Hush-a-by, Baby! the baby who cries. Why, dear Mamma, don't you shut baby's eyes? Pull down his wire, as I do, you see; Lay him by Dolly, and come out with me.
Hush-a-by, Dolly! Mamma will not speak; You, my dear baby, would sleep for a week. Poor Mamma's baby allows her no rest, Hush-a-by, Dolly, of babies the best!
Hear me now, my hobby-horse, my steed of prancing paces! Time is it that you and I won something more than races. I have got a fine cocked hat, with feathers proudly waving; Out into the world we'll go, both death and danger braving.
Doubt not that I know the way--the garden-gate is clapping: Who forgot to lock it last deserves his fingers slapping. When they find we can't be found, oh won't there be a chorus! You and I may laugh at that, with all the world before us.
All the world, the great green world that lies beyond the paling! All the sea, the great round sea where ducks and drakes are sailing! I a knight, my charger thou, together we will wander Out into that grassy waste where dwells the Goosey Gander.
Months ago, my faithful steed, that Goose attacked your master; How it hissed, and how I cried! It ran, but I ran faster! Down upon my face I fell, its awful wings were o'er me, Mother came and picked me up, and off to bed she bore me.
Months have passed, my faithful steed, both you and I are older, Sheathless is my wooden sword, my heart I think is bolder. Always ready bridled thou, with reins of crimson leather; Woe betide the Goose to-day who meets us both together!
Up then now, my hobby-horse, my steed of prancing paces! Time it is that you and I won something more than races. I a knight, my charger thou, together we will wander Out into that grassy waste where dwells the Goosey Gander.
Sally is the laundress, and every Saturday She sends our clean clothes up from the wash, and Nurse puts them away. Sometimes Sally is very kind, but sometimes she's as cross as a Turk; When she's good-humoured we like to go and watch her at work. She has tubs and a copper in the wash-house, and a great big fire and plenty of soap; And outside is the drying-ground with tall posts, and pegs bought from the gipsies, and long lines of rope. The laundry is indoors with another big fire, and long tables, and a lot of irons, and a crimping-machine; And horses (not live ones with tails, but clothes-horses) and the same starch that is used by the Queen. Sally wears pattens in the wash-house, and turns up her sleeves, and splashes, and rubs, And makes beautiful white lather which foams over the tops of the tubs, Like waves at the seaside dashing against the rocks, only not so strong. If I were Sally I should sit and blow soap-bubbles all the day long. Sally is angry sometimes because of the way we dirty our frocks, Making mud pies, and rolling down the lawn, and climbing trees, and scrambling over the rocks. She says we do it on purpose, and never try to take care; But if things have got to go to the wash, what can it matter how dirty they are? Last week Mary and I got a lot of kingcups from the bog, and I carried them home in my skirt; It was the end of the week, and our frocks were done, so we didn't mind about the dirt. But Sally was as cross as two sticks, and won't wash our dolls' clothes any more--so she said,-- But never mind, for we'll ask Mamma if we may have a real Dolls' Wash of our own instead.