The Ghost of Ann Boleyn

(Sing it in a ghostly, shuddering, basso profundo voice. You can do it, girls!)

In the Tower of London, large as life,
The ghost of Ann Boleyn walks, they declare.
Poor Ann Boleyn was once King Henry's wife —
Until he made the headsman bob her hair!
Ah yes! he did her wrong long years ago,
And she comes up at night to tell him so.

With her head tucked underneath her arm
She walks the Bloody Tower!
With her head tucked underneath her arm
At the midnight hour.

She comes to haunt King Henry, she means giving him 'what for',
Gadzooks, she's going to tell him off for having spilt her gore.
And just in case the headsman wants to give her an encore
She has her head tucked underneath her arm!

With her head tucked underneath her arm
She walks the Bloody Tower!
With her head tucked underneath her arm
At the midnight hour.

Along the drafty corridors for miles and miles she goes,
She often catches cold, poor thing, it's cold there when it blows,
And it's awfully, awfully awkward for the queen to blow her nose
With her head tucked underneath her arm!

Sometimes gay King Henry gives a spread
For all his pals and gals —l a ghostly crew.
The headsman carves the joint and cuts the bread,
Then in comes Ann Boleyn to 'queer' the 'do';
She holds her head up with a wild war whoop,
And Henry cries 'Don't drop it in the soup!'

With her head tucked underneath her arm
She walks the Bloody Tower!
With her head tucked underneath her arm
At the midnight hour.

The sentries think that it's a football that she carries in,
And when they've had a few they shout 'Is Ars'nal going to win?'
They think it's Alec James, instead of poor old Ann Boleyn
With her head tucked underneath her arm!

With her head tucked underneath her arm
She walks the bloody Tower!
With her head tucked underneath her arm
At the midnight hour.

One night she caught King Henry, he was in the canteen bar.
Said he 'Are you Jane Seymour, Ann Boleyn or Cath'rine Parr?
For how the sweet san fairy ann* do I know who you are
With your head tucked underneath your arm!'


With her head tucked underneath her arm,
She waaaaaalks the bloody Tower,
With her head tucked underneath her arm,
At the mi-i-i-idnight hou-ou-our......

                                                                        —Author unknown
*When British soldiers arrived in France to fight in the First World War, they were presented with a language they struggled to make sense of. What they did to the pronunciation of French and Belgian place names is a wonder, such as turning Ypres into Wipers. They picked up a lot of French expressions, but changed them into something that sounded English. This was the fate of ça ne fait rien (it doesn't matter), which became a British Army catch phrase in that war as an expression of resigned—or cynical—acceptance of some state of affairs, usually brought about by bungling officers. One English version of it was San Ferry Ann, others were san fairy anna and even send for Mary Ann, though perhaps san fairy ann was the most common. It largely fell out of use after the War, and seems not to have been taken up by servicemen in the Second World War.

This World War II veteran—who fought mainly in France, though toward the end of the war in Germany and Austria—came up with "Son of a pa!" from Ça ne va pas ("That doesn't work"). Son of a pa? Right! We've got too many sons of a gun around here plus an excess of sons of truly abominable paternity—sons o' beaches, for example.