CXLVIII.

As I was walking o'er little Moorfields, I saw St. Paul's a running on wheels, With a fee, fo, fum. Then for further frolics I'll go to France. While Jack shall sing and his wife shall dance, With a fee, fo fum.

The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will poor Robin do then? Poor thing!

He'll sit in a barn, And to keep himself warm, Will hide his head under his wing. Poor thing!