LITMIR.BIZ

      Sing a song, a brand new song:

      “Sing a song of six-pence,

      A pock-et full of rye.”

      John and Jim-my both picked some,

      So they could have a pie.

      And when they’d filled their pock-ets full,

      Down in the field of rye,

      They found some cun-ning lit-tle birds,

      To put in-to the pie.

      Six pret-ty lit-tle hid-den nests,

      Down in the yel-low rye,

      Held four-and-twen-ty ba-by birds,

      E-nough to fill the pie.

      They set them all with-in the dish,

      Lined with a crust of rye;

      But soon the four-and-twen-ty birds

      Cried out in-side the pie.

      Then Jim-my turned and looked at John,

      And John took up the pie,

      And back the lit-tle lad-dies went

      In-to the field of rye.

      The moth-er bird flew up and shrieked,

      “O, have you baked that pie?

      How can you bring the cru-el dish,

      And eat it in the rye!” John —

      And soon they ate the pie;

      The birds flew out and found their nests

      Down in the yel-low rye.

      Seven happy little chicks walked out one day in June,

      Thought they would enjoy the way by starting up a tune;

      Seven ugly little ducks, whose names I will not mention,

      Made up their minds to follow them, and spoil their good intention;

      Now everybody knows that a duckling’s voice is deep,

      And everybody knows that quack will make more noise than peep.

      So when they found their music drowned, these plucky little chicks

      Made up their minds to cure these ducks of all such naughty tricks;

      So they chased them from the barn-yard, on this pleasant day in June,

      Then started on their walk again, and went on with their tune.

      Clover, clover in the field,

      Why do you hang your head?

      Have you done anything unkind?

      Or any cross word said?

      O no, my little maiden, no!

      I only droop with dew;

      And from my lips sweet honey drips;

      Come, I will share with you.

      Down in the valley, deep, deep, deep,

      Where little sunbeams wink and peep,

      Under the grasses hiding low —

      There’s where the dear little violets grow.

      Out in the meadow, bright, bright, bright,

      Close by the clovers red and white —

      With heart of gold and a fringe of snow,

      There’s where the dear little daisies grow.

      Up in the older tree, tree, tree,

      Peep, and a tiny nest you’ll see,

      Swung by the breezes to and fro —

      There’s where the dear little birdlings grow.

      Up in the nursery, neat, neat, neat,

      Hear the patter of wee, wee feet —

      Hear little voices chirp and crow —

      There’s where the dear little babies grow!

      What is this, with blue

      Lit-tle shoes, so new —

      Cun-ning lit-tle feet,

      Trot-ting down the street,

      What will mam-ma say?

      Ba-by’s run a-way —

      Ba-by Fay Fer-ny.

      Calls a boy: “Hal-loo!

      See here, lit-tle pop-pet show,

      Come with me!” No, no,

      Ba-by’s do-in’ do

      Ba-by’s own self! Fast

      Round the cor-ner passed

      Ba-by Fay Fer-ny.

      Stops a great big man

      Hur-ry-ing all he can:

      “Here! what’s this! My!

      Dropped down from the sky?

      Some-bod-y’s to blame!

      Ba-by, what’s your name?”

      “Ba-by Fay Fer-ny.”

      “Where you go-ing? say!”

      “Day-day.” “What’s that, hey?

      See the ba-by fidg-et!

      What d’you want, you midg-et.”

      “Piece o’but-ter-bed,

      Su-gy on it, ’las-ses on it,

      Jam on it,” said

      Ba-by Fay Fer-ny.

      Peo-ple pause to see:

      La-dies, one, two, three;

      A po-lice-man, too;

      But no one that knew

      Whence the ba-by came.

      “What’s your pa-pa’s name?”

      “Pa-pa Fay Fer-ny.”

      Comes a breath-less maid:

      “O dear! I’m a-fraid

      Ba-by’s lost and gone —

      Ba-by Fer-gu-son!

      No – there down the street!

      O, you naugh-ty sweet

      Ba-by Fay Fer-ny!”

      One day when grandma was making some pies,

      She wished to give Tommy a pleasant surprise;

      So she made a puppy-dog out of some dough,

      And baked it, and marked it, and named it Bruno.

      This wonderful dog could stand on its feet,

      Its body was chubby, and cunning and neat,

      Its little dough-head was spotted with black,

      And its little dough-tail curled over its back.

      And when Tommy saw it he shouted with glee,

      “How good grandma was to make that for me!”

      And he played with the puppy-dog day after day,

      Till its head and its tail were both worn away.