_New York._ Finally, we have the modern corruption of the street, which, however, shows us the manner of playing: A child stands in the ring, as the mother. The daughter reclines as if asleep, her head resting on her hands, till the words, _rise up_. Here _stands_ a poor widow a-walking around, Io! Io! Io! So put on the night-cap to keep her head warm, To keep her head warm, Io! So rise up my daughter, and kiss whom you please, And kiss whom you please, Io! _New York._ The widow with daughters to marry is a European celebrity. The titles _rich_ and _poor_, moreover, in this and the last number, are not meaningless, but show that two independent characters have been united in one. In the original European game, which we have not encountered in an English form, there is both a _rich_ and a _poor_ mother; the latter begs away, one by one, the daughters of the former, until she has secured all. The present round and the preceding are only reductions, or adaptations to the dance, of this more ancient and dramatic game. Once more, the game of the rich and poor mothers, though centuries old, and existing in many European tongues, is itself but an outgrowth of a still more ancient childish drama, which has given birth to innumerable sports, dances, and songs, exhibiting very different external characteristics all over Europe, but of which primitive and complete versions at present seem to exist only in America.[45] No. 9. _Philander's March._ This rhyme has been familiar throughout the New England States. Some of our older readers will remember how the doors of all the apartments of an old-fashioned mansion, with its great chimney in the centre, would be thrown open at an evening party, and the children march through the house, and up and down the staircase, singing the familiar air-- Come, Philanders,[46] let's be a-marching, Every one choose from his heartstrings;[47] Choose your true love now or never, And be sure you choose no other. O, my dear----, how I do love you! Nothing on earth do I prize above you! With a kiss now let me greet you, And I will never, never leave you. _Plymouth, Mass._ (about 1800). Another version: Come, Philander, let us be a-marching, From the ranks there's no deserting, Choose your own, your own true lover, See that you don't choose any other; Now farewell, dear love, farewell, We're all a-marching, so farewell. _Deerfield, Mass._