Ding, dong, bell, Pussy's in the well. Who put her in? Little Tommy Thin. Who pulled her out? Little Tommy Stout. What a naughty boy was that, Thus to drown poor Pussy Cat. Little Boy Blue, come, blow your horn, The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn; Where is the boy that looks after the sheep? He's under the haycock, fast asleep! Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief, Taffy came to my house, and stole a piece of beef; I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was not at home; Taffy came to my house, and stole a marrow-bone. I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was in bed, I took up a broomstick and flung it at his head. The lion and the unicorn Fighting for the crown; Up jumps a wee dog And knocks them both down. Some got white bread, And some got brown: But the lion beat the unicorn All round the town. There was a wee wifie row'd up in a blanket, Nineteen times as high as the moon; And what she did there I canna declare, For in her oxter she bure the sun. Wee wifie, wee wifie, wee wifie, quo' I, O what are ye doin' up there so high? I'm blawin' the cauld clouds out o' the sky. Weel dune, weel dune, wee wifie, quo' I. What ca' they you? They ca' me Tam Taits! What do ye do? I feed sheep and gaits! Where feed they? Doun in yon bog! What eat they? Gerse and fog! What gie they? Milk and whey! Wha sups that? Tam Taits and I! The laverock and the lintie, The robin and the wren; Gin ye harry their nests, Ye'll never thrive again. During a hail-storm country children sing:-- Rainy, rainy rattle-stanes, Dinna rain on me; But rain on Johnnie Groat's House, Far owre the sea. Again, when snow is falling:-- Snaw, snaw, flee awa' Owre the hills and far awa'. Towards the yellow-hammer, or yellow-yite--bird of beautiful plumage though it be--because it is the subject of an unaccountable superstitious notion, which credits it with drinking a drop of the devil's blood every May morning, the children of Scotland cherish no inconsiderable contempt, which finds expression in the rhyme:-- Half a puddock, half a taed, Half a yellow yorling; Drinks a drap o' the deil's blood Every May morning. On the East Coast, when the seagulls fly inland in search of food, the children, not desiring their appearance--because probably of the old superstition that they are prone to pick out the eyes of people--cry to them:-- Seamaw, seamaw, my mither's awa' For pouther an' lead, to shoot ye dead-- Pit-oo! pit-oo! pit-oo! To the lark's song the young mind gives language, in a kindly way, thus:-- Larikie, larikie, lee! Wha'll gang up to heaven wi' me? No the lout that lies in his bed, No the doolfu' that dreeps his head. Interpreting similarly the lapwing's cry, they retaliate with:-- Peese-weep! Peese-weep! Harry my nest, and gar me greet!