"Next Sunday," said Annis; "I wish next Sunday were come."

CCCCLXXIII.

Saw ye aught of my love a coming from ye market!

A peck of meal upon her back, A babby in her basket; Saw ye aught of my love a coming from the market?

CCCCLXXIV.

[This nursery song may probably commemorate a part of Tom Thumb's history, extant in a Little Danish work, treating of 'Swain Tomling, a man no bigger than a thumb, who would be married to a woman three ells and three quarters long.' See Mr. Thoms' Preface to 'Tom & Lincoln,' p. xi.]

I had a little husband, No bigger than my thumb; I put him in a pint pot, And there I bid him drum.

I bought a little horse, That galloped up and down; I bridled him, and saddled him, And sent him out of town.

I gave him some garters, To garter up his hose, And a little handkerchief, To wipe his pretty nose.

CCCCLXXV.

Can you make me a cambric shirt, Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme; Without any seam or needlework?

And you shall be a true lover of mine.

Can you wash it in yonder well, Parsley, &c.

Where never sprung water, nor rain ever fell?

And you, &c.

Can you dry it on yonder thorn, Parsley, &c.

Which never bore blossom since Adam was born?

And you, &c.

Now you have ask'd me questions three, Parsley, &c.

I hope you'll answer as many for me, And you, &c.

Can you find me an acre of land, Parsley, &c.

Between the salt water and the sea sand?

And you, &c.

Can you plough it with a ram's horn, Parsley, &c.

And sow it all over with one pepper-corn?

And you, &c.

Can you reap it with a sickle of leather, Parsley, &c.

And bind it up with a peac.o.c.k's feather?

And you, &c.

When you have done and finish'd your work, Parsley, &c.

Then come to me for your cambric shirt, And you, &c.

CCCCLXXVI.

Where have you been to-day, Billy, my son?

Where have you been to-day, my only man!

I've been a-wooing, mother; make my bed soon, For I'm sick at heart, and fain would lay down.

What have you ate to-day, Billy, my son?

What have you ate to-day, my only man?

I've ate an eel-pie, mother; make my bed soon, For I'm sick at heart, and shall die before noon!

CCCCLXXVII.

I married my wife by the light of the moon, A tidy housewife, a tidy one; She never gets up until it is noon, And I hope she'll prove a tidy one.

And when she gets up, she is slovenly laced, A tidy, &c.

She takes up the poker to roll out the paste, And I hope, &c.

She churns her b.u.t.ter in a boot, A tidy, &c.

And instead of a churnstaff she puts in her foot, And I hope, &c.

She lays her cheese on the scullery shelf, A tidy, &c.

And she never turns it till it turns itself.

And I hope, &c.

CCCCLXXVIII.

There was a little maid, and she was afraid, That her sweetheart would come unto her; So she went to bed, and cover'd up her head And fasten'd the door with a skewer.

CCCCLXXIX.

"Madam, I am come to court you, If your favour I can gain."

"Ah, Ah!" said she, "you are a bold fellow, If I e'er see your face again!"

"Madam, I have rings and diamonds, Madam, I have houses and land, Madam, I have a world of treasure, All shall be at your command."

"I care not for rings and diamonds, I care not for houses and lands, I care not for a world of treasure, So that I have but a handsome man."

"Madam, you think much of beauty, Beauty hasteneth to decay, For the fairest of flowers that grow in summer Will decay and fade away."

CCCCLx.x.x.

Up street, and down street, Each window's made of gla.s.s; If you go to Tommy Tickler's house, You'll find a pretty la.s.s.