Dame, what makes your ducks to die,
Ducks to die, ducks to die?
Dame, what makes your ducks to die
On Christmas day in the morning?
Their wings are cut, they cannot fly,
Cannot fly, cannot fly;
Their wings are cut, they cannot fly
On Christmas day in the morning.
XLV. LITTLE JOHN COOK
Little John Cook he had a grey mare,
He-haw; haw-hum!
Her back stood up and her bones were bare,
He-haw; haw-hum!
John Cook was riding up Shooters' Bank,
He-haw; haw-hum!
And there this nag did kick and prank,
He-haw! haw-hum!
John Cook was riding up Shooters' Hill,
He-haw; haw-hum!
The mare fell down, and she made her will,
He-haw; haw-hum!
