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BLOW, wind, blow! and go, mill, go!

That the miller may grind his corn;

That the baker may take it,

And into rolls make it,

And send us some hot in the morn.

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SIMPLE Simon met a pieman,
Going to the fair:

Says Simple Simon to the pieman,

Let me taste your ware.

Says the pieman to Simple Simon,
Show me first your penny.
Says Simple Simon to the pieman,
Indeed I have not any.

Simple Simon went to look
If plums grew on a thistle;
He prick'd his fingers very much,
Which made poor Simon whistle.

43.

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.

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