THERE were two birds sat on a stone,

| Fa, la, la, la, lal, de; One flew away, and then there was one,

Fa, la, la, la, lal, de;
The other flew after, and then there was none,

Fa, la, la, la, lal, de;
And so the poor stone was left all alone,

Fa, la, la, la, lal, de!

W H ERE are you going, my pretty maid ?"

VV “I'm going a-milking, sir,” she said. “May I go with you, my pretty maid ?” “You're kindly welcome, sir,” she said.

What is your father, my pretty maid ?” “My father's a farmer, sir,” she said.

“Say, will you marry me, my pretty maid?
“Yes, if you please, kind sir,” she said.
“What is your fortune, my pretty maid?"
“My face is my fortune, sir,” she said.
“Then I can't marry you, my pretty maid!!
“Nobody asked you, sir,” she said.

THERE was a jolly miller

| Lived on the river Dee:
He worked and sung from morn till night:

No lark so blithe as he;
And this the burden of his song

For ever used to be-
I jump mejerrime jee !

I care for nobody—no! not I,
Since nobody cares for me.

IF I'd as much money as I could spend,
I I never would cry old chairs to mend :
Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend,
I never would cry old chairs to mend.
If I'd as much money as I could tell,
I never would cry old clothes to sell;
Old clothes to sell, old clothes to sell,
I never would cry old clothes to sell.

MY maid Mary
MI She minds her dairy,

While I go a-hoeing and mowing each morn.

Merrily run the reel
And the little spinning-wheel

Whilst I am singing and mowing my corn.

I P at Piccadilly oh!

The coachman takes his stand,
And when he meets a pretty girl, .
He takes her by the hand.

Whip away for ever oh !
Drive away so clever oh!

All the way to Bristol oh!
He drives her four-in-hand.

ACKY, come give me thy fiddle,
J If ever thou mean to thrive : "
“Nay; I'll not give my fiddle

To any man alive.

“If I should give my fiddle, :

They'll think that I'm gone mad,
For many a joyful day

My fiddle and I have had.”

I'LL sing you a song,
| Though not very long,

Yet I think it as pretty as any.
Put your hand in your purse,
You'll never be worse,

And give the poor singer a penny.

JITTLE Polly Flinders
L Sat among the cinders,
Warming her pretty little toes.
Her mother came and caught her,
And whipped her little daughter
For spoiling her nice new clothes.

JOHN COOK had a little grey mare; he, haw, Jhum! Her back stood up, and her bones they were bare ;

he, haw, hum !

John Cook was riding up Shuter's bank; he, haw,

hum! And there his nag did kick and prank; he, haw, hum!

John Cook was riding up Shuter's hill; he, haw,

hum! His mare fell down, and she made her will; he, haw,

hum!

The bridle and saddle were laid on the shelf; he,

haw, hum! If you want any more you may sing it yourself; he,