The Only True Mother Goose Melodies

by Anonymous

[FROM THE BOSTON TRANSCRIPT.]

Cotton Mather And Mother Goose.

MR. EDITOR:—Your correspondent, N.B.S., has so decisively given a QUIETUS to the question as to the birthplace of Cotton Mather, that there is no danger of its ever being revived again. But there is another question of equal importance to many, to the literary world in particular, which should in like manner be put to rest. WHO WAS MOTHER GOOSE? and WHEN were her melodies first given to the world? These are questions which have been often asked, but have never been satisfactorily answered. The recent publication of a book called "Mother Goose for Old Folks" has again revived these questions, which serves to show that the subject has not yet lost its interest.

Many persons imagine that Mother Goose is a myth,—that no such person ever existed. This is a mistake. MOTHER GOOSE was not only a veritable personage, but was born and resided many years in Boston, where many of her descendants may now be found. The last that bore this ancient paternal cognomen died about the year 1807, and was buried in the Old Granary Burying Ground, where probably lie the remains of the whole blood, if we may judge from the numerous grave-stones which mark their resting place. The family originated in England, but at what time they came to this country is unknown,—but probably about the year 1656. This was the "Wealthy family of Goose" which is immortalized by Mr. Bowditch in his book of Suffolk Names, who at the same time has immortalized himself. They were landholders in Boston, so early as 1660. Nearly half the space between West and Winter streets, on Washington street, and extending westerly towards Tremont street, 275 feet belonged to this family, as did also a large tract of land on Essex, Rowe, and Bedford streets, upon which now stand two churches and a large number of dwelling houses. SO MUCH FOR MOTHER GOOSE. Now for her melodies.

It is well known to antiquarians that more than TWO hundred years ago there was a small book in circulation in London bearing the name of "Rhymes for the nursery; or Lulla-Byes for Children," which contained MANY OF THE IDENTICAL PIECES which have been handed down to us and now from part of the "Mother Goose's Melodies" of the present day. It contained also other pieces much more silly, if possible, and some that the AMERICAN types of the present day would refuse to give off an impression. The "cuts" or illustrations thereof were of the coarsest description.

The first book of the kind known to be printed in this country bears the title of "Songs for the Nursery; or, Mother Goose's Melodies for Children." Something probably intended to represent a goose with a very long neck and mouth wide open, covered a large part of the title page, at the bottom of which, Printed by T. Fleet[*], at his printing house, Pudding Lane, 1719. Price, two coppers. Several pages were missing, so that the whole number could not be ascertained.

[*][Note from Brett: T. Fleet is probably Thomas Fleet (1685-1758) and is referenced by John Fleet Elliot (a descendent). Thomas Fleet was married to Elizabeth Goose (AKA Vertigoose), and is the presumed author. Unfortunately, modern research and research at the time failed to substantiate the existence of this book. This information is culled in part from the introduction to L. Frank Baum's edition of "Mother Goose" in 1897. The introduction written by Mr. Baum considered this line of reasoning and this article is referenced by him.]

This T. Fleet, according to Isaiah Thomas[*], was a man of considerable talent and of great wit and humor. He was born in England, and was brought up in a printing office in the city of Bristol, where he afterwards worked as a journeyman. Although he was considered a man of sense, he was never thought to be overburdened with religious sentiments; he certainly was not in his latter days. Yet he was MORE than suspected of being actively engaged in the riotous proceedings connected with the trial of Dr. Sacheverell, in Queen Ann's time. In London, Bristol, and many other places, the mobs and riots were of a very serious nature. In London several meeting houses were sacked and pulled down, and the materials and contents made into bonfires, and much valuable property destroyed. Several of the rioters were arrested, tried and convicted. The trials of some of them are now before me. How deeply Fleet was implicated in these disturbances was never known, but being of the same mind with Jack Falstaff, that "the better part of valor is discretion," thought it prudent to put the Ocean between himself and danger. He made his way to this country and arrived in Boston, 1712. Being a man of some enterprise he soon established a printing office in Pudding Lane (now Devonshire Street), where he printed small books, pamphlets, ballads, and such matter as offered. Being industrious and prudent, he gradually accumulated property. It was not long before he became acquainted with the "wealthy family of Goose," a branch of which he had before known in Bristol, and was shortly married to the eldest daughter.

[*][Note from Brett: Publisher of an American volume of Mother
Goose in 1787, "Mother Goose's Melody: or Sonnets for the cradle."
This is a reprint of the collection put together by John Newbury
(known for the Newbury medal).]

By the record of marriages in the City Registrar's office, it appears that in "1715, June 8, was married by Rev. COTTON MATHER, THOMAS FLEET TO ELIZABETH GOOSE." The happy couple took up their residence in the same house with the printing office in Pudding lane. In due time their family was increased by the birth of a son and heir. Mother Goose, like all good grandmothers, was in ecstasies at the event; her joy was unbounded; she spent her whole time in the nursery, and in wandering about the house, pouring forth, in not the most melodious strains, the songs and ditties which she had learned in her younger days, greatly to the annoyance of the whole neighborhood—to Fleet in particular, who was a man fond of quiet. It was in vain he exhausted his shafts of wit and ridicule, and every expedient he could devise: it was of no use—the old lady was not thus to be put down; so, like others similarly situated, he was obliged to submit. His shrewdness, however, did not forsake him; from this seeming evil he contrived to educe some good; he conceived the idea of collecting the songs and ditties as they came from his mother, and such as he could gather from other sources, and publishing them for the benefit of the world—not forgetting himself. This he did—and thus "Mother Goose's Melodies" were brought forth. The adoption of this title was in derision of his good mother-in-law, and was perfectly characteristic of the man, as he was never known to spare his nearest friends in his raillery, or when he could excite laughter at their expense.

COTTON MATHER AND MOTHER GOOSE thus stand in juxtaposition; and as the former was instrumental in cementing the union, which resulted in placing the latter so conspicuously before the world, it is but just that it should be so,—although the one was a learned man, a most voluminous writer, and published a great many books, some wise and some foolish, it may well be doubted whether any one, or all of them, together, have passed through so many editions,—been read by so many hundreds of thousands, not to say millions,—put so many persons to sleep, or in general done so much good to the world as the simple melodies of the other.

Requiescat.

Goose's Melodies.

Little boy blue, come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn,
What! is this the way you mind your sheep,
Under the haycock fast asleep?

There was a mad man,
And he had a mad wife,
And they lived all in a mad lane!
They had three children all at a birth,
And they too were mad every one.
The father was mad,
The mother was mad,
The children all mad beside;
And upon a mad horse they all of them got,
And madly away did ride.

Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?
Yes, marry have I, three bags full,
One for my master, and one for my dame,
And one for the little boy that lives in the lane.

To market, to market, to buy a penny bun,
Home again, home again, market is done.

The man in the wilderness,
Asked me,
How many strawberries
Grew in the sea?
I answered him as I thought good,
As many red herrings
As grew in the wood.

Little Robin Redbreast
Sat upon a tree,
Up went the Pussy-Cat,
And down went he;
Down came Pussy-Cat,
Away Robin ran,
Says little Robin Redbreast—
Catch me if you can.
Little Robin Redbreast jumped upon a spade,
Pussy-Cat jumped after him, and then he was afraid.
Little Robin chirped and sung, and what did pussy say?
Pussy-Cat said Mew, mew mew,—and Robin flew away.

Sing a song of sixpence, a bag full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie:
When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing;
And wasn't this a dainty dish to set before the king?
The king was in the parlour, counting out his money;
The queen was in the kitchen, eating bread and honey;
The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes,
There came a little blackbird and nipt off her nose.

Lady-bird, Lady-bird
Fly away home,
Your house is on fire,
Your children will burn.

One, Two—buckle my shoe;
Three, Four—open the door;
Five, Six—pick up sticks;
Seven, Eight—lay them straight;
Nine, Ten—a good fat hen.
Eleven, Twelve—I hope you're well;
Thirteen, Fourteen—draw the curtain;
Fifteen, Sixteen—the maid's in the kitchen;
Seventeen, Eighteen—she's in waiting.
Nineteen, Twenty—my stomach's empty.

Snail, Snail,
Come out of your hole,
Or else I'll beat you black as a coal.
Snail, Snail,
Put out your head,
Or else I'll beat you till you're dead.

The man in the moon came down too soon
To inquire the way to Norridge;
The man in the South, he burnt his mouth
With eating cold plum porridge.

When I was a little boy, I lived by myself,
And all the bread and cheese I got I put upon a shelf;
The rats and the mice, they made such a strife,
I was forced to go to London to buy me a wife.
The streets were so broad, and the lanes were so narrow,
I was forced to bring my wife home in a wheelbarrow;
The wheelbarrow broke, and my wife had a fall,
And down came the wheelbarrow, wife and all.

Charley Wag,
Ate the pudding and left the bag.

Sing, Sing!—What shall I sing?
The Cat's run away with the Pudding-Bag String.

When I was a little boy, I washed my mammy's dishes,
Now I am a great boy I roll in golden riches.

Bye, Baby bunting,
Father's gone a hunting,
Mother's gone a milking,
Sister's gone a silking,
And Brother's gone to buy a skin
To wrap the Baby bunting in.

'Twas once upon a time, when Jenny Wren was young,
So daintily she danced and so prettily she sung,
Robin Redbreast lost his heart, for he was a gallant bird;
So he doffed his hat to Jenny Wren, requesting to be heard.

O, dearest Jenny Wren, if you will but be mine,
You shall feed on cherry-pie and drink new currant wine,
I'll dress you like a goldfinch or any peacock gay;
So, dearest Jen, if you'll be mine, let us appoint the day.

Jenny blushed behind her fan and thus declared her mind:
Since, dearest Bob, I love you well, I take your offer kind;
Cherry-pie is very nice and so is currant wine,
But I must wear my plain brown gown and never go too fine.

Cushy Cow bonny, let down your milk,
And I will give you a gown of silk,
A gown of silk and a silver tee,
If you'll let down your milk to me.

There were two blind men went to see
Two cripples run a race,
The bull did fight the humblebee
And scratched him in the face.

Fa, Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum!
I smell the blood of an Englishman.
Be he live or be he dead,
I'll grind his bones to make me bread.

Richard and Robin were two pretty men;
They laid abed till the clock struck ten;
Robin starts up and looks at the sky,
Oh ho! brother Richard, the sun's very high,
Do you go before with the bottle and bag,
And I'll follow after on little Jack Nag.

Round about, round about,
Gooseberry Pie,
My father loves good ale,
And so do I.

We'll go to the wood, says Richard to Robin,
We'll go to the wood, says Robin to Bobin,
We'll go to the wood, says John all alone,
We'll go to the wood, says every one.

What to do there? says Richard to Robin,
What to do there? says Robin to Bobin,
What to do there? says John all alone,
What to do there? says every one.

We'll shoot at a wren, says Richard to Robin,
We'll shoot at a wren, says Robin to Bobin,
We'll shoot at a wren, says John all alone,
We'll shoot at a wren, says every one.

Then pounce, then pounce, says Richard to Robin,
Then pounce, then pounce, says Robin to Bobin,
Then pounce, then pounce, says John all alone,
Then pounce, then pounce, says every one.

She's dead, she's dead, says Richard to Robin,
She's dead, she's dead, says Robin to Bobin,
She's dead, she's dead, says John all alone,
She's dead, she's dead, says every one.

How get her home? says Richard to Robin,
How get her home? says Robin to Bobin,
How get her home? says John all alone,
How get her home? says every one.

In a cart and six horses, says Richard to Robin,
In a cart and six horses, says Robin to Bobin,
In a cart and six horses, says John all alone,
In a cart and six horses, says every one.

How shall we dress her? says Richard to Robin,
How shall we dress her? says Robin to Bobin,
How shall we dress her? says John all alone,
How shall we dress her? says every one.

We'll hire seven cooks, says Richard to Robin,
We'll hire seven cooks, says Robin to Bobin,
We'll hire seven cooks, says John all alone,
We'll hire seven cooks, says every one.

There was an old woman lived under the hill,
And if she's not gone she lives there still.
Baked apples she sold, and cranberry pies,
And she's the old woman that never told lies.

Shoe the colt,
Shoe the colt,
Shoe the wild mare;
Here a nail,
There a nail,
Colt must go bare.

There were two birds upon a stone,
Fal de ral—al de ral—laddy.
One flew away, and then there was one,
Fal de ral—al de ral—laddy.
The other flew after, and then there was none,
Fal de ral—al de ral—laddy.
So the poor stone was left all alone,
Fal de ral—al de ral—laddy.
One of these little birds back again flew,
Fal de ral—al de ral—laddy.
The other came after, and then there were two,
Fal de ral—al de ral—laddy.
Says one to the other, Pray how do you do,
Fal de ral—al de ral—laddy.
Very well, thank you, and pray how are you,
Fal de ral—al de ral—laddy.

I'll tell you a story
About Mary Morey,
And now my story's begun.
I'll tell you another
About her brother,
And now my story's done.

Nose, Nose, jolly red Nose,
And what gave you that jolly red Nose?
Nutmegs and cinnamon, spices and cloves,
And they gave me this jolly red Nose.

Sweep, sweep,
Chimney sweep,
From the bottom to the top,
Sweep all up,
Chimney sweep,
From the bottom to the top.

Climb by rope,
Or climb by ladder,
Without either,
I'll climb farther.

One misty, moisty morning,
When cloudy was the weather,
I chanced to meet an old man clothed all in leather.
He began to compliment, and I began to grin,
How do you do, and how do you do?
And how do you do again?

In April's sweet month,
When the leaves 'gin to spring,
Little lambs skip like fairies
And birds build and sing.

There was an old woman tost up in a blanket,
Seventy times as high as the moon,
What she did there, I cannot tell you,
but in her hand she carried a broom.
Old woman, old woman, old woman, said I,
O whither, O whither, O whither so high?
To sweep the cobwebs from the sky,
And I shall be back again by and by.

Shoe the horse, and shoe the mare,
But let the little colt go bare.

The North wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will poor robin do then?
Poor thing!
He'll sit in the barn
And keep himself warm,
And hide his head under his wing,
Poor thing!

Cold and raw the North winds blow
Bleak in the morning early,
All the hills are covered with snow,
And winter's now come fairly.

Hey, my kitten, my kitten,
And hey my kitten my deary,
Such a sweet pet as this
Was neither far nor neary.

Here we go up, up, up,
And here we go down, down, downy,
Here we go backward and forward,
And here we go round, round, roundy.

Where was a jewel and pretty,
Where was a sugar and spicey?
Hush a bye babe in the cradle,
And we'll go abroad in a tricey.

Did his papa torment it?
And vex his own baby will he?
Give me a hand and I'll beat him,
With your red coral and whistle.

Here we go up, up, up,
And here we go down, down, downy,
And here we go backward and forward,
And here we go round, round, roundy.

The two grey Kits,
And the grey Kits' mother,
All went over
The bridge together.
The bridge broke down,
They all fell in,
May the rats go with you,
Says Tom Bolin.

Hark! hark! the dogs do bark,
The beggars have come to town;
Some in rags, and some in tags,
And some in velvet gowns.

Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John
Went to bed with his breeches on,
One stocking off, and one stocking on,
Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John.

As I was going to Derby upon a market day,
I met the finest ram, sir, that ever fed on hay,
On hay, on hay, on hay,
I met the finest ram, sir, that ever fed on hay.

This ram was fat behind, sir; this ram was fat before;
This ram was ten yards round, sir; indeed he was not more.
No more, no more, no more;
This ram was ten yards round, sir; indeed he was no more.

The horns grew on his head, sir, they were so wondrous high,
As I've been plainly told, sir, they reached up to the sky.
The sky, the sky, the sky,
As I've been plainly told, sir, they reached up to the sky.

The tail grew on his back, sir, was six yards and an ell,
And it was sent to Derby to toll the market bell,
The bell, the bell, the bell,
And it was sent to Derby to toll the market bell.

Hogs in the garden, catch 'em, Towser;
Cows in the corn-field, run boys, run,
Cats in the cream-pot, run girls, run girls;
Fire on the mountains, run boys, run.

The Cuckoo is a bonny bird,
She sings as she flies,
She brings us good tidings,
And tells us no lies.

She sucks little bird's eggs
To make her voice clear,
And never cries Cuckoo!
Till Spring of the year.

Lavender blue, and Rosemary green,
When I am king, you shall be queen,
Call up my maids at four of the clock,
Some to the wheel, and some to the rock,
Some to make hay, and some to shell corn,
And you and I shall keep the bed warm.

The lion and the Unicorn
Were fighting for the crown—
The lion beat the unicorn
All about the town.
Some gave them white bread,
And some gave them brown,
Some gave them plum-cake,
And sent them out of town.

Little Johnny Pringle had a little Pig.
It was very little, so was not very big.
As it was playing beneath the shed,
In half a minute poor Piggy was dead.
So Johnny Pringle he sat down and cried,
And Betty Pringle she laid down and died.
There is the history of one, two and three,
Johnny Pringle, Betty Pringle, and Piggy Wiggie.

You owe me five shillings,
Say the bells of St. Helen's.

When will you pay me?
Say the bells of Old Bailey.

When I grow rich,
Say the bells of Shoreditch.

When will that be?
Say the bells of Stepney.

I do not know,
Says the great Bell of Bow.

Two sticks in an apple,
Ring the bells of Whitechapel.

Halfpence and farthings,
Say the bells of St. Martin's.

Kettles and pans,
Say the bells of St. Giles.

Old shoes and slippers,
Say the bells of St. Peter's.

Pokers and tongs,
Say the bells of St. John's.

Once in my life I married a wife,
And where do you think I found her?

On Gretna Green, in velvet sheen,
And I took up a stick to pound her.

She jumped over a barberry-bush,
And I jumped over a timber,

I showed her a gay gold ring,
And she showed me her finger.

Ride a cock horse to Charing-Cross,
To see a young woman
Jump on a white horse,
With rings on her fingers
And bells on her toes,
And she shall have music
Wherever she goes.

Johnny shall have a new bonnet,
And Johnny shall go to the fair,
And Johnny shall have a new ribbon
To tie up his bonny brown hair.

And why may not I love Johnny,
And why may not Johnny love me?
And why may not I love Johnny,
As well as another body?

And here's a leg for a stocking,
And here's a foot for a shoe,
And he has a kiss for daddy,
And two for his mammy also.

And why may not I love Johnny?
And why, &c. &c.

Who comes here? A Grenadier.
What do you want? A pot of beer.
Where's your money? I forgot.
Get you gone, you drunken sot.

Smiling girls, rosy boys,
Come and buy my little toys,
Monkeys made of gingerbread
And sugar horses tinted red.

There was an old woman, she liv'd in a shoe,
She had so many children she didn't know what to do.
She gave them some broth without any bread,
She whipt them all soundly and put them to bed.

Heigh ding a ding, what shall I sing?
How many holes in a skimmer?
Four and twenty. I'm half starving!
Mother, pray give me some dinner.

Hey rub-a-dub, ho rub-a-dub, three maids in a tub,
And who do you think was there?
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker,
And all of them gone to the fair.