Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn,

The sheep's in the meadow,

the cow's in the corn.

Where's the boy

that looks after the sheep?

He's under the haystack, fast asleep.

Will you wake him? No, not I;

For if I do, he'll be sure to cry.

— Mother Goose

Baa, baa, black sheep,

Have you any wool?

Yes, I have, sir,

Three bags full.

One for my master,

And one for my dame,

And one for the little boy

Who lives in the lane.

— Mother Goose

Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?

I have been to London to see the queen.

Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you there?

I frightened a little mouse under her chair.

— Mother Goose

Blow, wind, blow!

and go, mill, go!

That the miller may

grind his corn;

That the baker may take it,

And into rolls make it,

And send us some hot

in the morn.

— Mother Goose

If all the world were apple-pie,

And all the sea were ink,

And all the trees were bread and cheese,

What should we have to drink?

— Mother Goose

Once I saw a little bird

Come hop, hop, hop;

So I cried, "Little bird,

Will you stop, stop, stop?"

I went to the window

To say, "How do you do?"

But he shook his little tail,

And far away he flew.

— Mother Goose

I have a little sister;

they call her Peep, Peep.

She wades in the water

deep, deep, deep;

She climbs the mountains,

high, high, high—

Poor little thing!

She has but one eye.

— Mother Goose

There was an old woman

lived under a hill;

And if she's not gone,

she lives there still.

— Mother Goose

Some little mice sat in a barn to spin,

Pussy came by, and put her head in;

"Shall I come in and cut your threads?"

"No, Miss Puss, you will bite off our heads."

— Mother Goose

Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall.

Down will come baby, cradle, and all.

— Mother Goose

The north wind doth blow,

And we shall have snow,

And what will the robin do then,

poor thing?

He'll sit in a barn,

And keep himself warm,

And hide his head under his wing,

poor thing!

The north wind doth blow,

And we shall have snow,

And what will the bee do then,

poor thing?

In his hive he will stay,

Till the cold's passed away,

And then he'll come out in the spring,

poor thing!

The north wind doth blow,

And we shall have snow,

And what will the dormouse do then,

poor thing?

Rolled up in a ball,

In his nest snug and small,

He'll sleep till warm weather comes back,

poor thing!

— Mother Goose