Here come I, Old Beelzebub, over my shoulder I carry a club, And in my hand a frying-pan. Am not I a jolly old man? It's money I want, and money I crave, If ye don't give me money I'll sweep ye to your grave. Old Beelzebub's appeal not being resisted (for who might dare to resist such?), the picturesque players retire, and proceed from thence merrily to occupy another stage. * * * * * Mr. Sandys, it may be noted, in his elegant volume of _Christmas Carols_ (1833), transcribes a play called "St. George," which still is, or used to be, acted at the New Year in Cornwall, exactly after the manner of our Scottish play of "Goloshan" which it resembles as much as various versions of "Goloshan" in Scotland resemble each other. The leading characters, besides St. George himself and the Dragon, which is twice killed, are a Turkish knight and the King of Egypt. It is curious thus, as Dr. Chambers remarks, to find one play, with unimportant variations, preserved traditionally by the common people in parts of the island so distant from each other, and in many respects so different. It is curious further, and of much interest to note, that in these singing-games, if nowhere else, the country and the city child, the children of the mansion and the children of the alley, meet all, beautifully, on common ground. And, how the out-door ones lie dormant for spaces, and spring simultaneously into action in widely separated parts--town and country alike--is a problem which may not be easily solved. It seems to us that, like the songs of birds, they belong to certain seasons, and are suggested, each in its turn, or class by class, by the feeling in the air. But mark, I say only _seems_, for who may dogmatize on such matters! CHILDREN'S SONGS AND BALLADS. Not the more exalted songs of child life here--not "Willie Winkie," and "Cuddle Doon," and "Castles in the Air," and all that widely esteemed band, which, collectively, would themselves tax the limits of a large volume--but some of the ruder ditties only which the children for many generations have delighted to sing, and been no less charmed by hearing sung, and which of late have not been so frequently seen in print. These rude old favourites, too, with slight comment--little being required. And of such, surely "Cock Robin" may well be awarded the place of honour--a song which, together with the more elaborate tale of "The Babes in the Wood," has done more to make its pert and dapper red-waistcoated subject the general favourite he is with old and young, than any virtue that may be claimed for the little tyrant himself. COCK ROBIN. Who killed Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow, With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin. Who saw him die? I, said the Fly, With my little eye, I saw him die. Who caught his blood? I, said the Fish, With my little dish, I caught his blood.