Little lad, little lad,
Where were you born?
Far off in Lancashire, under a thorn,
Where they sup butter-milk
With a ram's horn;
And a pumpkin scoop'd,
With a yellow rim,
Is the bonny bowl they breakfast in.
Pretty John Watts,
We are troubled with rats,
Will you drive them out of the house?
We have mice too in plenty,
That feast in the pantry,
But let them stay and nibble away,
What harm in a little brown mouse?
Shake a leg, wag a leg, when will you gang?
At midsummer, mother, when the days are lang.
See saw, sacradown, sacradown,
Which is the way to Boston town?
One foot up, the other foot down,
That is the way to Boston town.
Tom Brown's two little Indian boys,
One ran away,
The other would n't stay,
Tom Brown's two little Indian boys.
Hop away, skip away, my baby wants to play.
My baby wants to play every day.