Part 18 (1/2)

CLXXVII.

[Another version from MS. Sloane, 1489, fol. 17, written in the time of Charles I.]

Hic hoc, the carrion crow, For I have shot something too low: I have quite missed my mark, And shot the poor sow to the heart; Wife, bring treacle in a spoon, Or else the poor sow's heart will down.

CLXXVIII.

[Song of a little boy while pa.s.sing his hour of solitude in a corn-field.]

Awa' birds, away!

Take a little, and leave a little, And do not come again; For if you do, I will shoot you through, And there is an end of you.

CLXXIX.

If I'd as much money as I could spend, I never would cry old chairs to mend; Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend; I never would cry old chairs to mend.

If I'd as much money as I could tell, I never would cry old clothes to sell; Old clothes to sell, old clothes to sell; I never would cry old clothes to sell.

CLx.x.x.

Whistle, daughter, whistle, whistle daughter dear; I cannot whistle, mammy, I cannot whistle clear.

Whistle, daughter, whistle, whistle for a pound; I cannot whistle, mammy, I cannot make a sound.

CLx.x.xI.

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, And give the poor singer a penny.

CLx.x.xII.

Dame, get up and bake your pies, Bake your pies, bake your pies; Dame, get up and bake your pies, On Christmas-day in the morning.

Dame, what makes your maidens lie, Maidens lie, maidens lie; Dame, what makes your maidens lie, On Christmas-day in the morning?

Dame, what makes your ducks to die, Ducks to die, ducks to die; Dame, what makes your ducks to die, On Christmas-day in the morning?

Their wings are cut and they cannot fly, Cannot fly, cannot fly; Their wings are cut and they cannot fly, On Christmas-day in the morning.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

SEVENTH CLa.s.s--RIDDLES.

CLx.x.xIII.