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MOTHER STORIES
95
A swarm of bees in May
Is worth a load of hay;
A swarm of bees in June
Is worth a silver spoon;
A swarm of bees in July
Is not worth a fly.
Bounce Buckram, velvet's dear;
Christmas comes but once a year.
Sing, song, the days are long,
The woodcock and the sparrow;
The little dog has burnt his tail,
And he shall be whipped to-morrow
Rain, rain, go away,
Come again another day,
Little Charlie wants to play.
As the days grow longer
The storms grow stronger.
When the days begin to lengthen
Then the cold begins to strengthen
