I’ll sing you a song
Though not very long
Yet I think it
As pretty as any.
Put your hand in your purse
You’ll never be worse
An give the poor singer
Rain, rain go away,
Come again some April day,
Little Johnny wants to play.
Little Betty Blue, lost her holiday shoe;
What can little Betty do?
Give her another to match the other,
And then she may walk in two.
Here am I, little jumping Joan;
When nobody’s with me,
I am always alone.
Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday,
Christened on Tuesday, married on Wednesday,
Took ill on Thursday, worse on Friday,
Died on Saturday, buried on Sunday,
This is the end of Solomon Grundy.
The man in the moon came tumbling down,
And asked his way to Norwich,
He went by the south, and burnt his mouth
With supping cold pease-porridge.
The North Wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will poor Robin do then?
He will hop to a barn,
And to keep himself warm
Will hide his head under his wint,
Black we are, but much admired;
Men seek for us till they are tired.
We tire the horse, but comfort the man;
Tell me this riddle if you can?
I had a little hen, the prettiest ever seen,
She washed me the dishes, and kept the house clean:
She went to the mill to fetch me some flour,
She brought it home in less than an hour;
She baked me my bread, she brew’d me my ale,
She sat by the fire and told many a fine tale.
Bat Bat (clap hands) come under my hat,
And I’ll give you a slice of bacon;
And when I bake, I’ll give you a cake
If I am not mistaken.
There was an old woman of Leeds;
Who spent all her time in good deeds;
She worked for the poor
Till her finger were sore,
This pious old woman of Leeds!
Little Tommy Tittlemouse lived in a little house;
He caught fishes in other men’s dishes.
As I was going to St. Ives,
I met a man with seven wives;
Every wife had seven sacks;
Every sack had seven cats;
Every cat had seven kits.
Kits, cats, sacks and wives,
How many were there going to St. Ives?
There was a little man
And he woo’d a little a little main,
And he said “Little main will you wed, wed, wed,
I have little more to say,
Than will you, yea or nay,
For the least said soonest men ded, ded, ded.
The little maid replied
(Some say a little sighed)
But what shall we have for to eat, eat, eat,
Will the love that you are so rich in
Make a fire in the kitchen,
Or the little God of Love turn the spit, spit, spit.
*** End of the project gutenberg EBOOK, young Canada’s Nursery Rhymes ***