You’ve heard it since you were a toddler. It starts with those famous bells of St. Clements and ends with a kid getting "chopped off" their head. Pretty dark for a playground game, right? Most of us grew up singing the oranges and lemons lyrics while forming an arch with our arms, waiting to trap our friends in a mock execution. But if you actually stop to listen to the words, it isn’t just a catchy tune. It’s a sonic map of 18th-century London, a time when the city was loud, smelly, and weirdly obsessed with debt and the gallows.
Honestly, the version you know is likely the sanitized one. We like to pretend it’s about fruit. It isn't. Not really.
The Geography of the Oranges and Lemons Lyrics
The song functions as a guided tour through the city's various parishes. Each church "speaks" its own line, often mimicking the actual sound of the bells that once hung in those towers. Or, more accurately, the social status of the people living under them.
Take "Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement’s." There is a massive debate among historians about which St. Clement’s this actually is. Some, like the folks at the church itself, argue it’s St. Clement Danes in the Strand. Why? Because it was near the Thames where merchant ships docked, unloading citrus from the Mediterranean. Others point to St. Clement Eastcheap. That’s near the old pudding lane markets. It makes sense either way. The rhyme captures the sensory overload of London’s ports. You can almost smell the rotting fruit and the salt air.
Then you get "You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martin’s." This isn't just a random number. St. Martin-in-the-Fields was located in a significantly wealthier area than some of its counterparts. The mention of money—specifically a debt—immediately shifts the tone from commerce to consequence. In the 1700s, debt wasn’t just a bad credit score. It was a prison sentence.
The Looming Threat of the Old Bailey
As the rhyme progresses, the tone gets darker. "When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey."
The Old Bailey wasn't a church. It was, and still is, the Central Criminal Court of England and Wales. It’s where the trials happened. By the time the song gets to "When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch," the desperation is palpable. Shoreditch back then was an incredibly impoverished suburb outside the city walls. It was a place for the marginalized. The hope of "growing rich" was often a pipe dream for the people living there, a stark contrast to the financial demands of the Old Bailey.
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The Executioner in the Playground
We have to talk about the ending. You know the part. "Here comes a candle to light you to bed, and here comes a chopper to chop off your head."
Chip, chop, chip, chop—the last man is dead.
It’s brutal. Most parents today would probably hesitate to teach their kids a song about beheading, but for the Victorians and the Georgians, death was a public spectacle. Some historians suggest the "candle" refers to the practice of visiting a condemned prisoner in their cell the night before execution. The "chopper" is obviously the executioner.
There is a theory—though contested by some folklorists—that the rhyme specifically follows the route a prisoner might take toward Newgate Prison or the gallows. The bells aren't just ringing for a Sunday service; they are tolling for a funeral. Or a death sentence. It’s a grim realization. You’re playing a game about judicial homicide.
Why the Rhyme Still Sticks
Why do we still sing it? It’s the rhythm. The "bells" provide a natural cadence that works perfectly for a skipping rope or a line game. It’s also deeply rooted in the English identity. During the 1944 reimagining of London in George Orwell’s 1984, the oranges and lemons lyrics serve as a haunting link to a forgotten past. Winston Smith uses the rhyme to try and piece together a history that the Party has erased.
The rhyme represents a lost London. A city of 50+ church towers all clanging at once.
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Identifying the Real Churches
If you want to do a "bells tour" of London today, you can actually visit most of these spots. They aren't just myths.
- St. Clement Danes: Located in the middle of a busy traffic island in the Strand. They still play the tune on their carillon.
- St. Martin-in-the-Fields: Right on the edge of Trafalgar Square. It’s a hub for concerts now, but the "farthings" debt still echoes in the history of the parish's workhouses.
- St. Sepulchre-without-Newgate: This is likely the "bells of Old Bailey." It sits directly across from the court. Historically, the "Great Bell of Sepulchre" was rung to mark executions at Newgate.
- St. Leonard’s, Shoreditch: The "When I grow rich" church. It still stands in East London, though the neighborhood has gentrified significantly since the rhyme was penned.
- St. Mary-le-Bow: "I do not know, says the great bell of Bow." Being born within earshot of these bells is the traditional definition of a true Cockney.
The "great bell of Bow" is particularly famous for its weight and deep tone. In the rhyme, it acts as a sort of final, indifferent arbiter. It doesn't know when the debt will be paid. It doesn't care. It just rings.
Common Misconceptions About the Song
People love a good conspiracy theory. You might have heard that this song is about Henry VIII and his many wives. Or that it’s about the Black Plague.
Honestly? Probably not.
While many nursery rhymes are retroactively linked to the Plague (like Ring Around the Rosie), there is very little evidence to support that for the oranges and lemons lyrics. The first recorded version of the lyrics appears in Tommy Thumb's Pretty Song Book around 1744. That’s nearly eighty years after the Great Plague of London. It’s more likely a commentary on the sheer density of churches in London and the omnipresent threat of the law.
The "chopper" is more likely a reference to the Newgate executioner than a plague doctor or a king’s whim. It’s about the reality of the streets. Life was cheap. Debt was heavy. The bells were the only thing that spoke for everyone, rich or poor.
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How the Game is Actually Played
If you've forgotten the mechanics, it’s simple but high-stakes for a five-year-old.
- Two players form an arch by holding hands high.
- The other players run through the arch in a circle.
- Everyone sings the verses, moving faster as the "bells" get more frantic.
- On the word "dead," the arch drops.
- Whoever is caught is "out" or, in some older versions, has to choose between an "orange" or a "lemon" (representing the two leaders of the arch) to join their team for a tug-of-war.
The tug-of-war ending is actually the "survival of the fittest" part of the game. It turns a song about execution into a physical contest. It’s a weirdly perfect metaphor for 18th-century survival.
Practical Ways to Explore the History
If you're a history buff or just someone who likes weird trivia, don't just read the words. Experience them.
Next time you are in London, go to the Strand. Stand outside St. Clement Danes at 9:00 AM, 12:00 PM, 3:00 PM, or 6:00 PM. You will hear the mechanical carillon play the tune. It sounds a bit tinny and eerie against the sound of red double-decker buses and rushing commuters.
Check out the "Bell of the Dead" at St. Sepulchre. It’s kept in a glass case. It’s the handbell that the bellman would ring outside the cell of the condemned at midnight, reciting a rhyming reminder that they were about to die. It puts the "candle to light you to bed" line into a chilling perspective.
You can also look into the "Bells of London" project. Many of these churches have active bell-ringing societies (campanologists). They keep the "change ringing" tradition alive. It’s an incredibly complex, mathematical way of ringing bells that hasn't changed much since the rhyme was written.
Your Next Steps
Stop thinking of these as just "kids' songs." They are oral histories. To get a deeper look at this specific slice of London lore, try these steps:
- Visit the Guildhall Library: They have incredible records of London's parishes and the street hawkers who would have been shouting about their oranges and lemons.
- Listen to Change Ringing: Search for "St. Mary-le-Bow change ringing" on YouTube. It’s not a melody; it’s a cascading wall of sound. It explains why the rhyme uses different "voices" for different bells.
- Read Peter Ackroyd’s "London: The Biography": He captures the grime and the "chime" of the city better than almost anyone else.
The lyrics are a map. Follow them, and you’ll find a version of London that isn't in the tourist brochures—a place where the bells told you exactly who you were, how much you owed, and exactly how much time you had left.