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M was Miss Molly,
Who turn'd in her toes,
And hung down her head
Till her knees touch'd her nose.
Whom you've heard of before:So here ends my rhyme
Till I find you some more.
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.