‘ He is a Golly wog,

He has a black face,

He wares a white collar.


The summer sun is sinking low,

Only the tree tops redden and glow,

only the weather cock on the spire,

of the church is flame of fire,

All is in shadow below.


The mountain and the squirrel had a quarrel and

the former called the latter little prig:

bun replied,you are doubtless very big,

but all sorts of things and weather, must be taken together to make up a year and a sphere,

i shall not deny you to make a very pretty squirrel track,

talents differ and all is wisely put,

if i cannot carry forest on my back,

neither can you crack a not.


for want of a nail the shoe was lost,

for want of a shoe, the horse was lost,

for want of a horse, the rider…

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