Little Johnny Pringle had a little Pig. 
It was very little, so was not very big. 
As it was playing beneath the shed,
In half a minute poor Piggy was dead. 
  So Johnny Pringle he sat down and cried,
  And Betty Pringle she laid down and died. 
There is the history of one, two and three,
Johnny Pringle, Betty Pringle, and Piggy Wiggie.

You owe me five shillings,
Say the bells of St. Helen’s.

When will you pay me? 
Say the bells of Old Bailey.

When I grow rich,
Say the bells of Shoreditch.

When will that be? 
Say the bells of Stepney.

I do not know,
Says the great Bell of Bow.

Two sticks in an apple,
Ring the bells of Whitechapel.

Halfpence and farthings,
Say the bells of St. Martin’s.

Kettles and pans,
Say the bells of St. Giles.

Old shoes and slippers,
Say the bells of St. Peter’s.

Pokers and tongs,
Say the bells of St. John’s.

Once in my life I married a wife,
  And where do you think I found her?

On Gretna Green, in velvet sheen,
  And I took up a stick to pound her.

She jumped over a barberry-bush,
  And I jumped over a timber,

I showed her a gay gold ring,
  And she showed me her finger.

Ride a cock horse to Charing-Cross,
  To see a young woman
  Jump on a white horse,
With rings on her fingers
  And bells on her toes,
And she shall have music
  Wherever she goes.

Johnny shall have a new bonnet,
  And Johnny shall go to the fair,
And Johnny shall have a new ribbon
  To tie up his bonny brown hair.

And why may not I love Johnny,
  And why may not Johnny love me? 
And why may not I love Johnny,
  As well as another body?

And here’s a leg for a stocking,
  And here’s a foot for a shoe,
And he has a kiss for daddy,
  And two for his mammy also.

And why may not I love Johnny? 
    And why, &c. &c.

Who comes here?  A Grenadier. 
What do you want?  A pot of beer. 
Where’s your money?  I forgot. 
Get you gone, you drunken sot.

Smiling girls, rosy boys,
Come and buy my little toys,
Monkeys made of gingerbread
And sugar horses tinted red.

There was an old woman, she liv’d in a shoe,
She had so many children she didn’t know what to do. 
She gave them some broth without any bread,
She whipt them all soundly and put them to bed.

Heigh ding a ding, what shall I sing? 
How many holes in a skimmer? 
Four and twenty.  I’m half starving! 
Mother, pray give me some dinner.

Hey rub-a-dub, ho rub-a-dub, three maids in a tub,
  And who do you think was there? 
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker,
  And all of them gone to the fair.

TO BE SUNG IN A HIGH WIND.