it for her caver who was far, far away.

Around the park, she wheels a perambulator,
She wheels it in the Springtime, in the merry month of May,
And if you ask her why the hell she wheels it,
She wheels it for her caver who is far, far away.

Chorus.

Behind the door, her father kept a shotgun,
He kept it in the Springtime, in the merry month of May,
And if you asked him, why the hell he kept it,
He kept it for the caver who was far, far away.

Chorus.

Now on his grave she placed a wreath of roses,
She placed them in the Springtime, in the merry month of May,
And if you asked her why she placed them,
She placed them for her caver who was far, far away.

                         By U-Flung-Sczit.

Sing A Song

(To the tune of 'Sing A Song Of Sixpence')

Sing a song of Burnley,
Burnley Caving Club,
Four and Twenty Cavers,
Sitting in a pub.

When the pubs are open,
They aren't underground,
But sitting in an ale-house,
Swilling beer down.

         By D.Shepherd.

Down Underground

(To the tune of 'Home On The Range')

Oh give me a hole where the potholers moan,
And the streams and the waterfalls play,
Where often is heard that four letter word,
And you're soaked to the skin all the way.

Chorus:
Down, down underground,
Where the streams and the waterfalls play,
Where often is heard that four letter word,
And you're soaked to the skin all the way.

How often you know in a crawl so damned low,
When all hope for the future's in doubt,
You have laid there all grazed, and you've asked as you gazed,
If they'd have to come off, to get out.

                        By Garth.

Isn't It Grand To Be Dead

Look at the entrance, all bloody flooded,
Isn't it grand boys, to be bloody well dead,
Let's not have a sniffle, let's all have a bloody good cry,
And always remember the longer you live,
The sooner you bloody well die.

Look at the passage, bloody tight bedding plane,
Isn't it grand boys, to be bloody well dead,
Let's not have a sniffle, let's all have a bloody good cry,
And always remember the longer you live,
The sooner you bloody well die.

Look at the chamber, bunged up with boulders,
Isn't it grand boys, to be bloody well dead,
Let's not have a sniffle, let's all have a bloody good cry,
And always remember the longer you live,
The sooner you bloody well die.

Look at the traverse, too bloody dangerous,
Isn't it grand boys, to be bloody well dead,
Let's not have a sniffle, let's all have a bloody good cry,
And always remember the longer you live,
The sooner you bloody well die.

Look at the stalactites, all bloody broken,
Isn't it grand boys, to be bloody well dead,
Let's not have a sniffle, let's all have a bloody good cry,
And always remember the longer you live,
The sooner you bloody well die.

Look at the 'Burnley'- bloody great cavers,
Isn't it grand boys, that we're not bloody dead,
Let's not have a sniffle, let's all have a bloody good cheer,
For it's not just in caving that we are the best,
But also in swilling down beer.

                             By Garth.

I Became A Caver

One day I thought unto myself,
A caver I shall be,
And so I went along and joined,
The well known B.C.C.

The leader was a goodly man,
Who was so kind to me,
He was like a father,
Until I paid my fee.

Then one day to start me
They took me to Sell Gill,
And made me carry tackle
All up a bloody hill.

And then they introduced me
To the joys of underground,
Water, crawls and pitches
These were the things I found.

And though I wasn't a drinker
To the pub they took me down,
And made me buy the ale in
At that place they call the 'Crown'

And soon I was a hard man,
A caver through and through,
And then I turned to digging
And my language turned true blue.

I sat down in a tiny hole,
The walls around me shook,
And every time I hit them,
Someone cried "Oh, *!@&".

THUS likewise in digging,
I also scored a hit,
By moving rocks and boulders round
And shovelling glacial shit.

And so the years passed by,
I became like a mole,
Until one day with Gelly
We blasted out a hole.
But then the farmer objected,
We thought it was a farce,
Until his got his shotgun,
And shot me up my arse.

The Frustrated Caver

A caver! A caver! I wish to be,
All the underworld wonder I wish to see,
And if I should meet my death underground,
No trace of my body will ever be found.

A caver! A caver! I now be,
The wonders of White Scar fascinated me.
Oh! Ingleborough Show Cave my next trip will be,
A caver! A caver! I now be.

A caver, a caver, I cannot be!
For I am a tourist, as plain you can see.
Never a foot will I set underground,
I'll stay in my car and drive slowly around.

A caver, a caver, I'll never be!
My bloody stupidity has gone and killed me.
My eyes they did wander, my attention did lend,
And my car didn't make it around the last bend.

The moral of this story I will you tell,
Don't be a tourist, you'll sure go to hell!
An irritation to cavers was my crime,
I should have been down there amongst the prime.

                          By D.E.Nutter.

There's Much More Than Potholes To Caving

(To the tune of Bob Dylan's 'The Times They Are A-Changing'

Come gather round people if you want it explained,
What makes a caver, go caving again,
And why we apparently revel in pain,
When the weekend brings on that old craving,
Well on top of the fact we're three-quarters insane,
There is much more than potholes to caving.

There's many an evening sat talking with friends,
And many a critic of new caving trends,
And to many a story is added a bend,
And a bend for a lie you sit trading,
For no-one's a caver until he has kenned,
There's much more than potholes to caving.

When the pitch is rigged up and the belay made fast,
There's always eight novices left to come last,
And when you come up you find one silly bast,
Ard, is still down below and needs saving,
When you're in a warm pub, and it's all in the past,
You see much more than potholes in caving.

And when you've been out for a day on the land,
Digging out potholes with just your bare hands,
And a rosy pub fire thaws salivary glands,
And the only reward for your slaving,
Is worn away 'pinkies', and eight black and tans,
You see much more than potholes in caving.

Show me a caver who's modest and strong,
And I'll show you ten cavers who cave with the tongue,
But a cave is a cave, both real and in song,
And there's much in an old cavers raving,
So don't be disdainful for nothing is wrong,
When there's much more to potholes than caving.

                           By A.B.Harvey.

Dig Somewhere Stupid

(To the tune of 'Sing Something Simple')

Dig somewhere stupid for B.C.C.,
You dig the shakeholes,
And I'll dig the sinks,
Just dig somewhere stupid,
Like me.

For B.C.C.

I'm A Caver

Chorus:
I'm a caver, I'm a caver from Lancashire way,
I get all my pleasures the potholing way,
I might be a white slave on Monday,
But I am a free man on Sunday.

Last week I went walking in Kingsdale,
With a buxom young lass I did go,
When suddenly I heard from a shakehole her shout,
"Oooo, darling come look at my hole"

Chorus.

Some cavers prefer a good traverse,
But personally, I'd rather have crawls,
For my greatest pleasure in caving,
Is to feel the rock press on my ----elbows.

Chorus.

Now everything must have an ending,
And this is the end of my song,
For the landlord just gave me a signal, which meant,
I'm a good turn, but I'm on too long.

                             By Garth.

The Only Club For Me

(To the tune of 'Waltzing Matilda')

Chorus:
Who'll come a-caving, who'll come a-caving,
Who'll come a-caving with B.C.C.?
And I think to myself, as I wait to pass the tackle down,
This is the only club for me.

When I was a young lad I wanted to go caving,
So I got my folks to agree,
I was shy, never swore, never drank, I was innocent,
Until I joined the B.C.C.

Chorus.

I soon lost my shyness changing up at Clapham,
A car load of tourists came past me,
Well I must have been to close, for the car whipped off my underpants,
And left me naked for all to see.

Chorus.

The first time I swore was on the pitch in Diccan,
Gallons of water poured down on me,
I said to myself as I shivered in my 'shreddies',
What a ?!*@ing place to be.

Chorus.

Then I took to drinking alcoholic beverage,
First just a pint, then two or three,
Now I've got to the stage where I can drink a barrel,
So long as someone can buy it for me.

Chorus.

So if you fancy caving, first you must remember,
A caver's life is wild and free,
And that we're the kind of lads that are looking for excitement,
That's why we're in the B.C.C.

                               By Garth.

Rough Caver

(To the tune of 'Wild Rover')

I've been a rough caver for many a year,
And I've spent all my weekends with shit up to here,
And now I am leaving to return no more,
For I never will play the rough caver no more,

Chorus:
No nay never (Right up your hole)
No nay never no more,
Will I play the rough caver,
No never no more.

The first trip I went on was down in Sell Gill,
They said carry the tackle up that little hill,
I shouldered me burden and gave a loud groan,
Said I never would play the rough caver no more.

Chorus.

Since that day I've been down potholes ten score,
With carrying tackle me shoulders are sore,
Me mates they won't help me they just pile on more,
So I never will play the rough caver no more.

Chorus.

They went down a pothole they call Penyghent,
They said 'It's a tough one,' so down there I went,
We ran out of ladder last pitch to the sump,
They said, 'It's a small one, it's alright to jump.'

Chorus.

My body's now healed and the doctors have done,
But I've lost all my keenness and lay for the sun,
So I'll leave it to you lads to carry on down,
I'll wait at the top with a bottle of brown.

                             By D.Shepherd.

Yorkshire Underground

(To the tune of 'Battle Hymn Of The Republic')

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the Yorkshire Underground,
I have seen blind fish and shrimps there living far beneath the ground,
I have travelled waters deep and swift, a rivers secret womb,
For ever I'll go down.

Chorus:
Oh for ever we'll go caving,
Oh for ever we'll go caving,
Oh for ever we'll go caving,
For spel-e-ol-o-gy.

I have climbed in secret places which the sun has never seen,
I have crawled along a bedding plane, an eight inch rocky seam,
My lamp has shown me wonders made by natures hand alone,
For ever I'll go down.

Chorus.

I have been down all the famous holes and many more besides,
I have traversed down in Juniper boots sliding on the side,
I have counted all the pitches down in darkest Penyghent,
For ever I'll go down.

Chorus.

Meregill, Rowton, Washfold, Rift, Long Kin East and West,
Mossdale, Gingling, Tatham Wife these are but the best,
Caving is so fine that I'll go down them all again,
For ever I'll go down.

Chorus.

And when I die, please grant me this my final dying wish,
Don't cover me up in soil or burn me up in ash,
But bring me up here to the Dales and lie me in G.G.,
For ever I'll go down.

                                   By D.Shepherd.

Wot No 'oles?

(To the tune of 'Too-ral-i-ay')

As I was a-walking o'er Penyghent way,
A group of potholers I chanced for to spy,
I stopped and I asked them what they were about,
But they only told me to go !*?@ off out.

This increased my ardour, I had to know more,
Who were these rough people who cursed me and swore?
I went down to Horton and there I did see,
A Land Rover bearing the name B.C.C.

Around it I counted great rucksacks nine, ten,
Oh where could they be, these mighty young men,
In some dismal cavern they must have gone down,
But I was mistaken, they'd gone to the Crown.

And there I did find them as drunk as could be,
A-telling their tales with jest and great glee,
But a pint glass I think was what they meant to say,
And not how they bottomed ten potholes that day,

The pub it was chock full of more of their kind,
I thought, 'It's a meeting and not just a blind,'
But again I was wrong as I very soon saw,
As they drowned in their beer and then sank to the floor.

Where are all the cavers the hard men of note?
I asked of the landlord as he counted his loot,
'What's that son - the hard men - They're still on their feet,
And thinking of throwing some stones down G.G.'

                          By D.Shepherd.
                      (From an early memory of caving)

Transcribed from a photocopy of the original book by Alex Holden in January 2003.