The little maid she sighed,
And very soon replied,
'But what shall we have for to eat, eat, eat?
Will the flame that you're so rich in
Make a fire in the kitchen?
Or the little god of love turn the spit, spit, spit?'
LXXVII.
Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday,
Christened on Tuesday, married on Wednesday,
Took ill on Thursday, worse on Friday,
Died on Saturday, buried on Sunday,
This is the end of Solomon Grundy.
LXXVIII.
Taffy was a Welshman;
Taffy was a thief;
Taffy came to my house,
And stole a piece of beef.
I went to Taffy's house;
Taffy wasn't at home;
Taffy came to my house,
And stole a marrow-bone.
I went to Taffy's house;
Taffy was in bed;
I took up the marrow-bone
And flung it at his head!
