Now, children take your choice
Of the food your hearts shall eat;
There are sourish thoughts, and brimstone thoughts,
And thoughts all good and sweet;
And whatever the heart feeds on,
Dear children, trust to me,
Is precisely what this queer old world
Will seem to you to be.
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BILLY BOY.
Poor Billy boy was music mad,
Oh music mad was he;
And yet he was as blithe a lad
As any lad could be—
With a hi-de-diddle,
Bow and fiddle,
Rig-a-my, ho! sang he—
For Billy was as blithe a lad
As any lad could be.
"Nobody knows the joy I know,
Or sees the sights I see,
So play me high, or play me low,
My fiddle's enough for me.
It takes me here, it takes me there—
So play me low or high—
It finds me, binds me anywhere,
And lifts me to the sky."
With a hi-de-diddle,
Bow and fiddle,
Rig-a-my, ho! sang he—
For Billy was as blithe a lad
As any lad could be.
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