DECEMBER XXXI.
There goes an old Gaffer over the hill,
Thieving, and old, and gray;
He walks the green world, his wallet to fill,
And carries good spoil away.
Thieving, and old, and gray;
He walks the green world, his wallet to fill,
And carries good spoil away.
Into his bag he popped a king;
After him went a friar,
Many a lady, with gay gold ring,
Many a knight and squire.
After him went a friar,
Many a lady, with gay gold ring,
Many a knight and squire.
He carried my true-love far away,
He stole the dog at my door;
The wicked old Gaffer, thieving and gray,
He'll never come by any more.
He stole the dog at my door;
The wicked old Gaffer, thieving and gray,
He'll never come by any more.
My little darling, white and fair,
Sat in the door and spun;
He caught her fast by her silken hair,
Before the child could run.
Sat in the door and spun;
He caught her fast by her silken hair,
Before the child could run.
