Tom, Tom of Islington,
Married a wife on Sunday,
Bro’t her home on Monday,
Hired a house on Tuesday,
Fed her well on Wednesday,
Sick was she on Thursday,
Dead was she on Friday,
Sad was Tom on Saturday,
To bury his wife on Sunday.

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 handkerchief to wipe his little nose,
And a pair of little garters to tie his little hose.

    As I was going to St. Ives,
    I met 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 going to St. Ives?

    Miss Jane had a bag, and a mouse was in it,
    She opened the bag, he was out in a minute;
The Cat saw him jump, and run under the table,
And the dog said, catch him, puss, soon as you’re able.

Cross Patch, draw the latch,
  Sit by the fire and spin;
Take a cup, and drink it up,
  Then call your neighbors in.

See-saw, Margery Daw,
Sold her bed and lay upon straw. 
Was not she a dirty slut,
To sell her bed and lay in the dirt?

What care I how black he be? 
Twenty pounds will marry me
If twenty won’t, forty shall,
I’m my mother’s bouncing girl.

Here’s A, B, C, D,
E, F, and G,
H, I, J, K,
L, M, N, O, P,
Q, R, S, T,
U, W, V,[
X, Y, and Z, And oh, dear me, When shall I learn My A, B, C.*/

[*][Note from Brett:  “V” and “W” appear to be intentionally inverted to favor the rhyme.]

Milk-man, milk-man, where have you been? 
In Buttermilk channel up to my chin,
I spilt my milk, and I spoilt my clothes,
And got a long icicle hung to my nose.

I like little pussy, her coat is so warm,
And if I don’t hurt her she’ll do me no harm;
So I’ll not pull her tail, nor drive her away,
But pussy and I very gently will play.

There was an old woman
  Sold puddings and pies,
She went to the mill,
  And the dust flew in her eyes. 
While through the streets,
To all she meets,
  She ever cries,
  Hot Pies—­Hot Pies.

      A cow and a calf,
      An ox and a half,
Forty good shillings and three. 
  Is not enough tocher
  For a shoemaker’s daughter,
    A bonny sweet lass
    With a coal-black ee[*]

[*][Note from Brett:  “ee” is correct.  I have no idea what it means.]

The little Robin grieves
  When the snow is on the ground,
For the trees have no leaves,
  And no berries can be found.

The air is cold, the worms are hid,
  For Robin here what can be done? 
Let’s strow around some crumbs of bread,
  And then he’ll live till snow is gone.

  Little Jack Nory
  Told me a story
  How he tried
  Cock-horse to ride,
Sword and scabbard by his side,
Saddle, leaden spurs and switches,
His pocket tight
With cents all bright,
Marbles, tops, puzzles, props,
Now he’s put in jacket and breeches.