XLIII. THE SCARECROW
O all you little blackey tops,
Pray don't eat my father's crops,
While I lie down and take my naps,
Shu-a-O! Shu-a-O!
If father he, by chance, should come
With his cock'd hat, and his long gun,
Then you must fly, and I must run,
Shu-a-O! Shu-a-O!
XLIV. ON CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE MORNING
Dame, get up and bake your pies,
Bake your pies, bake your pies,
Dame get up and bake your pies
On Christmas day in the morning.
Dame, what makes your maidens lie,
Maidens lie, maidens lie?
Dame, what makes your maidens lie
On Christmas day in the morning?
