Tit-tat-toe!
My first go;
Three jolly butcher boys all in a row!
Stick one up,
Stick one down,
Stick one in the old man’s burying-ground.
FOR A WILLOW PATTERN PLATE
There’s two birds flying high,
Here’s a vessel sailing by;
Here’s the bridge that they pass over,
Three little men going to Dover!
Here the stately castle stands,
Where lives the ruler of these lands;
Here’s the tree with the apples on,
That’s the fence that ends my song!
What way does the wind come? What way does he go?
He rides over the water, and over the snow,
Through wood and through vale, and o’er rocky height,
Which goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;
He tosses about in every bare tree,
As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There’s never a scholar in England knows.
TO BE WRITTEN IN A BOOK