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JENNY, good spinner,

Come down to your dinner,
And taste the leg of a frog;

Then all you good people

Look over the steeple,

And see the cat play with the dog.

LE

81.

ET us go to the wood, says this pig. What to do there? says that pig. To look for my mother, says this pig. What to do with her? says that pig. To kiss her, to kiss her, says this pig.

This is the cow with the crumpled horn,

That toss'd the dog

That worried the cat,

That kill'd the rat,

That ate the malt,

That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the maiden all forlorn,

That milk'd the cow with the crumpled horn,

That toss'd the dog,

That worried the cat,

That kill'd the rat,

That ate the malt,

That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the man all tatter'd and torn,

That kiss'd the maiden all forlorn,

That milk'd the cow with the crumpled horn, That toss'd the dog,

That worried the cat,

That kill'd the rat,

That ate the malt,

That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the priest all shaven and shorn, That married the man all tatter'd and torn,

That kiss'd the maiden all forlorn,

That milk'd the cow with the crumpled horn,

69

That toss'd the dog

That worried the cat,
That kill'd the rat,

That ate the malt,

That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the cock that crow'd in the morn, That waked the priest all shaven and shorn, That married the man all tatter'd and torn, That kiss'd the maiden all forlorn,

That milk'd the cow with the crumpled horn, That toss'd the dog,

That worried the cat,

That kill'd the rat,

That ate the malt,

That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the farmer, sowing his corn,
That kept the cock that crow'd in the morn,
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tatter'd and torn,

That kiss'd the maiden all forlorn,

That milk'd the cow with the crumpled horn, That toss'd the dog,

That worried the cat,

That kill'd the rat,

That ate the malt,

That lay in the house that Jack built.

POOR donkey, I'll give him a handful of grass;

I'm sure he's a good-natured honest old ass:

He trots to the market to carry the sack,
And lets me ride all the way home on his back;
And only just stops by the ditch for a minute,
To see if there's any fresh grass for him in it.

'Tis true, now and then he has got a bad trick,
Of standing stock-still, or just trying to kick;
But then, poor old fellow, you know he can't tell,
That standing stock-still is not using me well;
For it never comes into his head, I dare say,
To do his work first, and then afterwards play.

No, no, my good donkey, I'll give you some grass;
For
you know no better, because you're an ass:
But what little donkeys some children must look,
Who stand, very like you, stock-still at their book,
And waste every moment of time as it
A great deal more stupid and silly than asses!

passes,