Gentlemen come every day,
To see what my black hen doth lay.
Here we are on Tom Tiddler’s ground,
Picking up gold and silver.
Here comes a poor woman from baby-land,
With three small children in her hand:
One can brew, the other can bake,
The other can make a lily-white cake.
One can sit in the garden and spin,
Another can make a fine bed for the king;