Seventeenth Class — Local
DXCVIII
There was a little nobby colt,
His name was Nobby Gray;
His head was made of pouce straw,
His tail was made of hay;
He could ramble, he could trot,
He could carry a mustard-pot,
Round the town of Woodstock,
Hey, Jenny, hey!
DXCIX
King’s Sutton is a pretty town,
And lies all in a valley;
There is a pretty ring of bells,
Besides a bowling-alley:
Wine and liquor in good store,
Pretty maidens plenty;
Can a man desire more?
There ain’t such a town in twenty.
DC
The little priest of Felton,
The little priest of Felton,
He kill’d a mouse within his house,
And ne’er a one to help him.
DCI
[The following verses are said by Aubrey to have been sung in his time by the girls of Oxfordshire in a sport called Leap Candle, which is now obsolete. See Thoms’s ‘Anecdotes and Traditions,’ p. 96.]
The tailor of Bicester,
He has but one eye;
He cannot cut a pair of green galagaskins,
If he were to try.
DCII
Dick and Tom, Will and John,
Brought me from Nottingham.
DCIII
At Brill on the Hill,
The wind blows shrill,
The cook no meat can dress;
At Stow in the Wold
The wind blows cold,—
I know no more than this.
DCIV
A man went a hunting at Reigate,
And wished to leap over a high gate;
Says the owner, “Go round,
With your gun and your hound,
For you never shall leap over my gate.”
DCV
Driddlety drum, driddlety drum,
There you see the beggars are come;
Some are here, and some are there,
And some are gone to Chidley fair.
DCVI
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.
DCVII
My father and mother,
My uncle and aunt,
Be all gone to Norton,
But little Jack and I.
A little bit of powdered beef,
And a great net of cabbage,
The best meal I have had to-day,
Is a good bowl of porridge.
DCVIII
I lost my mare in Lincoln lane,
And couldn’t tell where to find her,
Till she came home both lame and blind,
With never a tail behind her.
DCIX
Cripple Dick upon a stick,
And Sandy on a sow,
Riding away to Galloway,
To buy a pound o’ woo.
DCX
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.