With hartshorn in hand came Doctor Tomtit,
Saying, “Really, good sirs, it’s only a fit.”
“You’re right, Doctor Tit, the truth I’ve no doubt of;
But death is a fit folks seldom get out of.”
Doctor Cat says, “Indeed, I don’t think she’s dead;
I believe, if I try, she might yet be bled.”
“I think, Puss, you’re foolish,” then says Doctor Goose;
“For to bleed a dead Wren can be of no use.”
Doctor Owl then declared that the cause of her death,
He really believed, was the want of more breath.
“Indeed, Doctor Owl, you are much in the right;
You might as well have said the day is not night.”
Says Robin, “Get out! you’re a parcel of quacks;
Or I’ll lay this good stick on each of your backs.”
Then Robin began to bang them about;
They staid for no fees, but were glad to get out.
There was a lit-tle man, and he had a lit-tle gun,
And his bul-lets were made of lead, lead, lead;
He shot John-ny King through the mid-dle of his wig,
And knock-ed it right of his head, head, head.