On Christmas eve I turn'd the spit,
I burnt my fingers, I feel it yet;
The cock sparrow flew over the table;
The pot began to play with the ladle.
DLXXIII.
See, saw, Margery Daw,
The old hen flew over the malt house,
She counted her chickens one by one,
Still she missed the little white one,
And this is it, this is it, this is it.