He that would thrive,
Must rise at five;
He that hath thriven,
May lie till seven;
And he that by the plough would thrive,
Himself must either hold or drive.
Tom, Tom, the piper’s son,
Stole a pig and away he run;
The pig was eat,
And Tom was beat,
And Tom ran crying down the street.
A Farmer went trotting upon his grey mare,
Bumpety bumpety bump,
With his daughter behind him so rosy and fair,
Lumpety lumpety lump.