Nursery Rhyme. DCLIII. Relics.

    A good child, a good child,
        As I suppose you be,
    Never laughed nor smiled
        At the tickling of your knee.

    High diddle doubt, my candle out,
        My little maid is not at home:
    Saddle my hog, and bridle my dog,
        And fetch my little maid home.

    Around the green gravel the grass grows green,
    And all the pretty maids are plain to be seen;
    Wash them with milk, and clothe them with silk,
    And write their names with a pen and ink.

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

    My little old man and I fell out,
    I'll tell you what 'twas all about:
    I had money, and he had none,
    And that's the way the row begun.

        [From 'Histrio-mastix, or, the Player Whipt,' 4to, Lond. 1610. Mr. Rimbault tells me this is common in Yorkshire.]

            Some up, and some down,
            There's players in the town,
    You wot well who they be;
            The sun doth arise,
            To three companies,
    One, two, three, four, make wee!

            Besides we that travel,
            With pumps full of gravel,
    Made all of such running leather:
            That once in a week,
            New masters we seek,
    And never can hold together.