DCVI.

Little boy, pretty boy, where was you born? In Lincolnshire, master: come blow the cow's horn. A half-penny pudding, a penny pie, A shoulder of mutton, and that love I.

DCVII

My father and mother, My uncle and aunt, Be all gone to Norton, But little Jack and I.

A little bit of powdered beef, And a great net of cabbage, The best meal I have had to-day, Is a good bowl of porridge.

I lost my mare in Lincoln lane, And couldn't tell where to find her, Till she came home both lame and blind, With never a tail behind her.

Cripple Dick upon a stick, And Sandy on a sow, Riding away to Galloway, To buy a pound o' woo.

Little lad, little lad, where wast thou born? Far off in Lancashire, under a thorn, Where they sup sour milk in a ram's horn.

[Illustration]

EIGHTEENTH CLASS--RELICS.

The girl in the lane, that couldn't speak plain, Cried "gobble, gobble, gobble:" The man on the hill, that couldn't stand still, Went hobble, hobble, hobble.

Hink, minx! the old witch winks, The fat begins to fry: There's nobody at home but jumping Joan, Father, mother, and I.

Baby and I Were baked in a pie, The gravy was wonderful hot: We had nothing to pay To the baker that day, And so we crept out of the pot.