The Knave of Hearts, he stole the tarts,
And took them clean away.
The King of Hearts called for the tarts,
And beat the Knave full sore;
The Knave of Hearts brought back the
And vowed he'd steal no more.
The man in the moon
Came down too soon,
And asked his way to Norwich:
He went by the south,
And burnt his mouth
With supping cold pease-porridge.
I'll sing you a song,
Though not very long,
Yet I think it as pretty as any;
Put your hand in your purse,
You'll never be worse,
And give the poor singer a penny.