Was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he; He called for his pipe, And he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three. Every fiddler, he had a fiddle, And a very fine fiddle had he; Twee tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers. Oh, there's none so rare, As can compare With King Cole and his fiddlers three! WH HEN good King Arthur ruled this land, He stole three pecks of barley-meal, A bag-pudding the king did make, The king and queen did eat thereof, And noblemen beside; And what they could not eat that night, The queen next morning fried. |