What is my dame to do?
Till master finds his fiddle-stick,
She’ll dance without her shoe.
Twelve pairs hanging high,
Twelve knights riding by,
Each knight took a pear,
And yet left a dozen there.
At the siege of Belleisle
I was there all the while,
All the while, all the while,
At the siege of Belleisle.
Old King Cole
Was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
He called for his pipe,
And he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three!
And every fiddler, he had a fine fiddle,
And a very fine fiddle had he.
“Twee tweedle dee, tweedle dee,” went the fiddlers.
Oh, there’s none so rare
As can compare
With King Cole and his fiddlers three.
See, see! What shall I see?
A horse’s head where his tail should be.
I had a little pony,
His name was Dapple-Gray,
I lent him to a lady,
To ride a mile away.
She whipped him, she slashed him,
She rode him through the mire;
I would not lend my pony now
For all the lady’s hire.
As round as an apple, as deep as a cup,
And all the king’s horses can’t fill it up.
Molly, my sister and I fell out,
And what do you think it was all about?
She loved coffee and I loved tea,
And that was the reason we couldn’t agree.
Pussy-cat Mew jumped over a coal,
And in her best petticoat burnt a great hole.
Poor Pussy’s weeping, she’ll have no more milk
Until her best petticoat’s mended with silk.
There was a little girl who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead;
When she was good, she was very, very good,
And when she was bad she was horrid.
Friday night’s dream, on Saturday told,
Is sure to come true, be it never so old.
The cock’s on the housetop blowing his horn;
The bull’s in the barn a-threshing of corn;
The maids in the meadows are making of hay;
The ducks in the river are swimming away.
You shall have an apple,
you shall have a plum,
You shall have a rattle,
When papa comes home.