And his breeks were made of the bawbie baps, the bawbie baps, the bawbie baps, And his breeks were made of the bawbie baps, and his name was Billy Pod; And he played upon an old razor, &c. And there was a man in tither toone, in tither toone, in tither toone, And there was a man in tither toone, and his name was Edrin Drum; And he played upon an old laadle, an old laadle, an old laadle, And he played upon an old laadle, with my fiddle fiddle fe fum fo. And he eat up all the good roast beef, the good roast beef, &c. &c. And he eat up all the good fat tripe, the good fat tripe, &c. &c. And he eat up all the bawbie baps, &c. and his name was Edrin Drum. CLXXV. John Cook had a little grey mare; he, haw, hum! Her back stood up, and her bones they were bare; he, haw, hum! John Cook was riding up Shuter's bank; he, haw, hum! And there his nag did kick and prank; he, haw, hum! John Cook was riding up Shuter's hill; he, haw, hum! His mare fell down, and she made her will; he, haw, hum! The bridle and saddle were laid on the shelf; he, haw, hum! If you want any more you may sing it yourself; he, haw, hum! CLXXVI. A carrion crow sat on an oak, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do, Watching a tailor shape his cloak; Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do. Wife, bring me my old bent bow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do, That I may shoot yon carrion crow; Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do. The tailor he shot and missed his mark, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do, And shot his own sow quite through the heart; Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do. Wife, bring brandy in a spoon, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do, For our old sow is in a swoon; Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do. [Illustration] CLXXVII. [Another version from MS. Sloane, 1489, fol. 17, written in the time of Charles I.] Hic hoc, the carrion crow, For I have shot something too low: I have quite missed my mark, And shot the poor sow to the heart; Wife, bring treacle in a spoon, Or else the poor sow's heart will down. CLXXVIII. [Song of a little boy while passing his hour of solitude in a corn-field.] Awa' birds, away! Take a little, and leave a little, And do not come again; For if you do, I will shoot you through, And there is an end of you. CLXXIX. If I'd as much money as I could spend, I never would cry old chairs to mend; Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend; I never would cry old chairs to mend. If I'd as much money as I could tell, I never would cry old clothes to sell; Old clothes to sell, old clothes to sell; I never would cry old clothes to sell. CLXXX.