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.