Page:Jovial songster.pdf/19



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He came to a house and seem'd at fault, Cunning and acute was he; "Go on," says dame," O, dont halt!                     'Tis the house of misery.                         My poor man is dead,                         Some tears she shed;                      No fasting is here--off quick!                         But beneath the bed                         Tray popp'd his head,                      And found a nice roast chick.

Spoken.) Off he whipped with it, and though                  it was pretty fleshy, him and his master soon                   boned it --                               Run fiddler, &c.

An old maid's door he stopp'd at soon, Prim, precise, and sly; She cried, "Master fiddler, in vain you tune,                    Nothing to give have I!                       Pure water I drink;" You lie, I think, Quoth Tray, and he brushed about, And soon from a door She thought quite secure, A brandy flask he routed out.

Spoken.) Aye, and it was full too, so he seized                  it in his teeth, and off he set, dragging his master                   after him, with the old woman at their heels,                   crying--                               Stop fiddler, &c.

'Tis said that Tray so famous grew, His name so distant went,