THERE was an old woman of Norwich, She turned cloak into gown, This thrifty old woman of Norwich. I HAD a little hobby-horse, and it was well shod, Down came the hobby-horse, and I cried out. He would not come to my house, I made a little feast; I had but a little, but I would give him some, For playing of his bag-pipes and beating his drum. RIDE a cock-horse to Coventry-cross A penny white cake I'll buy for her sake, MULTIPLICATION is vexation, The Rule of Three doth puzzle me, THERE was an owl lived in an oak, Wisky, wasky, weedle; And every word he ever spoke Was fiddle, faddle, feedle. A gunner chanced to come that way, Wisky, wasky, weedle; Says he, "I'll shoot you, silly bird," Fiddle, faddle, feedle. |