Were tossing the bargains out into the street.
For men don’t know when bargains are cheap,
And women, poor creatures, do nothing but weep,
And husbands must ever be groaning.
Three Little Fishers.
Three little fishers trudged over the hill,
Over the hill in the sun’s broad glare,
With rods and crook’d pins, to the brook by the mill,
While three fond mothers sought them everywhere.