A NURSERY RHYME FOR BIG FOLKS.
Not only the little toddlers,
Perched high on papa's toe,
Bound for a ride to London town,
On childish journeys go—
For we all go up, up, up,
And all go down, down, down-y,
And all go backward and forward,
And all go round, round, round-y.
Still do we reach for sunbeams,
And learn the rattle's trick.
The great big watch of Father Time—
How we love to hear it tick!
To pat a cake for our Tommy,
And pat a cake for ourself—
For that alone we labor and strive,
And hoard up our golden pelf.
This little pig goes to market;
This little pig stays at home;
And we all cry "Wee!" for our mammy
Wherever we chance to roam.
We seek our bed with Sleepyhead,
We stay a while with Slow;
And fill the pot with Greedy, glad
To sup before we go.
When Jack and Jill go up the hill
To fetch their pail o' water,
As sure as Jack comes tumbling down
Poor Jill comes tumbling arter.
Mistress Marys are still contrary,
Marjorie Daws still sell;
Mother Hubbards ransack their cupboards
For bones for their ne'er-do-well.
Jack Horners in their corners still
Do ply their busy thumb,
And, "What a big boy!" we always cry
Whenever we see the plum.
"What do you want?" "A pot o' beer."
Alack the bitter wrong!
That grenadier an army hath
How many million strong!
Our wise men into brambles still
Do jump with might and main;
And those who go to sea in bowls
Rarely come back again.
And don't some hearts, deploring
The things that gnaw and harrow,
Let fall the wheelbarrow, wife and all,
When lanes are rough and narrow?
Ah yes! the old rhymes suit us
As well as ever they did;
For the gist of our lives, from first to last,
Is under their jingle hid—
As we all go up, up, up,
And all go down, down, down-y,
And all go backward and forward,
And all go round, round, round-y.
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