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. SIMPLE Simon met a pieman, Says Simple Simon to the pieman, Let me taste your ware. Says the pieman to Simple Simon, Simple Simon went to look 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. |