{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_4901/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_4901","id":"gutenberg_4901","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4901","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Children's Picture Books","Children's poetry","Nursery rhymes"],"text":"Typed by Brett Fishburne Proofed by Reina Hosier and Kestrell.\n\n\n\nThe Only True Mother Goose Melodies\n\nAn exact reproduction of the text and illustrations of the original\nedition.\n\n\nWith introduction by Rev. Edward Everett Hale, D.D.\n\n\n\n\n\nIntroduction.\n\n\n\n\nThe editor of the new edition of Mother Goose's Melodies knows much\nmore about the curious history of the Boston edition than I do.  And\nthe reader will not need, even in these lines of mine, any light\non the curious question about Madam Vergoose, or her son-in-law\nMr. Fleet, or the Contes de Ma Mere l'Oye, which are so carefully\ndiscussed in the preface.  All this is admirably discussed\nalso in Mr. William Whitmore's paper published in Albany in 1889,\nand reprinted in Boston in 1892.  In that paper he reproduced in\nfacsimile Isaiah Thomas's edition of Mother Goose published first\nin 1785.\n\nWhat I want to tell, is of Mother Goose in the nineteenth Century--the\nMother Goose on which the old Boston line was brought up--a line\nnow nearly forgotten.  But there were days, Gentle Reader, when an\nexcellent body of people in this little Town of Boston grew up all\ntogether loving and loved, brought up their children here, loving\nand loved, and amused those children from babyhood in their own\nway.  The centre of the baby life of this race was Mother Goose's\nMelodies in the dear little quarto edition, of which a precise copy\nis in the reader's hands.\n\nIt is this Mother Goose of which the New Englander, if his age be\nmore than three score years and ten, speaks when he speaks of Mother\nGoose at all.  The historical ear marks in it are rather curious.\nPerhaps the printing of this very edition may raise up some antiquary\nwho can tell us how it came into existence.  I wish I knew.  I hope\nsome reader of these lines may know.  What I know is this, that\nwhen the nineteenth century began, in the years from 1800 to 1820,\nthe impression of what we still called the \"Mother Country\" upon\nBoston was very strong.  The old nurse who took care of me in my\nbabyhood spoke of \"weal\" and \"winegar,\" where my father and mother\nspoke of veal and vinegar, just as if she had been a London Cockney.\nChildren played the games of English origin,\n\n\n\"Lady Queen Anne, she sits on her throne,\"\n\n\nthough it were fifty years after the Declaration of Independence.\nI may say in passing, that within the last dozen years I stopped\nto hear some North End children sing the song Queen Anne, without\nthe slightest idea, I suppose, of who Queen Anne was, or what was\ntheir business with her.  Alas, and alas, I did not write down the\nwords of that song on the moment!\n\nThe truth is that Boston was still a place of foreign commerce.\nOur ties with London, such as John Adams and other Revolutionaries\nspoke of so freely, still existed, and a Baby's Song Book like\nMother Goose, might still recall, and I suppose repeat, the song\nof Cockney homes.\n\nSo in the nursery, whether one of the North End sailors' home, or\nof Beacon Street, or Park Street, or Pearl Street, the baby was\nsung to sleep with London ditties.\n\n\nLondon Bridge is broken down,\n   Dance over, my Lady Lee,\nLondon Bridge is broken down,\n   With a fair Ladye.\nWill not some of the active literary clubs of St. Ethelburger's\nChurch in Bishopsgate, in East London, tell us what this means:\n\n\nYou owe me five shillings,\nSay the bells of St. Helen's.\nWhen will you pay me?\nSay the bells of Old Bailey.\nWhen I grow rich,\nSay the bells of Shoreditch.\nPokers and tongs,\nSay the bells of St. John's.\nKettles and pans,\nSay the bells of St. Ann's.\nHalf-pence and farthings,\nSay the bells of St. Martin's.\n\n\nAll this was sung to New England children, thank God without note\nor comment, and with no other explanation.  But the American traveler\nwho goes into Baring Brothers', Bishopsgate, with his credit, feels\na thrill which the clerk who attends to him does not understand,\nif one speaks to him of St. Helen's or St. Ann's.\n\nAll this accounts for Mother Goose as Fleet reprinted her baby songs\nas early as the year 1700.  But as the reader will see, somebody\nhad the editing of the baby's text book who was not afraid of his\nown time.  I think that the very latest verses which will be found\nhere are those of Scott's Donald Dhu.  Walter Scott wrote this\nfor Campbell's Anthology in 1816.  The presence of these verses\nfixes the latest date of any lines in the collection, except, as\nMr. Whitmore has observed, the line \"Boston Town\" is changed into\n\"Boston City,\" so that must have been written after 1822.\n\nBut it is interesting to see that no American line of comment seems\nto have slipped in.  There was no lack of nationalism in the air,\nbut I cannot find any reference to a cent[*], a dime, a governor,\nor a President.  Now in the printed handkerchiefs, such as children\nused to buy on Election Day in the street, I remember the Ballad\nof John Gilpin ended,\n\n\nNow, let us sing, \"Long live the President\n         And Gilpin, Long live he.\"\nBut the wise editor of our Boston Mother Goose had no such fears\nfor the republicanism of his baby hearers.  Those were happy years\nin which the imagination of babies and their older brothers and\nsisters were permitted to run free.\n\n[*][Note from Brett:  See the rhyme which starts \"Little Jack\nNory...\" for such a reference.]\n\nI have asked and asked and have received no answer, as to the artist\nwho made many of the admirable designs which are distinctive in\nthis book.  Abel Bowen's[*] name is signed to one, and his initials\nappear on several.  N.D. means Nathaniel Dearborn[+].  One is signed\n\"Chicket,\"[&] but this does not account for the greater number\nof them.  I was the son of a printer and type-founder, so we had\na \"type book\" as a classic in our nursery.  So I knew even as a\nlittle child, that there were pictures in Mother Goose which were\nput there merely because the block from which they were printed\nexisted in the printer's office.  But there were other designs made\nby some artist of genius; and who was he?  He represented the man\nin the moon, hanging with one arm to the crescent of the moon.  That\nman, whoever he was, is to be ranked among the original artists of\nthe world.  He gave to childhood his first and best images of the\nblackbirds who were baked in the pie.\n\n[*][Note from Brett:  Abel Bowen (1790-1850) was Boston's first\nwood engraver and is perhaps most well known for his work on the\n\"Farmer's Almanac.\"]\n\n[+][Note from Brett:  Nathanial Dearborn (1786-1852) was with the\nHolland Printing Company and is perhaps most well known (in 2002)\nfor the difficulty he had in setting plates for a 13 cent stamp\nused in Hawaii (second issue).  He also was a printer and author\nof \"The American Textbook for Making Letters.\"  He would have been\nwell remembered in Boston at the time of this book.]\n\n[&][Note from Brett:  \"Chicket\" is terribly obscure and the\nonly reference I could possibly find was to a Mr. Chicket who was\napparently murdered in a bar (the Brushmakers Arms) in Upham, New\nHampshire and supposedly haunts the bar.  Whether this has anything\nto do with the Chicket in the text is highly questionable, but\nwould make for a great story.]\n\nThis question I have asked again and again, and no man and no woman\nhas answered it.  But the chances seem to be that we owe them also\nto Abel Bowen, the first wood engraver recorded among the engravers\nin the period after the Revolution.  We have specimens of his work\nmore in pictures of landscape or of buildings than in drawings of\nmen and women.  But there can be but little doubt that most of the\nblocks from which the Mother Goose of our childhood were printed\nwere engraved by him, and there seems to be good reason to believe\nthat the designs were by him as well.  The pity is that no old\nportfolio can be found with other designs from his pencil.  But,\nalas, the chances are that they have gone where so many other\nmanuscripts have gone, which would delight the antiquaries.\n\nThanks to the publisher and editor of this book, the designs, of\nwhatever hand, are now preserved for another generation.\n\nI have said that I am not learned in the interesting genealogical\ndiscussion of the subject, but I like to call attention to the fact\nthat the English Norwich was the birthplace and home of Fleet, and\nthat it is possible that in the annals of that city light may be\ngained as to the history of the man in the Moon.\n\nI have always thoughtt that the close connection of our maritime\npeople with London had something to do with the names of our streets.\nThe most striking instance is in the name of Cornhill, where this\nvery Thomas Fleet had his book store, and where book stores have\nbeen an institution from that day to this.  Our Cornhill in its\nrelations to our water front occupies the same conditions which\nthe London Cornhill had and has to the river front in London.  The\nyoung reader should remember that Washington Street so far as it had\none name was called the Main Street.  Coming North from our Dover\nStreet, the traveler passed through Orange Street, then through\nNewbury Street, next through Marlborough Street, which extended\nfrom Winter Street to School Street, and then through Cornhill\nnorthward to Dock Square.  This is precisely as in passing east\nthrough what was the Main Street of London of those days, the traveler\nwould have passed through the Cornhill of that thoroughfare.  The\nLondon Cornhill retains its name.  Ours was changed in 1824 to the\nall-conquering name of Washington, which is now applied to the whole\nof the \"Main Street\" and \"the Neck\" of the Fathers, as indeed, it\nis applied by local authorities many miles further.\n\nBut in familiar conversation, the old name Cornhill was retained\nfor a generation, and indeed, would be understood to-day, if you\nwere speaking to Boston people more than fifty years old.  The name\nCornhill is now applied to the Market Street of an earlier period.\n\nYoung readers should remember that Orange Street, Newbury street,\nand Marlborough Street were names given in honour of the Prince\nof Orange of the Puritan victory at Newbury, and of the Duke\nof Marlborough.  All of them show what were the Whig and Puritan\nfeelings of the people who gave them.  All three of the names in\nour time have been transferred from the old localities.\n\nWe are all greatly obliged to Mrs. Harriet Blackstone C. Butler for\nthe pains she has taken to rescue for popular use this interesting\nmemorial of the education of the fathers and mothers of New England.\n\n[signed]Edward E. Hale\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Only True\n\nMother Goose\n\nMELODIES,\n\nWithout addition or abridgement.\n\nEmbracing, also, a reliable\n\nLIFE OF THE GOOSE FAMILY,\n\nNever before published.\n\nNumerous illustrations.\n\n\n\n\n\nHEAR WHAT MA'AM GOOSE SAYS!\n\n\n\n\nMy dear little Blossoms, there are now in this world, and always\nwill be, a great many grannies besides myself, both in petticoats\nand pantaloons, some a deal younger to be sure; but all monstrous\nwise, and of my own family name.  These old women, who never had\nchick nor child of their own, but who always know how to bring up\nother people's children, will tell you with very long faces, that\nmy enchanting, quieting, soothing volume, my all-sufficient anodyne\nfor cross, peevish, won't-be-comforted little bairns, ought to be\nlaid aside for more learned books, such as THEY could select and\npublish.  Fudge!  I tell you that all their batterings can't deface\nmy beauties, nor their wise pratings equal my wiser prattlings;\nand all imitators of my refreshing songs might as well write a new\nBilly Shakespeare as another Mother Goose--we two great poets were\nborn together, and we shall go out of the world together.\n\n\nNo, no my Melodies will never die,\nWhile nurses sing, or babies cry.\n\n\n\n\n\nHistory of the Goose Family.\n\n\n\n\n[FROM THE BOSTON TRANSCRIPT.]\n\n\nCotton Mather And Mother Goose.\n\n\nMR. EDITOR:--Your correspondent, N.B.S., has so decisively given\na QUIETUS to the question as to the birthplace of Cotton Mather,\nthat there is no danger of its ever being revived again.  But there\nis another question of equal importance to many, to the literary\nworld in particular, which should in like manner be put to rest.\nWHO WAS MOTHER GOOSE? and WHEN were her melodies first given to the\nworld?  These are questions which have been often asked, but have\nnever been satisfactorily answered.  The recent publication of a\nbook called \"Mother Goose for Old Folks\" has again revived these\nquestions, which serves to show that the subject has not yet lost\nits interest.\n\nMany persons imagine that Mother Goose is a myth,--that no such\nperson ever existed.  This is a mistake.  MOTHER GOOSE was not\nonly a veritable personage, but was born and resided many years in\nBoston, where many of her descendants may now be found.  The last\nthat bore this ancient paternal cognomen died about the year 1807,\nand was buried in the Old Granary Burying Ground, where probably lie\nthe remains of the whole blood, if we may judge from the numerous\ngrave-stones which mark their resting place.  The family originated in\nEngland, but at what time they came to this country is unknown,--but\nprobably about the year 1656.  This was the \"Wealthy family of\nGoose\" which is immortalized by Mr. Bowditch in his book of Suffolk\nNames, who at the same time has immortalized himself.  They were\nlandholders in Boston, so early as 1660.  Nearly half the space\nbetween West and Winter streets, on Washington street, and extending\nwesterly towards Tremont street, 275 feet belonged to this family,\nas did also a large tract of land on Essex, Rowe, and Bedford\nstreets, upon which now stand two churches and a large number of\ndwelling houses.  SO MUCH FOR MOTHER GOOSE.  Now for her melodies.\n\nIt is well known to antiquarians that more than TWO hundred years\nago there was a small book in circulation in London bearing the\nname of \"Rhymes for the nursery; or Lulla-Byes for Children,\" which\ncontained MANY OF THE IDENTICAL PIECES which have been handed down\nto us and now from part of the \"Mother Goose's Melodies\" of the\npresent day.  It contained also other pieces much more silly, if\npossible, and some that the AMERICAN types of the present day would\nrefuse to give off an impression.  The \"cuts\" or illustrations\nthereof were of the coarsest description.\n\nThe first book of the kind known to be printed in this country bears\nthe title of \"Songs for the Nursery; or, Mother Goose's Melodies\nfor Children.\"  Something probably intended to represent a goose\nwith a very long neck and mouth wide open, covered a large part\nof the title page, at the bottom of which, Printed by T. Fleet[*],\nat his printing house, Pudding Lane, 1719.  Price, two coppers.\nSeveral pages were missing, so that the whole number could not be\nascertained.\n\n[*][Note from Brett:  T. Fleet is probably Thomas Fleet (1685-1758)\nand is referenced by John Fleet Elliot (a descendent).  Thomas\nFleet was married to Elizabeth Goose (AKA Vertigoose), and is the\npresumed author.  Unfortunately, modern research and research at\nthe time failed to substantiate the existence of this book.  This\ninformation is culled in part from the introduction to L. Frank\nBaum's edition of \"Mother Goose\" in 1897.  The introduction written\nby Mr. Baum considered this line of reasoning and this article is\nreferenced by him.]\n\nThis T. Fleet, according to Isaiah Thomas[*], was a man of considerable\ntalent and of great wit and humor.  He was born in England, and\nwas brought up in a printing office in the city of Bristol, where\nhe afterwards worked as a journeyman.  Although he was considered\na man of sense, he was never thought to be overburdened with\nreligious sentiments; he certainly was not in his latter days.  Yet\nhe was MORE than suspected of being actively engaged in the riotous\nproceedings connected with the trial of Dr. Sacheverell, in Queen\nAnn's time.  In London, Bristol, and many other places, the mobs\nand riots were of a very serious nature.  In London several meeting\nhouses were sacked and pulled down, and the materials and contents\nmade into bonfires, and much valuable property destroyed.  Several\nof the rioters were arrested, tried and convicted.  The trials of\nsome of them are now before me.  How deeply Fleet was implicated\nin these disturbances was never known, but being of the same mind\nwith Jack Falstaff, that \"the better part of valor is discretion,\"\nthought it prudent to put the Ocean between himself and danger.  He\nmade his way to this country and arrived in Boston, 1712.  Being\na man of some enterprise he soon established a printing office in\nPudding Lane (now Devonshire Street), where he printed small books,\npamphlets, ballads, and such matter as offered.  Being industrious\nand prudent, he gradually accumulated property.  It was not long\nbefore he became acquainted with the \"wealthy family of Goose,\"\na branch of which he had before known in Bristol, and was shortly\nmarried to the eldest daughter.\n\n[*][Note from Brett:  Publisher of an American volume of Mother\nGoose in 1787, \"Mother Goose's Melody:  or Sonnets for the cradle.\"\nThis is a reprint of the collection put together by John Newbury\n(known for the Newbury medal).]\n\nBy the record of marriages in the City Registrar's office, it\nappears that in \"1715, June 8, was married by Rev. COTTON MATHER,\nTHOMAS FLEET TO ELIZABETH GOOSE.\"  The happy couple took up their\nresidence in the same house with the printing office in Pudding lane.\nIn due time their family was increased by the birth of a son and\nheir.  Mother Goose, like all good grandmothers, was in ecstasies\nat the event; her joy was unbounded; she spent her whole time in\nthe nursery, and in wandering about the house, pouring forth, in\nnot the most melodious strains, the songs and ditties which she\nhad learned in her younger days, greatly to the annoyance of the\nwhole neighborhood--to Fleet in particular, who was a man fond of\nquiet.  It was in vain he exhausted his shafts of wit and ridicule,\nand every expedient he could devise:  it was of no use--the old lady\nwas not thus to be put down; so, like others similarly situated,\nhe was obliged to submit.  His shrewdness, however, did not forsake\nhim; from this seeming evil he contrived to educe some good; he\nconceived the idea of collecting the songs and ditties as they came\nfrom his mother, and such as he could gather from other sources,\nand publishing them for the benefit of the world--not forgetting\nhimself.  This he did--and thus \"Mother Goose's Melodies\" were\nbrought forth.  The adoption of this title was in derision of his\ngood mother-in-law, and was perfectly characteristic of the man,\nas he was never known to spare his nearest friends in his raillery,\nor when he could excite laughter at their expense.\n\nCOTTON MATHER AND MOTHER GOOSE thus stand in juxtaposition; and as\nthe former was instrumental in cementing the union, which resulted\nin placing the latter so conspicuously before the world, it is but\njust that it should be so,--although the one was a learned man,\na most voluminous writer, and published a great many books, some\nwise and some foolish, it may well be doubted whether any one, or\nall of them, together, have passed through so many editions,--been\nread by so many hundreds of thousands, not to say millions,--put\nso many persons to sleep, or in general done so much good to the\nworld as the simple melodies of the other.\n\nRequiescat.\n\n\n\n\n\nGoose's Melodies.\n\n\n\n\nLittle boy blue, come blow your horn,\nThe sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn,\nWhat! is this the way you mind your sheep,\nUnder the haycock fast asleep?\n\n\n  There was a mad man,\n  And he had a mad wife,\nAnd they lived all in a mad lane!\nThey had three children all at a birth,\nAnd they too were mad every one.\n  The father was mad,\n  The mother was mad,\nThe children all mad beside;\nAnd upon a mad horse they all of them got,\nAnd madly away did ride.\n\n\nBaa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?\nYes, marry have I, three bags full,\nOne for my master, and one for my dame,\nAnd one for the little boy that lives in the lane.\n\n\nTo market, to market, to buy a penny bun,\nHome again, home again, market is done.\n\n\n  The man in the wilderness,\n      Asked me,\n  How many strawberries\n      Grew in the sea?\nI answered him as I thought good,\n  As many red herrings\n      As grew in the wood.\n\n\n  Little Robin Redbreast\n     Sat upon a tree,\n  Up went the Pussy-Cat,\n     And down went he;\nDown came Pussy-Cat,\n  Away Robin ran,\nSays little Robin Redbreast--\n  Catch me if you can.\n  Little Robin Redbreast jumped upon a spade,\n  Pussy-Cat jumped after him, and then he was afraid.\nLittle Robin chirped and sung, and what did pussy say?\nPussy-Cat said Mew, mew mew,--and Robin flew away.\n\n\n  Sing a song of sixpence, a bag full of rye,\n  Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie:\n  When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing;\n  And wasn't this a dainty dish to set before the king?\nThe king was in the parlour, counting out his money;\nThe queen was in the kitchen, eating bread and honey;\nThe maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes,\nThere came a little blackbird and nipt off her nose.\n\n\nLady-bird, Lady-bird\nFly away home,\nYour house is on fire,\nYour children will burn.\n\n\nOne, Two--buckle my shoe;\nThree, Four--open the door;\nFive, Six--pick up sticks;\nSeven, Eight--lay them straight;\nNine, Ten--a good fat hen.\nEleven, Twelve--I hope you're well;\nThirteen, Fourteen--draw the curtain;\nFifteen, Sixteen--the maid's in the kitchen;\nSeventeen, Eighteen--she's in waiting.\nNineteen, Twenty--my stomach's empty.\n\n\n       Snail, Snail,\n       Come out of your hole,\nOr else I'll beat you black as a coal.\n       Snail, Snail,\n       Put out your head,\nOr else I'll beat you till you're dead.\n\n\nThe man in the moon came down too soon\n    To inquire the way to Norridge;\nThe man in the South, he burnt his mouth\n    With eating cold plum porridge.\n\n\nWhen I was a little boy, I lived by myself,\nAnd all the bread and cheese I got I put upon a shelf;\nThe rats and the mice, they made such a strife,\nI was forced to go to London to buy me a wife.\nThe streets were so broad, and the lanes were so narrow,\nI was forced to bring my wife home in a wheelbarrow;\nThe wheelbarrow broke, and my wife had a fall,\nAnd down came the wheelbarrow, wife and all.\n\n\nCharley Wag,\nAte the pudding and left the bag.\n\n\n  Sing, Sing!--What shall I sing?\nThe Cat's run away with the Pudding-Bag String.\n\n\nWhen I was a little boy, I washed my mammy's dishes,\nNow I am a great boy I roll in golden riches.\n\n\nBye, Baby bunting,\nFather's gone a hunting,\n  Mother's gone a milking,\n  Sister's gone a silking,\nAnd Brother's gone to buy a skin\nTo wrap the Baby bunting in.\n\n\n'Twas once upon a time, when Jenny Wren was young,\nSo daintily she danced and so prettily she sung,\nRobin Redbreast lost his heart, for he was a gallant bird;\nSo he doffed his hat to Jenny Wren, requesting to be heard.\n\nO, dearest Jenny Wren, if you will but be mine,\nYou shall feed on cherry-pie and drink new currant wine,\nI'll dress you like a goldfinch or any peacock gay;\nSo, dearest Jen, if you'll be mine, let us appoint the day.\n\nJenny blushed behind her fan and thus declared her mind:\nSince, dearest Bob, I love you well, I take your offer kind;\nCherry-pie is very nice and so is currant wine,\nBut I must wear my plain brown gown and never go too fine.\n\n\nCushy Cow bonny, let down your milk,\nAnd I will give you a gown of silk,\n  A gown of silk and a silver tee,\n  If you'll let down your milk to me.\n\n\nThere were two blind men went to see\n  Two cripples run a race,\nThe bull did fight the humblebee\n  And scratched him in the face.\n\n\nFa, Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum!\nI smell the blood of an Englishman.\nBe he live or be he dead,\nI'll grind his bones to make me bread.\n\n\nRichard and Robin were two pretty men;\nThey laid abed till the clock struck ten;\nRobin starts up and looks at the sky,\nOh ho! brother Richard, the sun's very high,\nDo you go before with the bottle and bag,\nAnd I'll follow after on little Jack Nag.\n\n\nRound about, round about,\n   Gooseberry Pie,\nMy father loves good ale,\n   And so do I.\n\n\nWe'll go to the wood, says Richard to Robin,\nWe'll go to the wood, says Robin to Bobin,\nWe'll go to the wood, says John all alone,\nWe'll go to the wood, says every one.\n\nWhat to do there? says Richard to Robin,\nWhat to do there? says Robin to Bobin,\nWhat to do there? says John all alone,\nWhat to do there? says every one.\n\nWe'll shoot at a wren, says Richard to Robin,\nWe'll shoot at a wren, says Robin to Bobin,\nWe'll shoot at a wren, says John all alone,\nWe'll shoot at a wren, says every one.\n\nThen pounce, then pounce, says Richard to Robin,\nThen pounce, then pounce, says Robin to Bobin,\nThen pounce, then pounce, says John all alone,\nThen pounce, then pounce, says every one.\n\nShe's dead, she's dead, says Richard to Robin,\nShe's dead, she's dead, says Robin to Bobin,\nShe's dead, she's dead, says John all alone,\nShe's dead, she's dead, says every one.\n\nHow get her home? says Richard to Robin,\nHow get her home? says Robin to Bobin,\nHow get her home? says John all alone,\nHow get her home? says every one.\n\nIn a cart and six horses, says Richard to Robin,\nIn a cart and six horses, says Robin to Bobin,\nIn a cart and six horses, says John all alone,\nIn a cart and six horses, says every one.\n\nHow shall we dress her? says Richard to Robin,\nHow shall we dress her? says Robin to Bobin,\nHow shall we dress her? says John all alone,\nHow shall we dress her? says every one.\n\nWe'll hire seven cooks, says Richard to Robin,\nWe'll hire seven cooks, says Robin to Bobin,\nWe'll hire seven cooks, says John all alone,\nWe'll hire seven cooks, says every one.\n\n\nThere was an old woman lived under the hill,\nAnd if she's not gone she lives there still.\nBaked apples she sold, and cranberry pies,\nAnd she's the old woman that never told lies.\n\n\n    Shoe the colt,\n    Shoe the colt,\nShoe the wild mare;\n    Here a nail,\n    There a nail,\nColt must go bare.\n\n\nThere were two birds upon a stone,\n               Fal de ral--al de ral--laddy.\nOne flew away, and then there was one,\n               Fal de ral--al de ral--laddy.\nThe other flew after, and then there was none,\n               Fal de ral--al de ral--laddy.\nSo the poor stone was left all alone,\n               Fal de ral--al de ral--laddy.\nOne of these little birds back again flew,\n               Fal de ral--al de ral--laddy.\nThe other came after, and then there were two,\n               Fal de ral--al de ral--laddy.\nSays one to the other, Pray how do you do,\n               Fal de ral--al de ral--laddy.\nVery well, thank you, and pray how are you,\n               Fal de ral--al de ral--laddy.\n\n\n  I'll tell you a story\n  About Mary Morey,\nAnd now my story's begun.\n  I'll tell you another\n  About her brother,\nAnd now my story's done.\n\n\n   Nose, Nose, jolly red Nose,\n  And what gave you that jolly red Nose?\nNutmegs and cinnamon, spices and cloves,\n  And they gave me this jolly red Nose.\n\n\n  Sweep, sweep,\n  Chimney sweep,\nFrom the bottom to the top,\n  Sweep all up,\n  Chimney sweep,\nFrom the bottom to the top.\n\nClimb by rope,\n  Or climb by ladder,\nWithout either,\n  I'll climb farther.\n\n    One misty, moisty morning,\n    When cloudy was the weather,\nI chanced to meet an old man clothed all in leather.\nHe began to compliment, and I began to grin,\n    How do you do, and how do you do?\n    And how do you do again?\n\n\n  In April's sweet month,\nWhen the leaves 'gin to spring,\n  Little lambs skip like fairies\nAnd birds build and sing.\n\n\nThere was an old woman tost up in a blanket,\nSeventy times as high as the moon,\nWhat she did there, I cannot tell you,\nbut in her hand she carried a broom.\nOld woman, old woman, old woman, said I,\nO whither, O whither, O whither so high?\nTo sweep the cobwebs from the sky,\nAnd I shall be back again by and by.\n\n\nShoe the horse, and shoe the mare,\nBut let the little colt go bare.\n\n\n  The North wind doth blow,\n  And we shall have snow,\nAnd what will poor robin do then?\n                          Poor thing!\n  He'll sit in the barn\n  And keep himself warm,\nAnd hide his head under his wing,\n                          Poor thing!\n\n\nCold and raw the North winds blow\n  Bleak in the morning early,\nAll the hills are covered with snow,\n  And winter's now come fairly.\n\n\nHey, my kitten, my kitten,\n  And hey my kitten my deary,\nSuch a sweet pet as this\n  Was neither far nor neary.\n\nHere we go up, up, up,\n  And here we go down, down, downy,\nHere we go backward and forward,\n  And here we go round, round, roundy.\n\nWhere was a jewel and pretty,\n  Where was a sugar and spicey?\nHush a bye babe in the cradle,\n  And we'll go abroad in a tricey.\n\nDid his papa torment it?\n  And vex his own baby will he?\nGive me a hand and I'll beat him,\n  With your red coral and whistle.\n\nHere we go up, up, up,\n  And here we go down, down, downy,\nAnd here we go backward and forward,\n  And here we go round, round, roundy.\n\n\n  The two grey Kits,\nAnd the grey Kits' mother,\n  All went over\nThe bridge together.\n  The bridge broke down,\n    They all fell in,\n  May the rats go with you,\n    Says Tom Bolin.\n\n\nHark! hark! the dogs do bark,\n  The beggars have come to town;\nSome in rags, and some in tags,\n  And some in velvet gowns.\n\n\nDiddle diddle dumpling, my son John\nWent to bed with his breeches on,\nOne stocking off, and one stocking on,\nDiddle diddle dumpling, my son John.\n\n\nAs I was going to Derby upon a market day,\nI met the finest ram, sir, that ever fed on hay,\n         On hay, on hay, on hay,\nI met the finest ram, sir, that ever fed on hay.\n\nThis ram was fat behind, sir; this ram was fat before;\nThis ram was ten yards round, sir; indeed he was not more.\n         No more, no more, no more;\nThis ram was ten yards round, sir; indeed he was no more.\n\nThe horns grew on his head, sir, they were so wondrous high,\nAs I've been plainly told, sir, they reached up to the sky.\n         The sky, the sky, the sky,\nAs I've been plainly told, sir, they reached up to the sky.\n\nThe tail grew on his back, sir, was six yards and an ell,\nAnd it was sent to Derby to toll the market bell,\n         The bell, the bell, the bell,\nAnd it was sent to Derby to toll the market bell.\n\n\nHogs in the garden, catch 'em, Towser;\nCows in the corn-field, run boys, run,\nCats in the cream-pot, run girls, run girls;\nFire on the mountains, run boys, run.\n\n\nThe Cuckoo is a bonny bird,\n  She sings as she flies,\nShe brings us good tidings,\n  And tells us no lies.\n\nShe sucks little bird's eggs\n  To make her voice clear,\nAnd never cries Cuckoo!\n  Till Spring of the year.\n\n\nLavender blue, and Rosemary green,\nWhen I am king, you shall be queen,\nCall up my maids at four of the clock,\nSome to the wheel, and some to the rock,\nSome to make hay, and some to shell corn,\nAnd you and I shall keep the bed warm.\n\n\nThe lion and the Unicorn\n  Were fighting for the crown--\nThe lion beat the unicorn\n  All about the town.\nSome gave them white bread,\n  And some gave them brown,\nSome gave them plum-cake,\n  And sent them out of town.\n\n\nLittle Johnny Pringle had a little Pig.\nIt was very little, so was not very big.\nAs it was playing beneath the shed,\nIn half a minute poor Piggy was dead.\n  So Johnny Pringle he sat down and cried,\n  And Betty Pringle she laid down and died.\nThere is the history of one, two and three,\nJohnny Pringle, Betty Pringle, and Piggy Wiggie.\n\n\nYou owe me five shillings,\nSay the bells of St. Helen's.\n\nWhen will you pay me?\nSay the bells of Old Bailey.\n\nWhen I grow rich,\nSay the bells of Shoreditch.\n\nWhen will that be?\nSay the bells of Stepney.\n\nI do not know,\nSays the great Bell of Bow.\n\nTwo sticks in an apple,\nRing the bells of Whitechapel.\n\nHalfpence and farthings,\nSay the bells of St. Martin's.\n\nKettles and pans,\nSay the bells of St. Giles.\n\nOld shoes and slippers,\nSay the bells of St. Peter's.\n\nPokers and tongs,\nSay the bells of St. John's.\n\n\nOnce in my life I married a wife,\n  And where do you think I found her?\n\nOn Gretna Green, in velvet sheen,\n  And I took up a stick to pound her.\n\nShe jumped over a barberry-bush,\n  And I jumped over a timber,\n\nI showed her a gay gold ring,\n  And she showed me her finger.\n\n\nRide a cock horse to Charing-Cross,\n  To see a young woman\n  Jump on a white horse,\nWith rings on her fingers\n  And bells on her toes,\nAnd she shall have music\n  Wherever she goes.\n\n\nJohnny shall have a new bonnet,\n  And Johnny shall go to the fair,\nAnd Johnny shall have a new ribbon\n  To tie up his bonny brown hair.\n\nAnd why may not I love Johnny,\n  And why may not Johnny love me?\nAnd why may not I love Johnny,\n  As well as another body?\n\nAnd here's a leg for a stocking,\n  And here's a foot for a shoe,\nAnd he has a kiss for daddy,\n  And two for his mammy also.\n\nAnd why may not I love Johnny?\n    And why, &c. &c.\n\n\nWho comes here?  A Grenadier.\nWhat do you want?  A pot of beer.\nWhere's your money?  I forgot.\nGet you gone, you drunken sot.\n\n\nSmiling girls, rosy boys,\nCome and buy my little toys,\nMonkeys made of gingerbread\nAnd sugar horses tinted red.\n\n\nThere was an old woman, she liv'd in a shoe,\nShe had so many children she didn't know what to do.\nShe gave them some broth without any bread,\nShe whipt them all soundly and put them to bed.\n\n\nHeigh ding a ding, what shall I sing?\nHow many holes in a skimmer?\nFour and twenty.  I'm half starving!\nMother, pray give me some dinner.\n\n\nHey rub-a-dub, ho rub-a-dub, three maids in a tub,\n  And who do you think was there?\nThe butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker,\n  And all of them gone to the fair.\n\n\nTO BE SUNG IN A HIGH WIND.\n\nArthur O'Bower has broken his band,\nAnd he comes roaring up the land,\nKing of Scots with all his power\nNever can turn Sir Arthur O'Bower.\n\n\nHush-a-bye, baby, upon the tree top,\nWhen the wind blows the cradle will rock;\nWhen the bough breaks the cradle will fall,\nDown tumble cradle and baby and all.\n\n\n  Daffy-down-dilly is new come to town,\nWith a petticoat green, and a bright yellow gown,\nAnd her white blossoms are peeping around.\n\n\nThere was an old woman, and what do you think?\nShe liv'd upon nothing--but victuals and drink:\nVictuals and drink were the chief of her diet,\nAnd yet this old lady scarce ever was quiet.\n\n\nThe rose is red, the violet is blue,\nThe gillyflower sweet--and so are you.\nThese are the words you have me say\nFor a pair of new gloves on Easter-day.\n\n\n    Great A, little a, bouncing B,\nThe Cat's in the cupboard, and she can't see.\n\n\nThe little black dog ran round the house,\n  And set the bull a roaring,\nAnd drove the monkey in the boat,\n  Who set the oar a rowing,\nAnd scared the cock upon the rock,\n  Who cracked his throat with crowing.\n\n\nOh, what a sweet little white Mouse!\nOh, what a dear little bright Mouse!\n   With his eyes of pink,\n   Going winky-wink,\nOh, what a sweet little white Mouse.\n\n\n  My little Pink,\n  I suppose you think,\nI cannot do without you,\n  I'll let you know\n  Before I go,\nHow little I care about you.\n\n\nTell tale tit, your tongue shall be slit,\nAnd all the dogs in our town shall have a bit.\n\n\nSaturday night shall be my whole care\nTo powder my locks and curl my hair;\nOn Sunday morning my love will come in\nAnd marry me then with a pretty gold ring.\n\n\n        Dear Sensibility, O la!\n    I heard a little lamb cry, baa!\nSays I, \"So you have lost mamma?\"\n                               \"Ah!\"\n\n        The little lamb, as I said so,\n    Frisking about the fields did go,\nAnd, frisking, trod upon my toe.\n                               \"Oh!\"\n\n\nPease porridge hot, pease porridge cold,\nPease porridge in the pot nine days old.\n  Can you spell that with four letters?\n  Yes, I can--T H A T.\n\n\nThere was a man in our town\n  And he was wond'rous wise,\nHe jump'd into a bramble-bush,\n  And scratch'd out both his eyes;\nAnd when he saw his eyes were out,\n  With all his might and main\nHe jump'd into another bush,\n  And scratch'd them in again.\n\n\nAs I was going to sell my eggs,\nI met a thief with bandy legs,\nBandy legs and crooked toes,\nI tript up his heels, and he fell on his nose.\n\n\n  Old mistress McShuttle\n  Lived in a coal-scuttle,\nAlong with her dog and her cat;\n  What they ate I can't tell,\n  But 'tis known very well,\nThat none of the party were fat.\n\n\nHen.  Cock, cock, cock, cock,\n      I've laid an egg,\n      Am I to gang ba-are-foot?\nCock. Hen, hen, hen, hen,\n      I've been up and down,\n      To every shop in town,\n      And cannot find a shoe\n      To fit your foot,\n      If I'd crow my heart out.\n\n[To be said very quickly, except the last two words in each verse,\nwhich are to be \"screamed\" out.]\n\n\n  Pussy sits behind the log,\n  How can she be fair?\nThen comes in the little dog,\n  Pussy, are you there?\nSo, so, dear mistress Pussy,\n  Pray tell me how you do?\n  I thank you, little dog,\n  I'm very well just now.\n\n\nHow many days has my baby to play?\n  Saturday, Sunday, Monday,\n  Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,\n  Saturday, Sunday, Monday.\n\n\nPat a cake, pat a cake,\n    Baker's man!\nSo I do, master, as fast as I can.\n    Pat it, and prick it,\nAnd mark it with T,\n    And then it will serve\nFor Tommy and me.\n\n\nThere was a man and he had naught,\n  And robbers came to rob him;\nHe crept up to the chimney top,\n  And then they thought they had him.\nBut he got down on t'other side,\n  And then they could not find him:\nHe ran fourteen miles in fifteen days,\n  And never look'd behind him.\n\n\nDing--dong--bell, the cat's in the well,\n  Who put her in? little Johnny Green.\n  Who pulled her out? great Johnny Stout.\n    What a naughty boy was that,\n    To drown poor pussy cat;\n  Who never did him any harm,\n  And killed the mice in his father's barn.\n\n\n    Lazy Tom with jacket blue,\n    Stole his father's gouty shoe.\nThe worst of harm that dad can wish him,\nIs his gouty shoe may fit him.\n\n\n          Bonny lass! bonny lass!\n            Will you be mine?\n          You shall neither wash dishes\n            Nor serve the wine,\n    But sit on a cushion and sew up a seam,\nAnd you shall have strawberries, sugar, and cream.\n\n\n    I won't be my father's Jack,\n      I won't be my father's Jill,\n    I will be the fiddler's wife,\n      And have music when I will.\nT'other little tune, t'other little tune,\nPrythee, love, play me t'other little tune.\n\n\nLondon bridge is broken down,\n  Dance over my Lady Lee,\nLondon bridge is broken down,\n  With a gay ladye.\n\nHow shall we build it up again?\n  Dance over my Lady Lee,\nHow shall we build it up again?\n  With a gay ladye.\n\nWe'll build it up with gravel and stone,\n  Dance over my Lady Lee,\nWe'll build it up with gravel and stone,\n  With a gay ladye.\n\nGravel and stone will be washed away,\n  Dance over my Lady Lee,\nGravel and stone will be washed away,\n  With a gay ladye.\n\nWe'll build it up with iron and steel,\n  Dance over my Lady Lee,\nWe'll build it up with iron and steel,\n  With a gay ladye.\n\nIron and steel will bend and break,\n  Dance over my Lady Lee,\nIron and steel will bend and break,\n  With a gay ladye.\n\nWe'll build it up with silver and gold,\n  Dance over my Lady Lee,\nWe'll build it up with silver and gold,\n  With a gay ladye.\n\nSilver and gold will be stolen away,\n  Dance over my Lady Lee,\nSilver and gold will be stolen away,\n  With a gay ladye.\n\nWe'll set a man to watch it then,\n  Dance over my Lady Lee,\nWe'll set a man to watch it then,\n  With a gay ladye.\n\nSuppose the man should fall asleep,\n  Dance over my Lady Lee,\nSuppose the man should fall asleep,\n  With a gay ladye.\n\nWe'll put a pipe into his mouth,\n  Dance over my Lady Lee,\nWe'll put a pipe into his mouth,\n  With a gay ladye.\n\n\nTom, Tom, the piper's son,\nStole a pig, and away he run;\n  The pig was eat,\n  And Tom was beat,\nAnd Tom ran crying down the street.\n\n\n  Little king Boggen he built a fine hall,\n  Pie-crust and pastry-crust, that was the wall;\nThe windows were made of black-puddings and white,\nAnd slated with pancakes--you ne'er saw the like.\n\n\nTo bed, to bed, says Sleepy-Head;\n  Let's stay a while, says Slow;\nPut on a pot, says Greedy-Sot,\n  We'll sup before we go.\n\n\nDingty diddledy, my mammy's maid,\nShe stole oranges, I am afraid:\nSome in her pocket, some in her sleeve,\nShe stole oranges, I do believe.\n\n\nRide away, ride away,\n  Johnny shall ride,\nAnd he shall have pussy-cat\n  Tied to one side;\nAnd he shall have little dog\n  Tied to the other,\nAnd Johnny shall ride\n  To see his grandmother.\n\n\nHush-a-bye, baby, lie still with thy daddy,\n  Thy mammy is gone to the mill,\nTo get some meal to bake a cake;\n  So pray, my dear baby, lie still.\n\n\n      Little lad, little lad,\n      Where were you born?\nFar off in Lancashire, under a thorn,\n    Where they sup butter-milk\n      With a ram's horn;\n    And a pumpkin scoop'd,\n      With a yellow rim,\nIs the bonny bowl they breakfast in.\n\n\n         Pretty John Watts,\n         We are troubled with rats,\nWill you drive them out of the house?\n  We have mice too in plenty,\n  That feast in the pantry,\nBut let them stay and nibble away,\nWhat harm in a little brown mouse?\n\n\nShake a leg, wag a leg, when will you gang?\nAt midsummer, mother, when the days are lang.\n\n\nSee saw, sacradown, sacradown,\nWhich is the way to Boston town?\nOne foot up, the other foot down,\nThat is the way to Boston town.\n\n\nTom Brown's two little Indian boys,\n    One ran away,\n    The other would n't stay,\nTom Brown's two little Indian boys.\n\n\nHop away, skip away, my baby wants to play.\nMy baby wants to play every day.\n\n\nBow, wow, wow, whose dog art thou?\nLittle Tom Tinker's dog, bow, wow, wow.\n\n\nBobby Shaftoe's gone to sea,\nSilver buckles on his knee;\nHe'll come back and marry me,\n         Pretty Bobby Shaftoe.\n\nBobby Shaftoe's fat and fair,\nCombing down his yellow hair,\nHe's my love forevermore,\n         Pretty Bobby Shaftoe.\n\n\nPussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?\nI've been to London to see the Queen.\nPussy cat, pussy cat, what did you there?\nI frightened a little mouse under the chair.\n\n\nTaffy was a Welchman, Taffy was a thief,\nTaffy came to my house and stole a piece of beef;\nI went to Taffy's house, Taffy wasn't at home,\nTaffy came to my house and stole a marrow-bone;\nI went to Taffy's house, Taffy was in bed,\nI took the marrow-bone, and beat about his head.\n\n\nBoys and girls, come out to play,\nThe moon does shine as bright as day,\n  Leave your supper, and leave your sleep,\n  And meet your playfellows in the street;\nCome with a whoop, and come with a call,\nAnd come with a good will, or not at all.\n  Up the ladder and down the wall,\n  A halfpenny roll will serve us all.\nYou find milk and I'll find flour,\nAnd we'll have pudding in half an hour.\n\n\nRide a cock horse to Banbury-cross\n  To see what Tommy can buy;\nA penny white loaf, a penny white cake,\n  And a two penny apple pie.\n\nRide a cock hose to Shrewsbury-cross,\nTo buy little Johnny a galloping horse\nIt trots behind and it ambles before,\nAnd Johnny shall ride till he can ride no more.\n\n\nJemmy Jed went into a shed,\nAnd made a ted of straw his bed;\nAn owl came out and flew about,\nAnd Jimmy Jed up stakes and fled.\nWasn't Jimmy Jed a staring fool,\nBorn in the woods to be scar'd by an owl?\n\n\nHow many miles to Babylon?\nThreescore miles and ten.\nCan I get there by candle-light?\nYes, and back again.\n\n\nOh I am so happy,\nA little girl said,\nAs she sprang like a lark\nFrom her low trundle bed.\nIt is morning, bright morning,\n         Good morning, Papa!\nOh give me one kiss,\n         For good morning, Mamma!\n\n\n        Trip upon trenchers,\n        And dance upon dishes,\nMy mother sent me for yeast, some yeast,\n        She bid me tread lightly,\n        And come again quickly,\nFor fear the young men would play me some jest.\n\n        Yet didn't you see, yet didn't you see,\n        What naughty tricks they put upon me?\nThey broke my pitcher, and spilt my water,\nAnd huff'd my mother, and chid her daughter,\n        And kissed my sister instead of me.\n\n\nWhat's the news of the day,\nGood neighbor, I pray?\nThey say the balloon\nHas gone up to the moon.\n\n\nThere was an old man in a velvet coat,\nHe kiss'd a maid and gave her groat;\nThe groat was crack'd and would not go.\nAh, old man, do you serve me so?\n\n\n  Three wise men of Gotham\n  Went to sea in a bowl,\nAnd if the bowl had been stronger\nMy song had been longer.\n\n\nWash me and comb me\nAnd lay me down softly,\nAnd set me a bank to dry,\nThat I may look pretty,\nWhen some one comes by.\n\n\nUp in the green orchard there is a green tree,\nThe finest of pippins that ever you see;\nThe apples are ripe, and ready to fall,\nAnd Reuben and Robin shall gather them all.\n\n\nHarry cum Parry, when will you marry?\n    When apples and pears are ripe.\nI'll come to our wedding without any bidding,\n    And stay with the bride all night.\n\n\nJog on, jog on, the footpath way,\n  And merrily jump the style, boys,\nA merry heart goes all the day,\n  Your sad one tires in a mile, boys.\n\n\n      I will sing you a song\n      Of the days that are long,\n  Of the woodcock and the sparrow,\nOf the little dog that burnt his tail,\n  And he shall be whipt to-morrow.\n\n\nI had a little Doll,\n  The prettiest ever seen,\nShe washed me the dishes,\n  And kept the house clean.\nShe went to the mill\n  To fetch me some flour,\nAnd always got it home\n  In less than an hour;\nShe baked me my bread,\n  She brewed me my ale,\nShe sat by the fire\n  And told many a fine tale.\n\n\nWhen I was a little he,\nMy mother took me on her knee,\nSmiles and kisses gave with joy,\nAnd call'd me oft her darling boy.\n\n\nIs master Smith within?--Yes, that he is.\n    Can he set a shoe?  Ay, marry, two.\n       Here a nail, and there a nail,\n            Tick--tack--too.\n\n\nCharley loves good cake and ale,\n  Charley loves good candy,\nCharley loves to kiss the girls,\n  When they are clean and handy.\n\n\nJohn O'Gudgeon he was a wild man,\nHe whipt his children now and then,\nWhen he whipt them, he made them dance,\nOut of Ireland into France.\n\n\nPeter, Peter, pumpkin eater,\nHad a wife and couldn't keep her;\nHe put her in a pumpkin shell,\nAnd then he kept her very well.\n\nPeter, Peter, pumpkin eater,\nHad another and didn't lover her;\nPeter learnt to read and spell,\nAnd then he loved her very well.\n\n\nJack and Jill went up the hill,\n  To draw a pail of water;\nJack fell down and broke his crown\n  And Jill came tumbling after.\n\n\nThere was an old man,\n  And he had a calf,\n      And that's half;\nHe took him out of the stall,\n  And put him on the wall,\n      And that's all.\n\n\n  There was a little man,\n  And he had a little gun,\nAnd his bullets were made of lead,\n  He shot John Sprig\n  Through the middle of his wig,\nAnd knocked it right off his head.\n\n\n  Goosey, goosey, gander, where dost thou wander?\n  Up stairs and down stairs, and in my lady's chamber;\nThere I met an old man that would not say his prayers,\nI took him by his hind legs and threw him down stairs.\n\n\nThe girl in the lane,\nThat couldn't speak plain,\n  Cried, Gobble, gobble, gobble;\nThe man on the hill,\nThat couldn't stand still,\n  Went, hobble, hobble, hobble.\n\n\n  Robert Barns, fellow fine,\n  Can you shoe this horse of mine,\n  So that I may cut a shine?\n    Yes, good sir, and that I can,\n    As well as any other man;\nThere a nail, and here a prod,\nAnd now, good sir, you horse is shod.\n\n\nHey ding a ding, ding, I heard a bird sing,\nThe parliament soldiers are gone to the king.\n\n\nPibroch of Donnel Dhu,\n  Pibroch of Donnel,\nWake thy voice anew,\n  Summon Clan-Connel.\nCome away, come away,\n  Hark to the summons!\nCome in your war array,\n  Gentles and commons!\n\n      Come as the winds come,\n          When forests are rended,\n      Come as the waves come,\n          When navies are stranded.\nFaster come, faster come, faster and faster,\n      Chief, vassal, page and groom,\n          Tenent and master.\n\n      Fast they come, fast they come,\n          See how they gather!\nWide waves the eagle plume blended with heather.\n      Cast your plaids, draw your blades,\n          Forward each man set!\nPibroch of Donnel Dhu, now for the onset!\n\n\nJack Sprat could eat no fat;\n  His wife could eat no lean;\nSo 'twixt them both they cleared the cloth,\n  And lick'd the platter clean.\n\n\nThere was a little boy went into a barn,\n  And lay down on some hay;\nA calf came out and smelt about,\n  And the little boy ran away.\n\n\n  The sow came in with the saddle,\n  The little pig rock'd the cradle,\n  The dish jump'd up on the table\n  To see the pot swallow the ladle.\nThe spit that stood behind the door\nThrew the pudding-stick on the floor.\n    Odsplut! said the gridiron,\n        Can't you agree?\n    I'm the head constable,\n        Bring them to me.\n\n\nLittle Tommy Tucker,\n  Sing for your supper:\nWhat shall I sing?\n  White bread and butter.\nHow shall I cut it\n  Without any knife?\nHow shall I marry\n  Without any wife?\n\n\nI would, if I could; if I couldn't, how could I?\nI couldn't without I could, could I?\nCould you without you could, could ye? could ye? could ye?\nYou couldn't without you could, could ye?\n\n\nOh that I were where I would be!\n  Then should I be where I am not;\nBut where I am, there I must be,\n  And where I would be I can not.\n\n\n        Hiccory, diccory, dock,\n    The mouse run up the clock;\nThe clock struck one, and down he run,\n        Hiccory, diccory, dock.\n\n\nJacky, come give me your fiddle,\n  If ever you mean to thrive.\nNay, I'll not give my fiddle\n  To any man alive.\n\nIf I should give you my fiddle,\n  They'll think that I'm gone mad,\nFor many a joyful day\n  My fiddle and I have had.\n\n\nThere was a Piper had a Cow,\n  And he had naught to give her,\nHe pull'd out his pipes and play'd her a tune,\n  And bade the cow consider.\n\n    The cow considered very well,\n      And gave the piper a penny,\n    And bade him play the other tune,\n      \"Corn rigs are bonny.\"\n\n\nAway, pretty robin, fly home to your nest,\nTo make you my captive I still should like best,\n  And feed you with worms and with bread:\nYour eyes are so sparkling, your feathers so soft,\nYour little wings flutter so pretty aloft,\n  And your breast is all cover'd with red.\n\n\n  Handy-spandy, Jacky dandy,\n  Loves plum-cake and sugar candy.\n  He bought some at a grocer's shop,\nAnd pleased away went hop, hop, hop.\n\n\nWhen good King Arthur ruled his land\n  He was a goodly king;\nHe stole three pecks of barley meal\n  To make a bag-pudding.\nA bag-pudding the king did make,\n  And stuff'd it well with plums;\nAnd in it put great lumps of fat,\n  As big as my two thumbs.\nThe king and queen did eat thereof,\n  And noblemen beside;\nAnd what they could not eat that night,\n  The queen next morning fried.\n\n\nRock-a-bye, baby, your cradle is green,\nFather's a nobleman, mother's a queen,\nAnd Betty's a lady, and wears a gold ring,\nAnd Johnny's a drummer, and drums for the king.\n\n\n  See saw, Jack-a-daw,\nJohnny shall have a new master;\nJohnny shall have but a penny a day,\nBecause he can work no faster.\n\n\nAbout the bush, Willie, about the bee-hive,\nAbout the bush, Willie, I'll meet thee alive.\n\n\nWe're three brethren out of Spain,\nCome to court your daughter Jane.\n\nMy daughter Jane she is too young,\nShe has no skill in a flattering tongue.\n\nBe she young or be she old,\nIt's for her gold she must be sold,\nSo fare you well, my lady gay,\nWe shall return another day.\n\n\nMistress Mary, quite contrary,\n  How does your garden grow?\nWith silver bells and cockle shells,\n  And maidens all in a row.\n\n\nWhen I was a little boy, my mother kept me in,\nNow I am a great boy, and fit to serve the king;\nI can handle a musket, I can smoke a pipe,\nI can kiss a pretty girl at ten o'clock at night.\n\n\nMary had a pretty bird,\nFeathers bright and yellow,\nSlender legs, upon my word\nHe was a pretty fellow.\n\nThe sweetest notes he always sung,\n  Which much delighted Mary,\nAnd often where the cage was hung,\n  She stood to hear Canary.\n\n\nThis is the way the ladies ride,\n       Prim, prim, prim;\nThis is the way the gentlemen ride,\n       Trim, trim, trim.\nPresently come the country-folks,\n       Hobbledy gee, hobbledy gee.\n\n\n       One,                     Six,\n       Two,                     Seven,\n       Three,                   Eight,\n       Four,                    Nine,\n       Five,                    Ten,\nI caught a hare alive.    I let it go again.\n\n\n  Cock a doodle doo,\nMy dame has lost her shoe;\nMy master's lost his fiddlestick,\nAnd knows not what to do.\n\n\nTom, Tom of Islington,\nMarried a wife on Sunday,\nBro't her home on Monday,\nHired a house on Tuesday,\nFed her well on Wednesday,\nSick was she on Thursday,\nDead was she on Friday,\nSad was Tom on Saturday,\nTo bury his wife on Sunday.\n\n\nI had a little husband no bigger than my thumb,\nI put him in a pint pot, and there I bid him drum;\nI bought a little handkerchief to wipe his little nose,\nAnd a pair of little garters to tie his little hose.\n\n\n    As I was going to St. Ives,\n    I met seven wives,\nEvery wife had seven sacks,\nEvery sack had seven cats,\nEvery cat had seven kits,\n    Kits, cats, sacks and wives,\n    How many were going to St. Ives?\n\n\n    Miss Jane had a bag, and a mouse was in it,\n    She opened the bag, he was out in a minute;\nThe Cat saw him jump, and run under the table,\nAnd the dog said, catch him, puss, soon as you're able.\n\n\nCross Patch, draw the latch,\n  Sit by the fire and spin;\nTake a cup, and drink it up,\n  Then call your neighbors in.\n\n\n  See-saw, Margery Daw,\nSold her bed and lay upon straw.\nWas not she a dirty slut,\nTo sell her bed and lay in the dirt?\n\n\nWhat care I how black he be?\nTwenty pounds will marry me\nIf twenty won't, forty shall,\nI'm my mother's bouncing girl.\n\n\nHere's A, B, C, D,\nE, F, and G,\nH, I, J, K,\nL, M, N, O, P,\nQ, R, S, T,\nU, W, V,[\nX, Y, and Z, And oh, dear me, When shall I learn My A, B, C.*/\n\n[*][Note from Brett: \"V\" and \"W\" appear to be intentionally inverted\nto favor the rhyme.]\n\n\nMilk-man, milk-man, where have you been?\nIn Buttermilk channel up to my chin,\nI spilt my milk, and I spoilt my clothes,\nAnd got a long icicle hung to my nose.\n\n\nI like little pussy, her coat is so warm,\nAnd if I don't hurt her she'll do me no harm;\nSo I'll not pull her tail, nor drive her away,\nBut pussy and I very gently will play.\n\n\nThere was an old woman\n  Sold puddings and pies,\nShe went to the mill,\n  And the dust flew in her eyes.\nWhile through the streets,\nTo all she meets,\n  She ever cries,\n  Hot Pies--Hot Pies.\n\n\n      A cow and a calf,\n      An ox and a half,\nForty good shillings and three.\n  Is not enough tocher\n  For a shoemaker's daughter,\n    A bonny sweet lass\n    With a coal-black ee[*]\n\n[*][Note from Brett:  \"ee\" is correct.  I have no idea what it\nmeans.]\n\n\nThe little Robin grieves\n  When the snow is on the ground,\nFor the trees have no leaves,\n  And no berries can be found.\n\nThe air is cold, the worms are hid,\n  For Robin here what can be done?\nLet's strow around some crumbs of bread,\n  And then he'll live till snow is gone.\n\n\n  Little Jack Nory\n  Told me a story\n  How he tried\n  Cock-horse to ride,\nSword and scabbard by his side,\nSaddle, leaden spurs and switches,\nHis pocket tight\nWith cents all bright,\nMarbles, tops, puzzles, props,\nNow he's put in jacket and breeches.\n\n\nThere were two blackbirds sitting on a hill,\nOne name Jack, and the other name Jill;\nFly away, Jack--fly away, Jill,\nCome again, Jack--come again, Jill.\n\n\nWillie boy, Willie boy,\n  Where are you going?\nO let us go with you,\n  This sunshiny day.\n\nI'm going to the meadow,\n  To see them a mowing,\nI'm going to help the girls\n  Turn the new hay.\n\n\nWee Willie Winkie runs through the town,\nUpstairs and downstairs in his night gown;\nTapping at the windows, crying at the lock,\n\"Are the babes in their beds, for it's now ten o'clock?\"","title":"The Only True Mother Goose Melodies","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":9995}