Chapter III: Part 3

Here comes a poor sailor from Botany Bay;
Pray, what are you going to give him to-day?
A pair of boots [may be the answer].
What colour are they?
Brown.
Have you anything else to give him?
I think so.
What colour is it?
Red.
What is it made of?
Cloth.
And what colour?
Blue.
Have you anything else to give him?
I don't think so.
Would you like a sweet?
Yes.

Now he is trapped. He has given one of the fatal replies; and the child who answered "Yes" goes to a den. After all have gone through a similar form, the youngsters are divided into two classes--those who avoided answering in the prohibited terms, and the little culprits in the den, or prison, who had failed in the examination. The tug-of-war now begins, the one class being pitted against the other. No rope is used; but arms are entwined round waists, or skirts, or coat-tails are taken hold of; and the victors crow over the vanquished.

* * * * *

"~Janet Jo~," widely played, has for _dramatis personæ_, a Father, a Mother, Janet, and a Lover. Janet lies stretched at full length behind the scenes. The father and mother stand revealed to receive the visits of the lover, who approaches singing, to an air somewhat like "The Merry Masons":--

I'm come to court Janet jo,
Janet jo, Janet jo;
I'm come to court Janet jo--
How is she the day?

Parents reply together:--

She's up the stair washin',
Washin', washin';
She's up the stair washin'--
Ye canna see her the day.

The lover retires, and again, and yet again, advances with the same announcement of his object and purpose, to which he receives similar evasive answers from Janet's parents, who successively represent her as up the stair "bleaching," "drying," and "ironing clothes." At last they reply:--

Janet jo's dead and gane,
Dead and gane, dead and gane;
Janet jo's dead and gane--
Ye'll see her face nae mae!

She is then carried off to be buried, the lover and the rest weeping. Sometimes she revives (to their great joy), and sometimes not, _ad libitum_--that is, as Janet herself chooses.

A south-country version (Dr. Chambers tells) differs a little, and represents Janet as "at the Well," instead of upstairs, and afterwards "at the Mill," and so on. A Glasgow edition gives the whole in good west-country prose, and the lover begins: "I'm come to court your dochter, Kate Mackleister!"

In the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright, "Janet Jo" used to be a dramatic entertainment amongst young rustics. Suppose a party have met on a winter evening round a good peat fire, writes Chambers, and is resolved to have "Janet Jo" performed. Two undertake to personate a goodman and a goodwife; the rest a family of marriageable daughters. One of the lads--the best singer of the party--retires, and equips himself in a dress proper for representing an old bachelor in search of a wife. He comes in, bonnet in hand, bowing, and sings:--

Gude e'en to ye, maidens a',
Maidens a', maidens a';
Gude e'en to ye, maidens a',
Be ye or no.

I've come to court Janet jo,
Janet jo, Janet jo;
I've come to court Janet jo,
Janet, my jo.

Gudewife sings:--

What'll ye gie for Janet jo,
Janet jo, Janet jo;
What'll ye gie for Janet jo,
Janet, my jo?

The wooer replies:--

I'll gie ye a peck o' siller,
A peck o' siller, peck o' siller;
I'll gie ye a peck o' siller
For Janet, my jo.

Gudewife exclaims, "Gae awa', ye auld carle!" then sings:--

Ye'se never get Janet jo,
Janet jo, Janet jo;
Ye'se never get Janet jo,
Janet, my jo.

The wooer hereupon retires, singing a verse expressive of mortification, but soon re-enters with a re-assured air, singing:--

I'll gie ye a peck o' gowd,
A peck o' gowd, peck o' gowd;
I'll gie ye a peck o' gowd,
For Janet, my jo.

The matron gives him a rebuff as before, and he again enters, singing an offer of "twa pecks o' gowd," which, however, is also refused. At his next entry he offers "three pecks o' gowd," at which the gudewife brightens up, and sings:--

Come ben beside Janet Jo,
Janet jo, Janet jo;
Ye're welcome to Janet jo,
Janet, my jo.

The suitor then advances gaily to his sweetheart, and the affair ends in a scramble for kisses.

* * * * *

"~The Goloshans.~" This is a Hogmanay play, and not confined to children alone, which for that, as well as other reasons, will not inaptly close this chapter. In some parts it was called "The Galatians," to be sure, I say _was_, because one never sees it now-a-days, though fifty years ago, under the one designation or the other, it was played annually by the Hogmanay guizards, who, dressed for the occasion, set it forth with deliciously unsophisticated swagger and bluster in every house they visited that had a kitchen floor broad and wide enough for the operation. It formed the material of a chap-book which was regularly on sale at the "Johnnie-a'-thing" shops in the middle of last century, though now, I suppose, a copy could scarcely be had for love or money. Sir Walter Scott, who delighted to keep up old customs, and could condescend to simple things without losing genuine dignity, invariably had a set of guizards to perform the play before his family both at Ashestiel and at Abbotsford. The _dramatis personæ_ of "The Goloshans," after the character in the title-role--who was inevitable on all occasions--differed somewhat in the various districts. Chambers gives a fairly adequate version in his _Popular Rhymes of Scotland;_ but the fullest and best I have seen is contained in _Proverbs and Proverbial Expressions_, edited by "Andrew Cheviot," and recently published by Mr. Alexander Gardner, of Paisley, and which I take the liberty of quoting mainly, though part also is taken from Chambers's version. The characters are Sir Alexander; Farmer's Son; Goloshan; Wallace; Dr. Brown; and Beelzebub.

Enter Sir Alexander, and speaks:--

Haud away rocks, and haud away reels,
Haud away stocks and spinning-wheels;
Redd room for Gorland, and gie us room to sing,
And I will show you the prettiest thing
That ever was seen in Christmas time.
Muckle-head and Little-wit stand ahint the door:
But sic a set as we are ne'er were seen before.

Enter next Farmer's Son:--

Here come I, the farmer's son,
Although I be but young sir,
I've got a spirit brave.
And I'll freely risk my life,
My country for to save.

Goloshan appears:--

Here come I, Goloshan--Goloshan is my name,
With sword and pistol by my side, I hope to win the game.

Farmer's Son:--

The game, sir, the game, sir! it is not in your power,
I'll cut you into inches in less than half-an-hour.
My head is made of iron, my heart is made of steel,
My sword is a Ferrara that can do its duty weel.

Goloshan:--

My body is like rock, sir, my head is like a stone,
And I will be Goloshan when you are dead and gone.

Enter Wallace:--

Here come I, Sir William Wallace, wight,
Who shed his blood for Scotland's right;
Without a right, without a reason,
Here I draw my bloody weapon.

(_Fights with Goloshan--the latter falls._) Farmer's Son:--

Now that young man is dead, sir, and on the ground is laid;
And you shall suffer for it, I'm very much afraid.

Wallace:--

It was not me that did the deed, nor me that did the crime,
'Twas this young man behind me who drew his sword so fine.

Sir Alexander:--

Oh, you artful villain, to lay the blame on me!
For my two eyes were shut, sir, when this young man did dee.

Wallace:--

How could your eyes be shut, sir, when you were looking on?
How could your eyes be shut, sir, when both the swords were drawn?

Farmer's Son (to Wallace):--

How can you thus deny the deed? As I stood looking on,
You drew your sword from out its sheath, and slashed his body down.

Wallace:--

If I have slain Goloshan, Goloshan I will cure,
And I will make him rise and sing in less than half-an-hour;
Round the kitchen, round the town,
Haste and bring me Dr. Brown.

Dr. Brown enters:--

Here come I, old Dr. Brown, the foremost doctor in the town.

Wallace:--

What makes you so good, sir?

Doctor:--

Why, my travels.

Wallace:--

And where have you travelled?

Doctor:--

From Hickerty-pickerty-hedgehog, three times round the West Indies,
and back to old Scotland.

Wallace:--

Is that all?

Doctor:--

No sir. I have travelled from fireside to chairside, from chairside
to stoolside, from stoolside to tableside, from tableside to bedside,
from bedside to press-side, and got many a lump of bread and butter
from my mother; and that's the way my belly's so big.

Wallace:--

Well, what can you cure?

Doctor:--

I can cure the rurvy-scurvy, and the rumble-gumption of a man who
has been seven years dead or more, and can make an old woman of
sixty look like a girl of sixteen.

Wallace:--

How much would you take to cure this dead man? Would five pounds do?

Doctor (turning away):--

Five pounds! No, five pounds would not get a good kit of brose.

Wallace:--

Would ten pounds do?

Doctor:--

Yes, perhaps ten pounds would do--- that, and a pint of wine. I have
a bottle of inky-pinkie in my pocket. (_Approaches Goloshan._) By
the hocus-pocus and the magical touch of my little finger; heigh ho!
start up, Jack, and sing!

Goloshan (rises and sings):--

Oh, once I was dead, sir, but now I am alive,
And blessed be the doctor that made me revive;
We'll all join hands, and never fight no more,
We'll all be good fellows, as we have been before.

All four:--

We'll all shake hands and agree, and never fight no more,
We'll all be like brothers, as we were once before;
God bless the master of this house, the mistress fair likewise,
And all the pretty children that round the table rise.
Go down into your cellar and see what you can find,
Your barrels being not empty, we hope you will prove kind;
We hope you will prove kind, with whisky and with beer,
We wish you a Merry Christmas, likewise a good New Year.

Enter Beelzebub (for the collection):--

Here come I, Old Beelzebub, over my shoulder I carry a club,
And in my hand a frying-pan. Am not I a jolly old man?
It's money I want, and money I crave,
If ye don't give me money I'll sweep ye to your grave.

Old Beelzebub's appeal not being resisted (for who might dare to resist such?), the picturesque players retire, and proceed from thence merrily to occupy another stage.

* * * * *

Mr. Sandys, it may be noted, in his elegant volume of _Christmas Carols_ (1833), transcribes a play called "St. George," which still is, or used to be, acted at the New Year in Cornwall, exactly after the manner of our Scottish play of "Goloshan" which it resembles as much as various versions of "Goloshan" in Scotland resemble each other. The leading characters, besides St. George himself and the Dragon, which is twice killed, are a Turkish knight and the King of Egypt. It is curious thus, as Dr. Chambers remarks, to find one play, with unimportant variations, preserved traditionally by the common people in parts of the island so distant from each other, and in many respects so different.

It is curious further, and of much interest to note, that in these singing-games, if nowhere else, the country and the city child, the children of the mansion and the children of the alley, meet all, beautifully, on common ground. And, how the out-door ones lie dormant for spaces, and spring simultaneously into action in widely separated parts--town and country alike--is a problem which may not be easily solved. It seems to us that, like the songs of birds, they belong to certain seasons, and are suggested, each in its turn, or class by class, by the feeling in the air. But mark, I say only _seems_, for who may dogmatize on such matters!

CHILDREN'S SONGS AND BALLADS.

Not the more exalted songs of child life here--not "Willie Winkie," and "Cuddle Doon," and "Castles in the Air," and all that widely esteemed band, which, collectively, would themselves tax the limits of a large volume--but some of the ruder ditties only which the children for many generations have delighted to sing, and been no less charmed by hearing sung, and which of late have not been so frequently seen in print. These rude old favourites, too, with slight comment--little being required. And of such, surely "Cock Robin" may well be awarded the place of honour--a song which, together with the more elaborate tale of "The Babes in the Wood," has done more to make its pert and dapper red-waistcoated subject the general favourite he is with old and young, than any virtue that may be claimed for the little tyrant himself.

COCK ROBIN.

Who killed Cock Robin?
I, said the Sparrow,
With my bow and arrow,
I killed Cock Robin.

Who saw him die?
I, said the Fly,
With my little eye,
I saw him die.

Who caught his blood?
I, said the Fish,
With my little dish,
I caught his blood.

Who'll make his shroud?
I, said the Beetle,
With my thread and needle,
I'll make his shroud.

Who'll carry him to his grave?
I, said the Kite,
If it's not in the night,
I'll carry him to his grave.

Who'll dig his grave?
I, said the Owl,
With my spade and shovel,
I'll dig his 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 chief mourner?
I, said the Dove,
I'll mourn for my love,
I'll be chief mourner.

Who'll sing the psalm?
I, said the Thrush,
As he sat on a bush,
I'll sing the psalm.

Who'll be the parson?
I, said the Rook,
With my little book,
I'll be the parson.

Who'll be the clerk?
I, said the Lark,
If it's not in the dark,
I'll be the clerk.

Who'll toll the bell?
I, said the Bull,
Because I can pull,
I'll toll the bell.

And all the little birds
Fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll
For poor Cock Robin.

And of Cock Robin again, no less captivating has been the ballad celebrating his wedding with little Jenny Wren. Though why with a lady of the Wren family, must always strike naturalists as an absurdity; and, I suppose, we may not ask how it was the banns were not forbidden, since the Messrs. Wren, with the children, and the whole creation of birds--with the single exception of a blackguard cuckoo--have jubilantly acquiesced in the nuptials.

THE MARRIAGE OF COCK ROBIN AND JENNY WREN.

It was a merry time,
When Jenny Wren was young,
So neatly as she dressed,
And so sweetly as she sung.

Robin Redbreast lost his heart,
He was a gallant bird;
He doffed his hat to Jenny,
And thus to her he said:

"My dearest Jenny Wren,
If you will but be mine,
You shall dine on cherry pie
And drink nice currant wine.

"I'll dress you like a goldfinch,
Or like a peacock gay;
So, if you'll have me, Jenny,
Let us appoint the day."

Jenny blushed behind her fan,
And thus declared her mind:
"Then let it be to-morrow, Bob--
I take your offer kind.

"Cherry pie is very good,
So is currant wine;
But I'll wear my russet gown
And never dress too fine."

Robin rose up early,
At the break of day;
He flew to Jenny Wren's house
To sing a roundelay.

He met the Cock and Hen,
And bade the Cock declare
This was his wedding day
With Jenny Wren the fair.

The Cock then blew his horn,
To let the neighbours know
This was Robin's wedding day,
And they might see the show.

Then followed him the Lark,
For he could sweetly sing,
And he was to be the clerk
At Cock Robin's wedding.

He sang of Robin's love
For little Jenny Wren;
And when he came unto the end,
Then he began again.

At first came Parson Rook,
With his spectacles and band;
And one of Mother Hubbard's books
He held within his hand.

The Goldfinch came on next,
To give away the bride;
The Linnet, being bridesmaid,
Walked by Jenny's side;

And as she was a-walking,
Said, "Upon my word,
I think that your Cock Robin
Is a very pretty bird."

The Blackbird and the Thrush,
And charming Nightingale,
Whose sweet songs sweetly echo
Through every grove and dale;

The Sparrow and the Tomtit,
And many more were there;
All came to see the wedding
Of Jenny Wren the fair.

The Bullfinch walked by Robin,
And thus to him did say:
"Pray mark, friend Robin Redbreast,
That Goldfinch dressed so gay;

"That though her gay apparel
Becomes her very well,
Yet Jenny's modest dress and look
Must bear away the bell."

Then came the bride and bridegroom;
Quite plainly was she dressed,
And blushed so much, her cheeks were
As red as Robin's breast.

But Robin cheered her up;
"My pretty Jen," says he,
"We're going to be married.
And happy we shall be."

"Oh," then says Parson Rook,
"Who gives this maid away?"
"I do," says the Goldfinch,
"And her fortune I will pay:

"Here's a bag of grain of many sorts,
And other things beside;
Now happy be the bridegroom,
And happy be the bride!"

"And you will have her, Robin,
To be your wedded wife?"
"Yes, I will," says Robin,
"And love her all my life!"

"And you will have him Jenny,
Your husband now to be?"
"Yes, I will," says Jenny,
"And love him heartily."

Then on her finger fair
Cock Robin put the ring;
"You're married now," says Parson Rook,
While the lark aloud did sing:

"Happy be the bridegroom,
And happy be the bride!
And may not man, nor bird, nor beast,
This happy pair divide!"

The birds were asked to dine;
Not Jenny's friends alone,
But every pretty songster
That had Cock Robin known.

They had a cherry pie,
Besides some currant wine,
And every guest brought something,
That sumptuous they might dine.

Now they all sat or stood,
To eat and to drink;
And every one said what
He happened to think.

They each took a bumper,
And drank to the pair;
Cock Robin the bridegroom,
And Jenny the fair.

The dinner-things removed,
They all began to sing;
And soon they made the place
For a mile around to ring.

The concert it was fine,
And every birdie tried
Who best should sing for Robin
And Jenny Wren the bride.

When in came the Cuckoo,
And made a great rout;
He caught hold of Jenny,
And pulled her about.

Cock Robin was angry,
And so was the Sparrow,
Who fetched in a hurry
His bow and his arrow.

His aim then he took,
But he took it not right,
His skill was not good,
Or he shot in a fright;

For the Cuckoo he missed,
But Cock Robin he killed!
And all the birds mourned
That his blood was so spilled.

Yet another song of the Robin which has moistened the eyes of many a youthful vocalist. I don't know that it ever had a title, but we will call it

THE NORTH WIND.

The North wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will the Robin do then, poor thing?

He will sit in the barn,
And keep himself warm,
With his little head under his wing, poor thing!

It is not claimed for these pieces that they belong to any high order of verse--though really, in more senses than one, they belong to the very first. In point of popularity alone, they are not surpassed by "Paradise Lost," nor by the plays of Shakespeare, or the songs of Burns. Then, they have so thoroughly commanded the interest and engaged the affections of the wee folks, that, with old and young alike--for the young so soon grow into the old, alas!--there are no compositions in the world better secured for the honour and glory of immortal fame. They have not been very often printed, I have said--not often in recent years, at least--and the reason, I suppose, is because it was not deemed necessary to set out in print what everybody knows so well by heart. It must be refreshing for the eye, however, to scan what is so familiar to the ear, and I make no apology--yea, I hope to be thanked for their appearance in this little book for bairns and big folk. Let the next be

LITTLE BO-PEEP.

Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep,
And doesn't know where to find them;
Let them alone, and they'll come home,
Bringing their tails behind them.

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep.
And dreamt she heard them bleating;
But when she awoke, she found it a joke,
For still they all were fleeting.

Then up she took her little crook,
Determined for to find them;
She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed.
For they'd left their tails behind them.

It happen'd one day, as Bo-peep did stray
Under a meadow hard by,
That she espied their tails, side by side,
All hung on a tree to dry.

She heaved a sigh, and wiped her eye,
And over the hillocks went stump-o;
And tried as she could, as a shepherdess should,
To tack again each to its rump-o.

The ballad lacks sadly in particulars, to be sure. How the tails of the entire flock disappeared in one fell swoop--whether by malice aforethought, at the instance of a lurking enemy, or in a miraculous accident, whilst the young shepherdess slept at her charge--has never been told, though thousands of wondering pows, multiplied by ten, have wanted to know. Perhaps it is better not explained. Mystery is so often just another word for charm.

We will now have the curious tale of "The House that Jack Built." In no sense a curious house, perhaps, but famous because of the fortuitous events which issued in regular sequence from the simple fact of the builder having stored a quantity of malt within its walls. It is told best with the accompaniment of pictorial illustrations, but here these are not available.

THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.

This is the house that Jack built.

This is the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.

This is the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.

This is the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.

This is the dog
That worried the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.

This is the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog
That worried the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.

This is the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog
That worried the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built

This is the man all tattered and torn
That kissed the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog
That worried the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.

This is the priest all shaven and shorn
That married the man all tattered and torn
That kissed the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog
That worried the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.

This is the cock that crowed in the morn
And waked the priest all shaven and shorn
That married the man all tattered and torn
That kissed the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog
That worried the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house
That Jack built.

It has been a satisfaction to many a little boy, I am sure, to feel that he was not, by many miles, so simple as that most abject of all simpletons, familiar to him as--

SIMPLE SIMON.

Simple Simon met a pie-man,
Going to the fair;
Said Simple Simon to the pie-man,
"Let me taste your ware."

Says the pie-man, "Simple Simon,
Show me first your penny;"
Said Simple Simon to the pie-man,
"Indeed, I have not any."

Simple Simon went a-fishing,
For to catch a whale;
All the water he had got
Was in his mother's pail!

Some may follow without comment.

OLD MOTHER HUBBARD.

Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard,
To get her poor doggie a bone;
When she got there, the cupboard was bare,
And so the poor doggie had none.

She went to the baker's to buy him some bread,
But when she came back the poor doggie was dead.

She went to the undertaker's to buy him a coffin,
And when she came back the doggie was laughing.

She went to the butcher's to get him some tripe,
And when she came back he was smoking a pipe.

She went to the fish-shop to buy him some fish,
And when she came back he was washing the dish.

She went to the tavern for white wine and red,
And when she came back doggie stood on his head.

She went to the hatter's to buy him a hat,
And when she came back he was feeding the cat.

She went to the tailor's to buy him a coat,
And when she came back he was riding the goat.

She went to the barber's to buy him a wig,
And when she came back he was dancing a jig.

She went to the draper's to buy him some linen,
And when she came back the good dog was spinning.

She went to the hosier's to buy him some hose,
And when she came back he was dressed in his clothes.

The dame made a curtsey, the dog made a bow,
The dame said, "Your servant," the dog said, "Bow-wow."

OLD MOTHER GOOSE.

Old Mother Goose, when
She wanted to wander,
Would ride through the air
On a very fine gander.

Mother Goose had a house,
'Twas built in a wood,
Where an owl at the door
For a sentinel stood.

She had a son Jack,
A plain-looking lad,
Not very good,
Nor yet very bad.

She sent him to market,
A live goose he bought,
"Here, mother," says he,
"It won't go for nought."

Jack's goose and the gander
Grew very fond,
They'd both eat together,
Or swim in one pond.

Jack found, one fine morning,
As I have been told,
His goose had laid him
An egg of pure gold.

Jack rode to his mother
The news for to tell;
She called him a good boy,
And said it was well.

Jack sold his gold egg
To a rascally Jew,
Who cheated him out of
The half of his due.

Then Jack went a-courting
A lady so gay,
As fair as the lily,
And sweet as the May.

The Jew and the Squire
Came behind his back
And began to belabour
The sides of poor Jack.

And then the gold egg
Was thrown in the sea,
When Jack he jumped in
And got it presently.

The Jew got the goose,
Which he vowed he would kill,
Resolving at once
His pockets to fill.

Jack's mother came in
And caught the goose soon,
And mounting its back,
Flew up to the moon.

THE OLD WOMAN AND HER PIG.

An old woman was sweeping her house, and she found a little crooked sixpence. "What," she said, "shall I do with this little sixpence? I will go to market and buy a little pig." As she was coming home she came to a stile. The piggy would not go over the stile. She went a little farther, and she met a dog, so she said to the dog:--

"Dog, dog, bite pig;
Piggy won't get over the stile,
And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the dog would not.

She went a little farther, and she met a stick. So she said:--

"Stick, stick, beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Piggy won't get over the stile,
And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the stick would not.

She went a little farther, and she met a fire. So she said:--

"Fire, fire, burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Piggy won't get over the stile;
And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the fire would not.

She went a little farther, and she met some water. So she said:--

"Water, water, quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Piggy won't get over the stile,
And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the water would not.

She went a little farther, and she met an ox. So she said:--

"Ox, ox, drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Piggy won't get over the stile,
And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the ox would not.

She went a little farther, and she met a butcher. So she said:--

"Butcher, butcher, kill ox;
Ox won't drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Piggy won't get over the stile,
And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the butcher would not.

She went a little farther, and she met a rope. So she said:--

"Rope, rope, hang butcher;
Butcher won't kill ox;
Ox won't drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Piggy won't get over the stile,
And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the rope would not.

She went a little farther, and she met a rat. So she said:--

"Rat, rat, gnaw rope;
Rope won't hang butcher;
Butcher won't kill ox;
Ox won't drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Piggy won't get over the stile,
And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the rat would not.

She went a little farther, and she met a cat. So she said:--

"Cat, cat, kill rat;
Rat won't gnaw rope;
Rope won't hang butcher;
Butcher won't kill ox;
Ox won't drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Piggy won't get over the stile,
And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the cat said to her, "If you will go to yonder cow, and fetch me a saucer of milk, I will kill the rat." So away went the old woman to the cow, and said:--

"Cow, cow, give me a saucer of milk;
Cat won't kill rat;
Rat won't gnaw rope;
Rope won't hang butcher;
Butcher won't kill ox;
Ox won't drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Piggy won't get over the stile,
And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the cow said to her, "If you will go to yonder haymakers, and fetch me a wisp of hay, I'll give you the milk." So away went the old woman to the haymakers, and said:--

"Haymakers, give me a wisp of hay;
Cow won't give milk;
Cat won't kill rat;
Rat won't gnaw rope;
Rope won't hang butcher;
Butcher won't kill ox;
Ox won't drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Piggy won't get over the stile,
And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the haymakers said to her, "If you will go to yonder stream, and fetch us a bucket of water, we'll give you the hay." So away the old woman went. But when she got to the stream, she found the bucket was full of holes. So she covered the bottom with pebbles, and then filled the bucket with water, and she went back with it to the haymakers, and they gave her a wisp of hay.

As soon as the cow had eaten the hay, she gave the old woman the milk; and away she went with it in a saucer to the cat. As soon as the cat had lapped up the milk--

The cat began to kill the rat;
The rat began to gnaw the rope;
The rope began to hang the butcher;
The butcher began to kill the ox;
The ox began to drink the water;
The water began to quench the fire;
The fire began to burn the stick;
The stick began to beat the dog;
The dog began to bite the pig;
The little pig in a fright jumped over the stile;
So the old woman got home that night!

A FROG HE WOULD A-WOOING GO.

A Frog he would a-wooing go,
Heigho, says Roly!
Whether his mother would let him or no,
With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,
Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

So off he set in his coat and hat,
Heigho, says Roly!
And on the way he met a Rat,
With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,
Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

"Please, Mr. Rat, will you go with me?"
Heigho, says Roly!
"Good Mrs. Mousie for to see?"
With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,
Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

When they came to the door of Mousie's hole,
Heigho, says Roly!
They gave a loud knock, and they gave a loud call,
With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,
Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

"Please, Mrs. Mouse, are you within?"
Heigho, says Roly!
"Oh yes, dear sirs, I am sitting to spin,"
With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,
Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

"Please, Mrs. Mouse, will you give us some beer?"
Heigho, says Roly!
"For Froggy and I are fond of good cheer,"
With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,
Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

"Please, Mr. Frog, will you give us a song?"
Heigho, says Roly!
"But let it be something that's not very long,"
With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,
Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

But while they were making a terrible din,
Heigho, says Roly!
The cat and her kittens came tumbling in,
With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,
Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

The cat she seized Mr. Rat by the crown,
Heigho, says Roly!
The kittens they pulled Mrs. Mousie down,
With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,
Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

This put Mr. Frog in a terrible fright,
Heigho, says Roly!
He took up his hat and he wished them good-night,
With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,
Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

But as Froggy was crossing over a brook,
Heigho, says Roly!
A lily-white duck came and swallowed him up,
With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach,
Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

There are various versions of the above narrative of a sadly disastrous expedition, in English and in Scotch alike. _The Ballad Book_, a curious collection, of which thirty copies only were printed, in 1824, embraces one beginning:--

There lived a Puddy in a well,
Cuddy alone, Cuddy alone;
There lived a Puddy in a well,
Cuddy alone and I.
There lived a Puddy in a well,
And a Mousie in a mill;
Kickmaleerie, cowden down,
Cuddy alone and I.

Puddy he'd a-wooin' ride,
Cuddy alone, Cuddy alone;
Sword and pistol by his side,
Cuddy alone and I.
Puddy came to the Mousie's home;
"Mistress Mouse, are you within?"
Kickmaleerie, cowden down,
Cuddy alone and I.

And which goes forward narrating the almost identically same story: which story, homely and simple as it appears, is of surprising antiquity. In 1580, the Stationers' Company licensed "a ballad of a most strange wedding of the frogge and the mouse;" and that same ballad Dr. Robert Chambers printed from a small quarto manuscript of poems formerly in the possession of Sir Walter Scott, dated 1630. This very old version begins:--

Itt was ye frog in ye wall,
Humble doune, humble doune;
And ye mirrie mouse in ye mill,
Tweidle, tweidle, twino.

And the closing lines tell that

Quhen ye supper they war at,
The frog, mouse, and evin ye ratt.

There com in Gib our cat,
And chaught ye mouse evin by ye back.

Then did they all seperat,
And ye frog lap on ye floor so flat.

Then in com Dick our drack,
And drew ye frog evin to ye lack.

Ye rat ran up ye wall,
A goodlie companie, ye devall goe with all.

Of meaner antiquity, perhaps, but no less a favourite with the young, is the amusing ditty of

THE CARRION CROW.

A Carrion Crow sat on an oak,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do,
Watching a tailor shape his coat;
Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do!

Wife, bring me my old bent bow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do,
That I may shoot yon carrion crow;
Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do!

The tailor shot, and missed his mark,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do,
But shot the pig right through the heart;
Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow,
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do.

The next, though it has engaged the attention of the adult population, is a prime old-time favourite with the children as well.

MY PRETTY MAID.

"Where are you going to, my pretty maid?"
"I am 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.

"What is your fortune, my pretty maid?"
"My face is my fortune, sir," she said.

"Then I won't marry you, my pretty maid."
"Nobody asked you, sir," she said.

The original of the following, which has delighted particularly the children of Scotland for many generations, appears with its pleasing air in Johnson's _Musical Museum_:--

CAN YOU SEW CUSHIONS?

O can ye sew cushions?
Or can ye sew sheets?
An' can ye sing ba-la-loo
When the bairnie greets?

An' hee an' ba, birdie,
An' hee an' ba, lamb,
Ah' hee an' ba, birdie,
My bonnie wee man.

Hee O, wee O, what'll I do wi' ye?
Black is the life that I lead wi' ye;
Owre mony o' ye, little to gie ye,
Hee O, wee O, what'll I do wi' ye?

Now hush-a-ba, lammie,
An' hush-a-ba, dear;
Now hush-a-ba, lammie,
Thy minnie is here,
The wild wind is ravin',
Thy minnie's heart's sair;
The wild wind is ravin',
An' ye dinna care.

Hee O, wee O, etc.

Sing ba-la-loo, lammie,
Sing bo-la-loo, dear;
Does wee lammie ken
That his daddie's no here?
Ye're rockin' fu' sweetly
On mammie's warm knee,
But daddie's a-rockin'
Upon the saut sea.

Hee O, wee O, etc.

O I hung thy cradle
On yon holly top,
An' aye as the wind blew
Thy cradle did rock.
An' hush-a-ba, baby,
O ba-lilly-loo;
An' hee an' ba, birdie,
My bonnie wee doo!

Hee O, wee O, etc.

We see continually how dear to the songs of childlife are the mention of birds and all things sweet in the round of everyday life. Here now--

HUSH-A-BA BIRDIE, CROON.

Hush-a-ba birdie, croon, croon,
Hush-a-ba birdie, croon;
The sheep are gane to the silver wood,
And the coos are gane to the broom, broom,
And the coos are gane to the broom.

And it's braw milking the kye, kye,
It's braw milking the kye;
The birds are singing, the bells are ringing,
The wild deer come galloping by, by,
The wild deer come galloping by.

And hush-a-ba birdie, croon, croon,
Hush-a-ba birdie, croon;
The gaits are gane to the mountain hie,
And they'll no be hame till noon,
And they'll no be hame till noon.

A prime favourite--none excelling it--has been

DANCE TO YOUR DADDIE.

Dance to your daddie,
My bonnie laddie,
Dance to your daddie, my bonnie lamb;
And ye'll get a fishie,
In a little dishie,
Ye'll get a fishie when the boat comes hame!

Dance to your daddie,
My bonnie laddie,
Dance to your daddie, my bonnie lamb!
And ye'll get a coatie,
And a pair o' breekies--
Ye'll get a whippie and a supple Tam!

By the bye, as touching the lullaby order of these songs, it is interesting to note that, no matter of what age or nation they may be, they are all but regularly made up on precisely the same plan. There is first the appeal to the child to slumber, or to rest and be happy; then comes the statement that the father is away following some toilsome occupation; and the promise succeeds that he will soon return laden with the fruits of his labour, and all will be well. We have been seeing, and will see again, how the Scottish go. The Norwegian mother sings:--

Row, row to Baltnarock,
How many fish caught in the net?
One for father and one for mother.
One for sister and one for brother.

Even the Hottentot mother promises her child that its "dusky sire" shall bring it "shells from yonder shore," where he has probably been occupied in turning turtles over on their broad backs. The Breton song goes:--

Fais dado, pauvre, p'tit Pierrot.
Papa est sur l'eau
Qui fait des bateaux
Pour le p'tit Pierrot.

The Swedish cradle song follows the almost universal custom. It runs (in English):--

Hush, hush; baby mine!
Pussy climbs the big green pine,
Ma turns the mill stone,
Pa to kill the pig has gone.

The Danish does not prove an exception:--

Lullaby, sweet baby mine!
Mother spins the thread so fine;
Father o'er the bridge has gone,
Shoes he'll buy for little John.

The North German cradle song is:--

Schlaf Kindchen, schlaf!
Dein Vater hut't die schaf;
Dein Mutter schuttelts Baumelien,
Da fallt herab ein Tramelein,
Schlaf, Kindchen, schlaf!

Which, being done into English, runs:--

Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thy father guards the sheep;
The mother shakes the dreamland tree,
And from it falls sweet dreams for thee.
Sleep, baby, sleep.

The simplest and crudest of these, we may be sure, has lulled millions to sleep, and by virtue of that association is worth more than many quartos of recent verse deliberately composed with the view of engaging the attention of the nursery circle. How many volumes of the newer wares, for instance, might be accepted in exchange for

KATIE BEARDIE.

Katie Beardie had a coo,
Black and white about the mou';
Wasna that a dentie coo?
Dance, Katie Beardie!

Katie Beardie had a hen,
Cackled but an' cackled ben;
Wasna that a dentie hen?
Dance, Katie Beardie!

Katie Beardie had a cock
That could spin a gude tow rock;
Wasna that a dentie cock?
Dance, Katie Beardie!

Katie Beardie had a grice,
It could skate upon the ice;
Wasna that a dentie grice?
Dance, Katie Beardie!

Katie Beardie had a wean,
That was a' her lovin' ain;
Wasna that a dentie wean?
Dance, Katie Beardie!

Yet, there is tolerable proof extant that the above dates from at least the beginning of the seventeenth century. "Katherine Beardie," anyway, is the name affixed to an air in a manuscript musical collection which belonged to the Scottish poet, Sir William Mure, of Rowallan, written, presumably, between the years 1612 and 1628. The same tune, under the name of "Kette Bairdie," also appears in a similar collection which belonged to Sir John Skene of Hallyards, supposed to have been written about 1629. Further, so well did Sir Walter Scott know that this was a popular dance during the reign of King James VI., as Mr. Dawney points out, that he introduces it in the _Fortunes of Nigel_, with this difference, that it is there called "Chrichty Bairdie," a name not precisely identical with that here given; but as Kit is a diminutive of Christopher, it is not difficult to perceive how the two came to be confounded. Old as it certainly is--and older by a deal it may be than these presents indicate--it maintains yet the charm of youth--delighting all with its lightly tripping numbers. No less does--

THE MILLER'S DOCHTER.

There was a miller's dochter,
She wadna want a baby, O;
She took her father's grey hound
An' row'd it in a plaidie, O.

Singing, Hush-a-ba! hush-a-ba!
Hush-a-ba, my baby, O!
An 'twere na for you lang beard,
I wad kiss your gabbie, O!

While bedding operations have been in progress no song, surely, has been more welcome and effective than

HAP AND ROW.

Hap and row, hap and row,
Hap and row the feetie o't;
I never kent I had a bairn
Until I heard the greetie o't.

The wife put on the wee pan
To boil the bairn's meatie, O,
When down fell a cinder
And burn't a' its feetie, O.

Hap and row, hap and row,
Hap and row the feetie o't;
I never kent I had a bairn
Until I heard the greetie o't.

Sandy's mither she came in
As sune's she heard the greetie o't,
She took the mutch frae aff her head
And rowed it round the feetie o't.

Hap and row, hap and row, etc.

In about equal favour stands

HOW DAN, DILLY DOW.

How dan, dilly dow,
Hey dow, dan,
Weel were ye're minnie.
An' ye were a man.

Ye wad hunt an' hawk,
An' hand her o' game,
An' water your daddie's horse
When he cam' hame.

How dan, dilly dow,
Hey dan, floors,
Ye'se lie i' your bed
Till eleven hours.

If at eleven hours
You list to rise,
Ye'se hae your dinner dight
In a new guise.

Laverocks' legs,
And titlins' taes,
And a' sic dainties
My mannie shall hae.

A cheery and comforting lilt, indeed, with its promise of plenty. Much superior to the next, which bears in its bosom the hollow and unwelcome ring of a "toom girnal"--a sound no child should ever know. It is yet a lilt familiar to the nursery:--

CROWDIE.

Oh, that I had ne'er been married,
I wad never had nae care;
Now I've gotten wife and bairns,
They cry Crowdie! ever mair.

Crowdie ance, crowdie twice,
Three times crowdie in a day;
Gin ye crowdie ony mair,
Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away.

Quoting the stanzas as an old ballad in a letter to his friend, Mrs. Dunlop, in December, 1795, the poet Burns wrote:--"There had much need to be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and father, for, God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless little folks; me and my exertions all their stay; and on what a brittle thread does the life of man hang! If I am nipt off at the command of Fate, even in all the vigour of manhood, as I am--such things happen every day--Gracious God! what would become of my little flock? 'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune. A father on his death-bed, taking an ever-lasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and friends; while I--but I shall run distracted if I think any longer on the subject!" So might we all. Then, away with it, and let us have a more lightsome spring.

WHISTLE, WHISTLE, AULD WIFE.

"Whistle, whistle, auld wife.
An' ye'se get a hen."
"I wadna whistle," quo' the wife,
"Though ye wad gi'e me ten."

"Whistle, whistle, auld wife,
An' ye'se get a cock."
"I wadna whistle," quo' the wife,
"Though ye'd gi'e me a flock."

"Whistle, whistle, auld wife,
And ye'se get a goun."
"I wadna whistle," quo' the wife,
"For the best ane i' the toun."

"Whistle, whistle, auld wife,
An' ye'se get a coo."
"I wadna whistle," quo' the wife,
"Though ye wad gi'e me two."

"Whistle, whistle, auld wife,
An' ye'se get a man."
"_Wheeple-whauple_" quo' the wife,
"I'll whistle as I can."

Sung with vocal mimicry, the above makes a strikingly effective entertainment.

The song of "The Three Little Pigs" embraces a palpable moral, which not children alone would be the better for taking to heart. I wish I could sing it for you, my reader, as I have heard Mr. Tom Hunt, the well-known animal painter, sing it in social circles in Glasgow:--

THE THREE LITTLE PIGS.

A jolly old sow once lived in a sty,
And three little piggies had she;
And she waddled about saying, "grumph! grumph! grumph!"
While the little ones said "wee! wee!"

And she waddled about saying, "grumph! grumph! grumph!"
While the little ones said "wee! wee!"

"My dear little piggies," said one of the brats,
"My dear little brothers," said he,
"Let us all for the future say, 'grumph! grumph! grumph!'
'Tis so childish to say, 'wee! wee!'"

Let us all, etc.

These three little piggies grew skinny and lean,
And lean they might very well be,
For somehow they couldn't say "grumph! grumph! grumph!"
And they wouldn't say "wee! wee!"

For somehow, etc.

So after a time these little pigs died,
They all died of fe-lo-de-see,
From trying too hard to say "grumph! grumph! grumph!"
When they only could say "wee! wee!"

From trying, etc.

A moral there is to this little song,
A moral that's easy to see:
Don't try when you're young to say "grumph! grumph! grumph!"
When you only can say "wee! wee!"
Don't try when you're young to say "grumph! grumph! grumph!"
When you only can say "wee! wee!"

Another delectable song for children--also of a subtly didactic character--is

COWE THE NETTLE EARLY.

Gin ye be for lang kail,
Cowe the nettle, stoo the nettle:
Gin ye be for lang kail,
Cowe the nettle early.

Cowe it laich, cowe it sune,
Cowe it in the month o' June;
Stoo it ere it's in the bloom,
Cowe the nettle early.

Cowe it by the old wa's,
Cowe it where the sun ne'er fa's,
Stoo it when the day daws,
Cowe the nettle early.

Auld heuk wi' no ae tooth,
Cowe the nettle, stoo the nettle;
Auld gluive wi' leather loof,
Cowe the nettle early.

The following curious song, which Mrs. Burns, the wife of the poet, was fond of crooning to her children, is not yet without some vogue outwith the printed page--though mainly in this verse, the place of which, by the bye, would be difficult to fix in the song as printed by Herd:--

The robin cam' to the wren's door,
And keekit in, and keekit in:
O, blessings on your bonnie pow,
Wad ye be in, wad ye be in?
I wadna let you lie thereout,
And I within, and I within,
As lang's I hae a warm clout,
To row ye in, to row ye in.

To students of Burns it will ever be of prime interest from the fact that its air, as played by Miss Jessie Lewars to the poet only a few days before his death, supplied the hint for his most tender and touching lyric, "O Wert them in the Cauld Blast." Herd prints it thus:--

THE WREN'S NEST.

The wren scho lyes in care's bed,
In care's bed, in care's bed;
The wren scho lyes in care's bed,
Wi' meikle dule and pyne, O.

When in cam' Robin Redbreist,
Redbreist, Redbreist;
When in cam' Robin Redbreist,
Wi' succar-saps and wine, O.

Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this,
Taste o' this, taste o' this;
Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this,
It's succar saps and wine, O?

Na, ne'er a drap, Robin,
Robin, Robin:
Na, ne'er a drap, Robin,
Though it were ne'er sae fine, O.

And where's the ring that I gied ye,
That I gied ye, that I gied ye:
And where's the ring that I gied ye,
Ye little cutty-quean, O?

I gied it till an ox-ee,
An ox-ee, an ox-ee;
I gied it till an ox-ee,
A true sweetheart o' mine, O.

We began with the robin in this, I hope, not wearisome but entertaining _Melange_ of child-songs. We have never, indeed, got at any time far away from the lively and interesting little fellow; and, that being so, perhaps no item could more fittingly close the series than the very old song of

ROBIN REDBREAST'S TESTAMENT.

Gude-day now, bonnie Robin,
How long have you been here?
I've been bird about this bush
This mair than twenty year!

But now I am the sickest bird
That ever sat on brier;
And I wad mak' my testament,
Gudeman, if ye wad hear.

Gae tak' this bonnie neb o' mine,
That picks upon the corn;
And gie't to the Duke o' Hamilton
To be a hunting-horn.

Gae tak' these bonnie feathers o' mine,
The feathers o' my neb;
And gi'e to the Lady o' Hamilton
To fill a feather-bed.

Gae tak' this gude richt leg o' mine,
And mend the brig o' Tay;
It will be a post and pillar gude--
Will neither bow nor gae.

And tak' this other leg o' mine,
And mend the brig o' Weir;
It will be a post and pillar gude--
Will neither bow nor steer.