"I durst not come, I must not come, Unless all my little playfellows come along, For if my mother sees me at the gate, She'll cause my blood to fall."

She show'd me an apple as green as gra.s.s, She show'd me a gay gold ring, She show'd me a cherry as red as blood, And so she entic'd me in.

She took me in the parlour, She laid me down to sleep, With a Bible at my head, And a Testament at my feet.

And if my playfellows quere for me, Tell them I am asleep.

I had a true love over the sea, Parla me dixi dominee!

He sent me love tokens one, two, three, With a rotrum potrum trumpitrorum, Parla me dixi dominee!

He sent me a book that none could read, He sent me a web without a thread.

He sent me a cherry without a stone, He sent me a bird without a bone.

How can there be a book that none can read?

How can there be a web without a thread?

How can there be a cherry without a stone?

How can there be a bird without a bone?

When the book's unwritten none can read; When the web's in the fleece it has no thread.

When the cherry's in the bloom it has no stone; When the bird's in the egg it has no bone.

With a rotrum potrum trumpitrorum, Parla me dixi dominee!

DREAM OF A GIRL WHO LIVED AT SEVENOAKS

Seven sweet singing birds up in a tree, Seven swift sailing ships white upon the sea; Seven bright weather-c.o.c.ks shining in the sun; Seven slim race-horses ready for a run; Seven golden b.u.t.terflies flitting overhead; Seven red roses blowing in a garden bed; Seven white lilies, with honey bees inside them; Seven round rainbows, with clouds to divide them; Seven pretty little girls, with sugar on their lips; Seven witty little boys, whom everybody tips; Seven nice fathers, to call little maids joys; Seven nice mothers, to kiss the little boys; Seven nights running I dreamt it all plain; With bread and jam for supper I could dream it all again.

There was an old woman, and she liv'd in a shoe, She had so many children, she didn't know what to do.

She crumm'd 'em some porridge without any bread; And she borrow'd a beetle, and she knock'd 'em all o' th' head.

Then out went the old woman to bespeak 'em a coffin, And when she came back she found 'em all a-loffeing.

There was an old woman drawn up in a basket, Three or four times as high as the moon, And where she was going I never did ask it, But in her hand she carried a broom.

A broom! a broom! a broom! a broom!

That grows on yonder hill, And blows with a yellow bloom, Just like lemon peel.

Just like lemon peel, my boys, To mix with our English beer, And you shall drink it all up While we do say Goliere!

Goliere! Goliere! Goliere! Goliere!

While we do say Goliere!

Dinty diddledy, My mammy's maid, She stole oranges, I am afraid; Some in her pocket, Some in her sleeve, She stole oranges, I do believe.

"Dinah, Dinah, Go to China, For oranges and tea; Dolly is sick, And wants them quick, So skip across the sea!"

"Pudding _and_ pie!"

Said Jane, "O my!"

"Which would you rather?"

Said her father, "Both!" cried Jane, Quite bold and plain.

Ding dong! ding dong!

There goes the gong; d.i.c.k, come along, It's time for dinner.

Wash your face, Take your place, Where's your grace?

You little sinner!

When little Claude was naughty wunst At dinner-time, an' said, He wont say "Thank you!" to his Ma, She maked him go to bed, An' stay two hours an' not git up, So when the clock struck Two, Nen Claude says, "Thank you, Mr Clock, I'm much obleeged to you!"

t.i.t-tat-toe!

My first go; Three jolly butcher boys all in a row!

Stick one up, Stick one down, Stick one in the old man's burying-ground.

FOR A WILLOW PATTERN PLATE

There's two birds flying high, Here's a vessel sailing by; Here's the bridge that they pa.s.s over, Three little men going to Dover!

Here the stately castle stands, Where lives the ruler of these lands; Here's the tree with the apples on, That's the fence that ends my song!

What way does the wind come? What way does he go?

He rides over the water, and over the snow, Through wood and through vale, and o'er rocky height, Which goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight; He tosses about in every bare tree, As, if you look up, you plainly may see; But how he will come, and whither he goes, There's never a scholar in England knows.

TO BE WRITTEN IN A BOOK

Give your attention as you read, And frequent pauses take; Think seriously; and take good heed That you no dog's ears make.

Don't wet the fingers as you turn The pages one by one; Never touch prints, observe: and learn Each idle gait to shun.

TO BE WRITTEN IN A BOOK

Small is the wren, Black is the rook, Great is the sinner That steals this book.

SOMERSETSHIRE

CHARM FOR TOOTHACHE, TO BE WRITTEN AND WORN

Peter sat on a marble stone, When by here Jesus came aloan.

"Peter what is it makes you for to quake?"