There was a little man,
And he woo’d a little maid,
And he said, “Little maid, will you wed, wed, wed?
I have little more to say,
Than will you, yea or nay,
For least said is soonest mended-ded, ded.”
The little maid replied,
Some say a little sighed,
“But what shall we have for to eat, eat, eat?
Will the love that you’re so rich in
Make a fire in the kitchen?
Or the little god of Love turn the spit, spit, spit?”

I had a little wife, the prettiest ever seen,
She wash’d all the dishes and kept the house clean
She went to the mill to fetch me some flour,
She brought it home safe in less than an hour;
She baked me my bread, she brew’d me my ale,
She sat by the fire and told a fine tale.

Did you not hear of Betty Pringle’s pig?
It was not very little nor yet very big;
The pig sat down upon a dunghill.
And there poor piggy he made his will.
Betty Pringle came to see this pretty pig,
That was not very little nor yet very big;
This little piggy it lay down and died,
And Betty Pringle sat down and cried.
Then Johnny Pringle buried this very pretty pig,
That was not very little nor yet very big.
So here’s an end of the song of all three,
Johnny Pringle, Betty Pringle, and little Piggy.

Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard,
To give her poor dog a bone;
But when she came there
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.
The queen of hearts,
She made some tarts,
All on a summer’s day;
The knave of hearts
He stole those tarts,
And with them ran away:
The king of hearts
Call’d for those tarts,
And beat the knave full sore;
The knave of hearts
Brought back those tarts,
And said he’d ne’er steal more.
The king of spades
He kiss’d the maids,
Which vex’d the queen full sore;
The queen of spades
She beat those maids
And turn’d them out of door;
The knave of spades
Grieved for those jades,
And did for them implore;
The queen so gent,
She did relent,
And vow’d she’d ne’er strike more.
The king of clubs
He often drubs
His loving queen and wife;
The queen of clubs
Returns him snubs,
And all is noise and strife:
The knave of clubs
Gives winks and rubs,
And swears he’ll take her part;
For when our kings
Will do such things,
They should be made to smart.
The diamond king
I fain would sing,
And likewise his fair queen,
But that the knave,
A haughty slave,
Must needs step in between.
“Good diamond king,
With hempen string
This haughty knave destroy,
Then may your queen,
With mind serene,
Your royal love enjoy.”

There was a little guinea-pig,
Who, being little, was not big;
He always walk’d upon his feet,
And never fasted when he eat.
When from a place he ran away,
He never at that place did stay;
And while he ran, as I am told,
He ne’er stood still for young or old.
He often squeak’d, was sometimes violent,
And when he squeak’d he ne’er was silent:
Though ne’er instructed by a cat,
He knew a mouse was not a rat.
One day, as I am certified,
He took a whim and fairly died;
And, as I’m told by men of sense,
He never has been living since.

The king of France, with twenty thousand men,
March’d up the hill, and then—march’d back again.