were the chances of the game; but if the boy who started went through the game without his antagonist having a chance, he was said “to take off the game.”—London (J. P. Emslie). Three Jolly Welshmen One child is supposed to be taking care of others, who take hold of her or of each other. Three children personate the Welshmen. These try to rob the mother or caretaker of her children. They each try to capture as many as they can, and I think the one who gets most is to be mother next time.—Beddgelert (Mrs. Williams). See “Gipsy,” “Mother, Mother,” “Shepherd and Sheep,” “Witch.” Three Knights from Spain I. Here come two dukes all out of Spain, A courting to your daughter Jane. My daughter Jane, she is so young, She can’t abide your flattering tongue. Let her be young, or let her be old, It is the price, she must be sold, Either for silver or for gold. So fare you well, my lady gay, For I must turn another way. Turn back, turn back, you Spanish knight, And rub your spurs till they be bright. My spurs they are of a costliest wrought, And in this town they were not bought, Nor in this town they won’t be sold, Neither for silver, nor for gold. So fare you well, my lady gay, For I must turn another way. Through the kitchen, and through the hall, And take the fairest of them all; The fairest is, as I can see, Pretty Jane—come here to me. Now I’ve got my pretty fair maid, Now I’ve got my pretty fair maid, To dance along with me, To dance along with me! —Eccleshall, Halliwell’s _Nursery Rhymes_, p. 222. II. Here comes three lords dressed all in green, For the sake of your daughter Jane. My daughter Jane, she is so young, She learns to talk with a flattering tongue. Let her be young, or let her be old, For her beauty she must be sold. My mead’s not made, my cake’s not baked, And you cannot have my daughter Jane. —Cambridgeshire, Halliwell’s _Nursery Rhymes_, p. 222. III. We are three brethren out of Spain, Come to court your daughter Jane. My daughter Jane, she is too young, And has not learned her mother tongue. Be she young, or be she old, For her beauty she must be sold. So fare you well, my lady gay, We’ll call again another day. Turn back, turn back, thou scornful knight, And rub thy spurs till they be bright. Of my spurs take you no thought, For in this town they were not bought. So fare you well, my lady gay, We’ll call again another day.