She has many pretty things,
O. U. T. spells out you go.
Hunt the squirrel through the woods,
I lost him, I found him;
I sent a letter to his son,
I lost him, I found him.
Fe, fi, fo, fum,
I smell the blood of an Englishman,
Be he live, or be he dead,
I’ll have his bones to make my bread. (Plymouth.)