To bed, to bed, says Sleepy-Head, Dingty diddledy, my mammy's maid, Some in her pocket, some in her sleeve, And Tom was beat, And Tom ran crying down the street. Little king Boggen he built a fine hall, Pie-crust and pastry-crust, that was the wall; The windows were made of black-puddings and white, And slated with pancakes-you ne'er saw the like. To bed, to bed, says Sleepy-Head, Dingty diddledy, my mammy's maid, Some in her pocket, some in her sleeve, Ride away, ride away, Johnny shall ride, And he shall have pussy-cat Tied to one side; And he shall have little dog Tied to the other, And Johnny shall ride To see his grandmother. Hush-a-bye, baby, lie still with thy daddy, Little lad, little lad, Where were you born? Far off in Lancashire, under a thorn, Where they sup butter-milk With a ram's horn; And a pumpkin scoop'd, With a yellow rim, Is the bonny bowl they breakfast in. |