I Good Queen Kate was his royal mate, And a right royal mate was she: She would frequently state that carousing till late Was something that never should be. But every fiddler had such a fine fiddle,-- Oh, such a fine fiddle had he,-- That old King Cole, in his inmost soul, Was as restive as he could be. II When thus spoke she to his majesty, He planted his crown on tight. "We will wait," whispered he to the fiddlers three, "Till the Queen has retired for the night." Every fiddler then tuned up his fiddle, And tuned it as true as could be: While old King Cole got his pipe and bowl And replenished them secretly. III So gay they grew as the night hours flew, He forgot how the time sped away; Till swift overhead he heard the Queen's tread As she sprang out of bed, when he hurriedly said They might finish the tune the next day. Every fiddler he had a fine fiddle, And a very fine fiddle had he: Oh, 't was not fair such a concert rare Should be ended so suddenly! PUSSY SITS BESIDE THE FIRE "Pussy sits beside the fire How can she be fair? Then comes in the little dog. "Pussy, are you there? So so, dear Mistress Pussy, Pray tell me how you do?" "Indeed, I thank you little dog, I'm very well just now." "Fy, pussy, what a lazy cat, On such a pleasant day To sit and drowse beside the fire And sleep the hours away! A self-respecting dog would think Himself a sorry cur, If he did nothing all day long But fold his arms and purr!" "Now, sir, you needn't criticize Because I sit and blink, For while my eyes are shut, like this, I think, and think, and think. And when I purr, please understand I work with all my might, A-humming over songs I sing When I go out at night. "Excuse me. Now I'll close my eyes, And think a little more. On busy days like this, I show My visitors the door. 'T is only little dogs who judge That one must idle be, Unless one's chasing round and round Or barking up a tree." THE NORTH WIND DOTH BLOW "The north wind doth blow, and we shall have snow, And what will the robin do then, poor thing? He'll sit in the barn and keep himself warm, And hide his head under his wing, poor thing." But never a word of plaint will be heard From robin, no matter how tired and cold; For well will he know that the winter will go, And the blossoms and greenness of spring unfold. And when the warm sun says winter is done, He'll gladden us all with his cheery song; And never will fret if the season is wet, Or wail that the winter was hard and long.