ration]

Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
Stole a pig and away he run;
The pig was eat, and Tom was beat,
And Tom ran crying down the street.

If all the world were water,
And all the water were ink,
What should we do for bread and cheese?
What should we do for drink?

Ten little Injuns standing in a line--
One went home, and then there were nine.

Nine little Injuns swinging on a gate--
One tumbled off, and then there were eight.

Eight little Injuns never heard of heaven--
One kicked the bucket, and then there were seven.

Seven little Injuns cutting up tricks--
One went to bed and then there were six.

Six little Injuns kicking all alive--
One broke his neck, and then there were five.

Five little Injuns on a cellar door--
One tumbled off, and then there were four.

Four little Injuns climbing up a tree--
One fell down, and then there were three.

Three little Injuns out in a canoe--
One fell overboard, and then there were two.

Two little Injuns fooling with a gun--
One shot the other, and then there was one.

One little Injun living all alone--
He got married, and then there was none!

Jack Spratt's pig,
He was not very little,
Nor yet very big;
He was not very lean,
He was not very fat--
He'll do well for a grunt,
Says little Jack Spratt.

Hush-a-bye, baby,
Daddy is near;
Mamma is a lady,
And that's very clear.

This is the way the ladies ride,
Tri, tre, tri, tree, tri, tre, tri, tree!
This is the way the ladies ride;
Tri, tre, tri, tree, tri, tre, tri, tree!

This is the way the gentlemen ride!
Gallop-a-trot, gallop-a-trot!
This is the way the gentlemen ride!
Gallop-a-trot, gallop-a-trot!

This is the way the farmers ride!
Hobbledy-hop, hobbledy-hop!
This is the way the farmers ride!
Hobbledy-hop, hobbledy-hop!

[Illustration]

Father, may I go to war?
Yes, you may, my son;
Wear your woollen comforter,
But don't fire off your gun.

There was an owl lived in an oak,
Wisky, wasky, weedle;
And every word he ever spoke
Was fiddle, faddle, feedle.

A gunner chanced to come that way,
Wisky, wasky, weedle;
Says he, "I'll shoot you, silly bird."
Fiddle, faddle, feedle.

Nancy Dawson has grown so fine
She won't get up to serve the swine;
She lies in bed till eight or nine,
So it's Oh, poor Nan