A thousand millions, young and old, Some in the heat, some in the cold, Upon this Ball of Earth are roll'd Around the Sun's great flame of gold. [Illustration] And this great Sun is like indeed One daisy in a daisied mead; For GOD'S power doth all thought exceed. And of us also He takes heed. RIDING. HIS Lordship's Steed Of a noble breed Is trotting it fleetly, fleetly, Her Ladyship's pony, Sleek and bonny, Cantering neatly, neatly. How shall they pass The Turf-Cadger's Ass, Creels and all, creels and all? Man on him bumping, Shouting and thumping, Heels and all, heels and all! Lane is not wide, A hedge on each side, The Ass is beginning to bray; "Now," says my Lord, With an angry word, "Fellow, get out of the way!" "Ha!" says the Cadger, As bold as a badger, "This way is _my_ way too!" Says the Lady mild, And sweetly smiled, "My Friend, that's perfectly true." The Cadger look'd round, Then jump'd to the ground, And into the hedge pull'd Neddy. "O thank you!" says she, "Ax pardon!" says he, And touch'd his old hat to the Lady. His Lordship's Steed Of a noble breed Went trotting it fleetly, fleetly, Her Ladyship's pony, Sleek and bonny Cantering neatly, neatly. The Cadger he rode As well as he could, Heels and all, heels and all, Jolting and bumping, Shouting and thumping, Creels and all, creels and all. [Illustration] [Illustration] TOM CRICKET. TOM CRICKET he sat in his hole in the wall, Close to the kitchen fire, Up and down ran the Cockroaches all, Red coats and black coats, great and small; "Ho, Tom! our hearts are set on a ball, And your music we desire!" Tom sat in his hole, his horns hung out, He play'd away on his fiddle; The Cockroaches danced in a rabble rout, Scrambling and scurrying all about, Tho' they had their own steps and figures no doubt, Hands across, and down the middle. Till, "Stay!" says a Fat One,--"We're no Elves, To dance all night without stopping! Now for supper!" They help'd themselves, For the servants were gone to bed; on shelves And tables they quested by tens and twelves, And quick to the floor kept dropping. As a Cockroach ran by, says Tom Cricket to him, "Fetch me up a piece of potato, Good Sir!--to mix in the crowd I'm too slim." Says Jack Cockroach, "I see you are proud and prim; To eat alone is merely your whim,-- Which I never will give way to!"