This is the way when they are late,
They all fly over a five-barred gate.

William Canton.

Every evening Baby goes

Trot, trot, to town

Across the river, through the fields,

Up hill and down.

Trot, trot, the Baby goes,
Up hill and down,

To buy a feather for her hat,
To buy a woolen gown.

Trot, trot, the Baby goes;

The birds fly down, alack!

"You cannot have our feathers, dear,"

They say; so please trot back."

Trot, trot, the Baby goes;

The lambs come bleating near. "You cannot have our wool," they say;

"But we are sorry, dear."

Trot, trot, the Baby goes,

Trot, trot, to town.

She buys a red rose for her hat,

She buys a cotton gown.

Mary F. Butts.

THE ROYAL BABY

IV

BABY'S FRIENDS

IV

BABY'S FRIENDS

Mary had a pretty bird,
Feathers bright and yellow,
Slender legs; upon my word,
He was a pretty fellow.

The sweetest notes he always sang,
Which much delighted Mary;
And near the cage she'd often sit,
To hear her own Canary.

Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home,
Thy house is on fire, thy children all gone:
All but one whose name is Ann,

And she crept under the pudding-pan.

魚

There was a little nobby colt,

His name was Nobby Gray;
His head was made of pouce straw,
His tail was made of hay.

He could ramble, he could trot,
He could carry a mustard-pot
Round the town of Woodstock,
Hey, Jenny, hey!