Peter White
Will ne'er go right,
Would you know the reason why?
He follows his nose
Wherever he goes,
And that stands all awry.
He that would thrive,
Must rise at five;
He that hath thriven,
May lie till seven;
And he that by the plough would thrive,
Himself must either hold or drive.
Hush-a-bye, baby,
Daddy is near;
Mamma is a lady,
And that's very clear.
