THE SCARECROW

O all you little blackey tops,
Pray don’t you eat my father’s crops,
While I lie down to take a nap.
Shua O! Shua O!
2 If father he perchance should come,
With his cocked hat and his long gun,
Then you must fly and I must run.
Shua O! Shua O!

THE NORTH WIND & THE ROBIN

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The north wind doth blow
And we shall have snow,
And what will poor Robin do then—poor thing?
He’ll sit in a barn
To keep himself warm,
And hide his head under his wing—poor thing!