Who caught his blood? I, said the Fish; Who'll make his shroud? Who'll dig his grave? I, said the Owl; Who'll carry him to the grave? I'll carry him to the grave. Who'll carry the link? I, said the Linnet ; I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the link. Who'll be the Parson? I, said the Rook; With my little book, I'll be the Parson. C Who'll be the Clerk? Who'll be chief mourner? Who'll sing a Psalm ? Who'll toll the bell? All the birds of the air, They had dug him a grave The blue-bells would chime. And they never forgot The dear bird they loved best, 57 THE MUSTARD POT. Papa one day was going away, But yet before the parlour door He said, 'My dears, I have my fears, 'Oh no, Papa, there is no fear, But soon the boys their pretty toys Very soon each took a spoon, Thus did they grin, till of their sin The punishment they bore, When 'stead of custard they found 'twas mustard, Which made their red tongues sore. J. M. Heathcote. 60 BEAN POD. The pod of a bean Is smooth, soft, and green; In a soft white bed, The stalk of the bean, The flower you see Like that of a pea, And we find that the pod's long and flat, The petals have got A dark orange spot, Like the back of a tortoise-shell cat. J. M. Heathcote. |