94. NURSERY RHYMES.

 

She every year
A fine calf did me bring,
Which fetched me a pound,
For it came in the spring.
Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.

 

But now I have killed her
i can’t her recall;

¥ will sell my poor Colly,
Hide, horns, and all.

Sing, oh poor Colly, &c.

 

The butcher shall have her,
Though he gives but a pound,
And he knows in his heart
That my Colly was sound,
Sing, oh poor Coily, &c.

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