llection of Traditional Nursery Songs. This
Collection has been in progress for more than ten years, and it is now
published, after a revision, with all the editions by Ritson, and
others, that I have been able to meet with.

The Pictures, though made especially for the benefit of my young
audience, will not, I feel pretty sure, be uninteresting to more
advanced connoisseurs. I am not at liberty to mention the names of the
artists who in their kind sympathies for children have obliged me with
them. It is a mystery to be unravelled by the little people themselves,
who, as they advance in a knowledge and love of beauty, will not fail to
recognize in the works of some of the best of our painters of familiar
life, the pencils of those who gave them early lessons in genuine art.

TRADITIONAL NURSERY SONGS.

A diller, a dollar,
A ten o'clock scholar,
What makes you come so soon?
You used to come at ten o'clock,
And now you come at noon.

A long tailed pig, or a short tailed pig,
Or a pig without a tail,
A sow pig, or a boar pig,
Or a pig with a curly tail.

As I was going up Pippen hill,
Pippen hill was dirty;
There I met a pretty Miss,
And she dropt me a curtsey.

Little Miss, pretty Miss,
Blessings light upon you,
If I had half a crown a day,
I'd spend it all upon you.

Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?
Yes, marry, have I, three bags full;
One for my master, and one for my dame,
And one for the little boy that lives in the lane.

Bless you, bless you, bonnie bee:
Say, when will your wedding be?
If it be to-morrow day,
Take your wings and fly away.

Bonnie lass! bonnie lass! wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt neither wash dishes nor serve the swine,
But sit on a cushion and sow up a seam,
And thou shalt have strawberries, sugar, and cream.

[Illustration: BYE. O MY BABY.]

Bye baby bunting,
Father's gone a hunting,
To get a little rabbit-skin,
To lap his little baby in.

Bye, O my baby,
When I was a lady,
Oh then my poor babe didn't cry;
But my baby is weeping,
For want of good keeping,
Oh! I fear my poor baby will die.

Cock-a-doodle-doo!
My dame has lost her shoe,
Master's broke his fiddle-stick,
And don't know what to do.

Cold and raw the north wind doth blow,
Bleak in the morning early;
All the hills are covered with snow,
And winter's now come fa