The quaker's wife got up to bake, Her children all about her, She gave them every one a cake, And the miller wants his moulter. DCXLV. Wash, hands, wash, Daddy's gone to plough, If you want your hands wash'd, Have them wash'd now. [A formula for making young children submit to the operation of having their hands washed. _Mutatis mutandis_, the lines will serve as a specific for everything of the kind, as brushing hair, &c.] DCXLVI. My little old man and I fell out, I'll tell you what 'twas all about: I had money, and he had none, And that's the way the row begun. DCXLVII. Who comes here? A grenadier. What do you want? A pot of beer. Where is your money? I've forgot. Get you gone, You drunken sot! DCXLVIII. Go to bed, Tom! Go to bed, Tom! Drunk or sober, Go to bed, Tom! DCXLIX. As I went over the water, The water went over me, I heard an old woman crying, Will you buy some furmity? DCL. High diddle doubt, my candle out, My little maid is not at home: Saddle my hog, and bridle my dog, And fetch my little maid home. DCLI. Around the green gravel the grass grows green, And all the pretty maids are plain to be seen; Wash them with milk, and clothe them with silk, And write their names with a pen and ink. DCLII. As I was going to sell my eggs, I met a man with bandy legs, Bandy legs and crooked toes, I tripped up his heels, and he fell on his nose. DCLIII. Old Sir Simon the king, And young Sir Simon the 'squire, And old Mrs. Hickabout Kicked Mrs. Kickabout Round about our coal fire! DCLIV. A good child, a good child, As I suppose you be, Never laughed nor smiled At the tickling of your knee. DCLV. Jacky, come give me thy fiddle If ever thou mean to thrive; Nay, I'll not give my fiddle, To any man alive. If I should give my fiddle, They'll think that I'm gone mad, For many a joyful day My fiddle and I have had. DCLVI. Blenky my nutty-cock, Blenk him away; My nutty-cock's never Been blenk'd to-day. What wi' carding and spinning on't wheel, We've never had time to blenk nutty-cock weel; But let to-morrow come ever so sune, My nutty-cock it sall be blenk'd by nune. DCLVII. To market, to market, to buy a plum-cake, Back again, back again, baby is late; To market, to market, to buy a plum-bun, Back again, back again, market is done. DCLVIII. St. Thomas's-day is past and gone, And Christmas is a-most a-come, Maidens arise, And make your pies, And save poor tailor Bobby some. DCLIX. How do you do, neighbour? Neighbour, how do you do? I am pretty well, And how does Cousin Sue do? She's pretty well, And sends her duty to you, So does bonnie Nell. Good lack, how does she do? [Illustration] [Illustration: INDEX]