Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By, at the gallop goes he.
By, at the gallop he goes, and then
By, he comes back at the gallop again.
There was an Old Man with a nose,
Who said, “If you choose to suppose
That my nose is too long, you are certainly wrong!”
That remarkable Man with a nose.
There was an Old Man on a hill,
Who seldom, if ever, stood still;
He ran up and down in his Grandmother’s gown,
Which adorned that Old Man on a hill.
There was an Old Person of Dover,
Who rushed through a field of blue clover;
But some very large Bees stung his nose and his knees,
So he very soon went back to Dover.
There was an Old Man who said, “Hush!
I perceive a young bird in this bush!”
When they said, “Is it small?” he replied, “Not at all;
It is four times as big as the bush!”
There was an Old Man of the West,
Who never could get any rest;
So they set him to spin on his nose and his chin,
Which cured that Old Man of the West.
There was an Old Man who said, “Well!
Will nobody answer this bell?
I have pulled day and night, till my hair has grown white,
But nobody answers this bell!”
There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, “It is just as I feared!—
Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren,
Have all built their nests in my beard.”
There was an Old Person of Dean
Who dined on one pea and one bean;
For he said, “More than that would make me too fat,”
That cautious Old Person of Dean.
There was an Old Man of El Hums,
Who lived upon nothing but crumbs,
Which he picked off the ground, with the other birds round,
In the roads and the lanes of El Hums.
If wishes were horses beggars would ride.
Ill news travels fast.
It never rains but it pours.
It is a long lane that has no turning.
It is an ill wind that blows no man good.
It is easier to pull down than to build.
It is never too late to mend.
Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee.
Leave well enough alone.
Let every tub stand on its own bottom.
Let them laugh that win.
Like father, like son.
Little and often fills the purse.
Look ere you leap.
Oh, were my love yon lilac fair,
With purple blossoms to the spring;
And I a bird to shelter there.
When wearied on my little wing!
How I would mourn, when it was torn,
By autumn wild, and winter rude!
But I would sing, on wanton wing,
When youthful May its bloom renewed.