Little Billy
Now little Billy is gone to the kirk,
And so merrily he doth sing:
I catch’d the parson in bed with my mother,
But I woud’nt tell it for any thing.
Thou art a liar, says Mess John,
I never did thy mother no harm:
I never was in her house in my life,
But once or twice for a penorth of barm.
Thou art a liar, said little Billy,
As sure as thou’rt on thy knees at prayer:
Did’nt I catch thee in bed with my mother,
And did’nt I tumble thee down the stairs.
Thou art a liar, says Mess John,
Thou shalt be whipp’d with a rod of birk;
And shalt be set in the stocks to morn,
For telling such lies o’ the kirk.