Farmer Dingle had a little pig, Not very little and not very big; It weighed two hundred or a few pounds over And brought fifty dollars when sold to a drover. Then Farmer Dingle stood up and lied, And Mrs. Dingle sat down and cried, "Hogs eat so much valuable feed," said he, "They need," said he, "Good feed," said she, So there's really no money in pigee wigee wee. One little man went to battle, One little man stayed at home, One little man got white bread and butter, One little man got none, One little man cried see, see, see, You'll eat brown bread Till the war is done. Tom, Tom, the piper's son, Stole a pig and away he run, "High cost of meat I've got you beat," Said Tom, while making his retreat. Jack, Nick and Jill went after Bill, And fought on land and water, Till Nick fell down and lost his crown, And Bill went tumbling after. There was a crooked man Who wore a crooked smile, And built a crooked railroad O'er many a crooked mile, He got some crooked statesmen To play his crooked games, And they all got crooked titles Before their crooked names. * * * * * Sing a song of sixpence, Country going dry, Four and twenty booze shops Selling no more rye. When the bars were open, Whiskey had its fling, Now we ride the water cart, Along with George, our king. Once dad, in the bar room, Counted out his money, Weary mother sat at home, Patching clothes for sonny. Now dad's in the garden Wearing out his clothes, Money in his pocket, Bloom all off his nose. =Miscellaneous= BEDLAM October, 1914 "The world is mad, my masters," The poet had the facts To prove this sweeping statement, In man's punk-headed acts; For since the day when Adam Partook of the wrong tree, We've toiled, and slipped, and blundered; "What fools these mortals be". Take out your horse or auto, And drive the country roads, And see the fields and orchards Bearing their precious loads. Old Mother Earth produces With lavish hand and free, But half is lost or ruined By man's stupidity. Ten thousand tons of apples Will surely go to waste While poor folk in the cities Will hardly get a taste. We take good wheat and barley And manufacture bums, Whose wives and little children Are starving in the slums. The man that's poor as woodwork, And nearly always broke, Can somehow find a nickel To puff away in smoke; While those who have the money To eat and drink their fills, Are sure to over-do it, And run up doctor bills.