Nursery Rhyme. DCVIII. Local.

    Dick and Tom, Will and John,
    Brought me from Nottingham.

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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.

    Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep,
        And can't tell where to find them;
    Leave them alone, and they'll come home,
        And bring their tails behind them.

    Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep,
        And dreamt she heard them bleating;
    But when she awoke, she found it a joke,
        For they still were all fleeting.

    Then up she took her little crook,
        Determin'd for to find them;
    She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed,
        For they'd left all their tails behind 'em.