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JS39 L

Aw edition of the real, original, and uncorrupted melodies of Mother Goose has long been desired by the lovers of ancient poetry. Being myself a lineal descendant of that venerable person, and having in my possession all her original manuscripts with her latest corrections, I was fortunately able to supply this want in a manner which shall leave nothing further to be desired. The present edition, therefore, which I have edited with great care and immense labour, may henceforward be considered the standard edition—the family edition, setting at nought all editions of outside personages who have no connexion with the Goose Family.

The embellishments are from the sketches of an artist who was a contemporary of Mother Goose, and they were presented to her by him shortly before her lamented death. I found them in a portfolio in the drawer of a very ancient black walnut bureau, preserved in the family as a relic. Of course they have never before been published.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Geo. S. Appleton, in the Clerk1!
Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.


A, B, C, tumble down D,

The cat's in the cupboard, and can't see me.

At Brill on the Hill,
The wind blows shrill,

The cook no meat can dress;
At Stow in the Wold
The wind blows cold,—

I know no more than this.

Tommy Trot, a man of law,
Sold his bed and lay upon straw:
Sold the straw and slept on grass,
To buy his wife a looking-glass.

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Rowsty dowt, my an all out,

My little dame is not at home!

I'll sadd'^ my duck, and bridle my hen,

And fetch my little dame home again!

Home she came, tritty, trot,

She asked for the porridge she left in the pot;

Some she ate and some she shod,

And some she gave to the trucker's dog;

She took up the ladle and knocked its head,

And now poor Dapsy dog is dead!


Ding, dong, darrow,

The cat and the sparrow;

The little dog has burnt his tail,

And he shall be hanged to-morrow.

Come dance a jig
To my Granny's pig,

With a raudy, rowdy, dowdy;
Come dance a jig
To my Granny's pig,

And pussy-cat shall crowdy.


One, two,
Buckle my shoe;
Three, four,
Shut the door;
Five, six,
Pick up sticks;
Seven, eight,
Lay them straight;
Nine, ten,
A good fat hen;

Eleven, twelve,
Who will delve?
Thirteen, fourteen,
Maids a courting;
Fifteen, sixteen,
Maids a kissing;
Seventeen, eighteen,
Maid£ a waiting;
Nineteen, twenty,
My stomach's empty.

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