Pop goes the ladder, and down goes he,
An that’s cleverly done, cries she;
An that’s cleverly done, cries she;
Tweedily, tweedily, twee.
When shall we be Married?
When shall we be married, Willy, my pretty lad?
To-morrow if you think it fit.
Not before to-morrow, Willy, my pretty lad?
Would you have me be married to-night?